Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  “Interesting. What brings them to the citadel?” he thought.

  Earlier, the observer had heard that there had been a massive turmoil in the herb market’s square. Assassins had attacked some newcomers, left a few dead bodies, kidnapped the rest, and disappeared.

  What was this about? Following the wave of his thought, he was surprised to understand from his spy that the assassins had withdrawn to the citadel. The citadel had become the residence of the assassins. It was curious. Most interesting was that the newcomers to Jerusalem were Christians and were looking for the personal physician of the sultan, Ibn al-Nafis.

  He was also curious in recent days, after the news he received about the attempted assassination on Edward. He had decided to wait and see what happened. There was a game in the shadows these days and he was interested in revealing it. He scratched his chin while trying to remember where he knew this blond man from.

  Yet, he wasn’t pleased with what he saw. Westerners, assassins, and Mamluks, all in the citadel of Jerusalem. It wasn’t news that would make the ruler happy.

  And the last spice to the dish: another party appeared—a Tartar prince and four of his officers. Siraghan al-Tatari, who was the commander of Mongol horsemen, on service of the sultan. There had been a massive Mongol incursion twelve years before, and some of the horsemen had decided to stay on these lands with their families. The sultan spared them and allowed them to settle in return for their service.

  How had he let it happen? Assassins, Mamluks, Christian knights, and now Mongols—the same who were allowed to live in these lands—were about to enter.

  Well, this was news. He was eager to find out the subject of the meeting of the groups who entered the citadel. He doubted they were gathering to exchange some spices.

  Twenty paces from the place he was watching, his gaze was attracted by another shadow.

  The man saw him. The Wolf was alive.

  Since this man was here, watching, just like himself, it wasn’t good. Wherever this man went, death followed. This would jeopardize his agent inside the citadel.

  “Diyaab al-Sahra,” he said to himself.

  He watched the lonely man, with anticipation in his eyes. The Desert Wolf was dressed in a ragged robe and dark hood, but his walk and presence couldn’t be mistaken. He hadn’t changed at all since their last meeting. Ulf walked with calmness toward the gate and after twenty paces he faced the guards.

  It seemed as if he hadn’t been invited to the party.

  No one expected a single man to meddle into the assassin’s business and to threaten their residence. The left guard raised his hand and tried to say something. Ulf grabbed his arm, pulled him close, and hit him with his forehead, pulling out a dagger with his right hand and flinging it into the neck of the right guard. He looked at the scared face of the first guard and slit his throat with his own knife. Everything happened so fast that the guards did not have a chance to call for reinforcement.

  Ulf knelt down and searched the bodies, then raised from the fallen soldiers, throwing away his robe. He was dressed in leather vest armor, and his almost-white hair reached to his shoulders. The Wolf stopped for a moment and closed his eyes. It was like time was stopped—for him, for everyone. A moment later, he opened the door and entered.

  The observer needed answers.

  From his watching place, the cloaked man removed his hood and raised his hand, and the streets beneath him suddenly sprang to life.

  ***

  Peter received a blow on his right cheek and fell to the ground.

  It was the short man standing next to him who had struck him. Peter tried to think of something pleasant to forget the pain and the desperate situation they were in. He tried to remember Isabella’s face. She was so beautiful.

  The morning after Peter had rescued her in the Mamluk’s camp in the middle of the sandstorm, she had kissed him on his forehead to thank him. It had been a kiss of gratitude, but he wanted more. Her image made his soul fly away from this dark place. Isabella made him want to live another day, to earn another kiss, or something more precious. His body was tired; he felt no desire to continue, but Isabella … she could light a man’s blood on fire.

  The short man who was clad in white wanted them alive, but he wasn’t sure anymore.

  They were in a bigger room, now, probably the main hall of the building. The short man had had them taken here by guardsmen. He, James and the girl were here, as well as Hamo, Owen, and Edward the Saracen. Githa and Isabella were missing, as well as David and the other men.

  The Christians were stripped of their possessions and tied, but Edward the assassin stood straight and his hands were free. On a high platform sat a man on what appeared to be a wooden throne. His face was dry and ugly. His white eyes showed nothing except emptiness. He was near his fifties, strong and tall, gray-bearded, and was dressed in rich garments. His right hand was bandaged. On either side of the wooden throne were chairs. Apparently, the host was waiting for more guests.

  The hall was spacious. There were two doors, one from which Peter and Red Herring had been dragged through, and one on the opposite side. Sentries were stationed in all four corners, dressed in white robes, their faces covered with masks. They held long blades in scabbards and in the other hand, each man was holding a spear. The two doors each were guarded by four men dressed in the same fashion. The stone walls were lit by blazing torches and oil lamps, yet the light wasn’t enough to look better at the host. In the middle of the room, the prisoners were gathered close to each other, on their knees.

  “You are just in time,” the host said and nodded toward Peter. “Is this the lad responsible for your failure?”

  “Yes,” the failed assassin said.

  “What was written in the orders? To kill the English prince, and not to hesitate. But you hesitated.” The man nodded to a guard standing behind Edward, who hit him with a wooden club on the backs of his legs and made him fall on the ground.

  “Who are you?” Edward the Saracen asked, trying not to show his pain.

  “Who am I? If you’re working for Qussad you should know,” the man on the throne said. “You are a disgrace just like your father, al-Rida. He was as weak and unreliable as his son is now. His seed was spoiled.” He smiled. “Don’t you recognize me? I am Shams al-Din, the son of the Najm al-Din, the Nonagenarian. Your father tried to steal my heritage, my lands, and my castles. You should know me well, al-Rida.”

  Peter tried not to miss a word from the conservation. The old man called Edward the Saracen with another name, al-Rida.

  “Maybe you are wondering why you are here. Well, I have prepared a little surprise for you all.” A small smirk crossed his face.

  This wasn’t going to be good.

  A servant entered the room and whispered something in Shams al-Din’s ear.

  “It’s about time,” the host said.

  ***

  Ulf knelt down and examined the bodies of the two sentries, quickly and methodically. He had seen their clothing before. He found a small tattoo on the left shoulder of each man. A mark, drawn in black ink, which indicated that they were owned by Shams al-Din. They belonged to a faction of assassins, one of the last to survive. Why had their members attacked Red Herring’s men in the market? Who had hired them?

  He didn’t care.

  He wasn’t curious, like James or Peter. He now lived only to deliver his revenge. For him, it was crystal clear: someone had sent Mamluks to kill him. Someone had sent an assassin to kill a Christian prince. Someone had attacked them in the center of Jerusalem. Only one man had such power and could organize this: Sultan Baibars.

  Sultan or not, all who were involved would die. His beloved one—the only light in his life—was dead. Someone would pay.

  He had made a deal with the sultan; no one was to bother him, his family, or his manor. The Mamluks had broken this promise. So be it.

  Earlier, in the market, he had spotted the trap, but he could tell that the ambush’s purpose wasn
’t to kill them. His trained eye recognized the hidden assassins. He was a little surprised that Peter had also managed somehow to discover the trap. He was amazed by the young man, who reminded him of himself as a youth. He was very much like him—eager, determined, brave, as well as stupid and naïve, just like Ulf had been when he was younger. He shook his head. The memories from his past made him sad.

  Now he must be focused. He had a job to do—a bloody one.

  Earlier in the day, he had managed to escape the herb market attack. No one had noticed him as he jumped aside and climbed through the turmoil to the nearby roof while hiding his face and eyes, protecting them from the smoke. He used the ragged robe to protect his breath. He traced the assassins to their lair and waited for the arrival of the night. He had followed them to this place. It was the citadel, with its towers and strong walls. The rest of the fellowship was held there.

  The Tower of David stood proud. It was ancient and in need of some reconstruction and repair, but still, it was massive and stood solid and impregnable, like a single stone from the base up. He understood that within it were five iron gates, 200 steps leading to the summit, and a good supply of water. It was difficult to take, and once it had formed the main defense of the city. Even now, it was carefully guarded, and no one was allowed to enter except under supervision.

  The Tower of David also encompassed the royal lodgings, the state prison, and the record office, among other functions. The offices within oversaw the entrance of merchants into Jerusalem and collected dues levied on the entry of goods into the city.

  He estimated that a garrison of 15 to 20 men was sufficient to guard it but he expected more since so many interesting visiting figures had arrived that night.

  A job without sweat, his old mentor would say. Ulf smiled at this thought. The old warrior, whose task had been to train him, had had a strange sense of humor. Red Herring reminded him of it.

  Many guards awaited him; they would be prepared when he announced his presence. He wasn’t there to save his companions, but to kill everyone else. He didn’t care about Red Herring and his men; he had sworn an oath to the lady from Castile, nothing more. He could find the physician alone and bring him to the city of Acre, although he doubted Lord Edward would still be alive. He doubted also that the failed assassin had told James who the physician was: Ibn al-Nafis, the personal doctor of Sultan Baibars. If this fact had been mentioned earlier, they would not be in this situation. Still, he understood the assassin’s motives; he wanted a way out and only the belief that the future king of England had a chance to survive could save him. Lady Eleanor was a woman who loved her other half.

  As Ulf had loved his. He respected that. She had managed to secure his own oath from him and bound him to her for this very reason.

  He shouldn’t spare a thought for Peter, but he felt some regret about the orphan. The lad had saved his life in the desert storm, and he didn’t like to be obliged to anyone. And Githa, she was a fighter but the assassins had captured her, too. She had been kind to him. She was a proper widow who had chosen the path of the order of the Hospital. He was touched by her fate and couldn’t let her be drawn into the mess the Crusaders had put them into.

  The Crusaders. Why were they always involved? Most of them lacked knowledge about the situation in these lands. After a year or two in the Holy Land, they were able to learn, but most of them died or left for home before then. Brave and naïve to stupidity.

  Fools.

  Ulf didn’t care for them and he wasn’t the man to teach them or to enlighten them. He saw the world in a different way. A wise man, Avicenna, had once said that the world was divided into men who had wit but no religion, and men who had religion but no wit. Baibars had told him this on a hunting mission, not for hinds, but for assassins. And this man was so right.

  He also knew that he must not depend too much on anyone in this world; even your own shadow left you when you were in darkness. He tried to smile. He had suffered from this. For this reason, he had used to live alone, to survive and fight alone.

  Now, he would seek answers the way he knew, the way he was trained to. He was even more determined to finish it, now. The killing was easy; accepting the answers was hard.

  The day before, Peter had asked him why he liked to use this type of weapon.

  “Why the axe? Because of the fear?” Peter had asked.

  “You’re starting to learn, lad,” Ulf said. “The weapon itself doesn’t matter. This piece of iron and wood is just a tool in a man’s hands. The real weapon, lad, is the man. He is the one who swings the sword or axe or lance, with the single thought of delivering death. But the axe delivers death in a terrifying way. Fear is a strong assistant.”

  He gave the orphan some time to think. After a moment, Peter nodded to thank him for the answer. The lad told him that only a few men in his life had spared the time to answer his questions; most men had beaten him or given him orders.

  Ulf looked at the black-haired young man as they rode toward Jerusalem and talked about fear.

  “How I can be like you? To fight better and not be afraid of the enemy?” Peter asked.

  “Fear.”

  “Fear?” The orphan’s eyes opened wide.

  “Fear drives us forward,” Ulf said. “The fear of death makes you want to survive, the fear of embarrassment makes you perform better, the fear of losing something—it doesn’t matter what—makes you defend it. It makes you stronger. It makes time move slowly, so you can react faster and win.” He noticed that Peter was starting to understand.

  “To win the fight,” he continued, “fear is a natural motivator. It can make you fearless, but first, you need to accept it. Fear makes you battle in new ways. Sometimes it is an assistant; sometimes it is the strongest motivator. But beware; you need to understand that it is a short-term motivator.”

  “Short-term?” Peter asked.

  “After you survive your first fight, you are experienced. The fear is no longer the same.”

  The Desert Wolf looked harshly at the lad.

  “It’s like riding. The first time is hard; it’s strange and you felt uncomfortable. Now, on the back of your horse, you are trying hard not to fall. But after a week, the feeling isn’t the same. I guarantee you that.”

  “You want to bet?” Peter grinned.

  They placed a bet. Red Herring witnessed it and a green apple was the prize.

  “And how does one accept fear?” Peter asked.

  “Tomorrow, lad. You can’t learn all at once.”

  The orphan distracted him from thoughts of his dead wife. Now, he would go to the tower to find him. After all, Peter had saved his life during the storm.

  He closed his eyes for a moment.

  Every time he did this, he saw her image, the smile she had brought to him, and the meaning of life. She smiled at him and whispered in his mind a song:

  Here again, you are on the road again

  Here you go … you must start over again

  Here you go … draw your sword again

  Here you go …

  Ulf opened his eyes. His eyes were full of tears. He was ready. He looked at the Moon, smiled at her, then pushed the dead bodies of the sentries aside. Now was the time to pay them a visit. He had never visited this tower before.

  Ulf smiled. The surprise was on his side. His thirst for blood needed to be satisfied, and he was ready. He gripped the handle of the axe till his knuckles turned white and entered through the wooden door. It was a time for work.

  ***

  A man, followed by four guards, entered the room, and the host saluted the Mamluks. The orphan raised his head.

  He knew this face. It was the same man at whom Peter had thrown a spear at the Mamluk’s camp.

  Edward the Saracen or al-Rida, as the host called him froze looking at the newly arrived amir, as did the rest of the fellowship, or what was left of it. Peter had forgotten his pain.

  The golden amir exchanged some words with their host. Then he turn
ed his face to the captives in the center of the room.

  The orphan could hear his own heart beating.

  The bareheaded Mamluk looked at the prisoners’ eyes, one by one, turning to Peter last. The tall amir was in no hurry as he examined the lad’s face. Did he recognize Peter? The thought made him prickle with fear. He had almost killed this man, denying him the Wolf’s head on a platter, and now Peter faced the Mamluk.

  But it had been night, hadn’t it? The orphan calmed himself down. He hoped the darkness and the yellowish sandstorm had prevented the amir from seeing his attacker’s face.

  Yet the eyes of the Mamluk were like fiery arrows fired in the night. There was a prolonged silence in the room. The amir was tall and skinny; his battle dress looked expensive, yet Peter could see where his blow had done a little damage and managed to scratch the lamellar armor with golden decoration. The orphan’s eyes widened at the sight of this, and the Mamluk caught his gaze at the same moment.

  Finally, the amir turned his gaze away.

  “What was so important that you had to go out in this storm, Berrat, my son?” the host asked. But the confident Mamluk didn’t say a thing, only grinned in response and sat on one of the wooden chairs. The four bodyguards stood behind Berrat. A servant placed a little table near him and another brought him something to drink and a bowl of fruit, placing them on the table.

  “How many assassins do you have in the citadel with you?” Berrat asked.

  “Enough,” Shams al-Din said. “Why?”

  “Sultan Baibars will soon arrive at the outskirts of the city with his royal guards.”

  Shams al-Din narrowed his eyebrows and touched his beard.

  “Don’t worry my son,” the host said.