“How can you be so sure?”
“No, but I know him; I fought side-by-side with him. Leave him to me. He is my responsibility.”
“You failed to kill the Wolf, Berrat, my son,” Shams al-Din said. Then he pointed a finger at Peter and Edward the Saracen. “Sir Julian, you failed too. Both of you failed me.”
Julian tried to say something, but the host waved his hand to quiet him.
“Please do not compare me with the Templar Knight,” Berrat said.
“We will see. Do you know where the Wolf is?”
“He will show himself soon.”
“Are you sure?” Shams al-Din smiled at that. “Is he so stupid as to attack us here? There are many guards here, in the heart of Jerusalem,”
“I underestimated him once. Do not make the same mistake.” Berrat said. “He is very determined, like an unleashed hound from hell. Next time, we must be prepared.”
“I like your comparison,” Shams al-Din said with mockery. “Who is he?”
“He was the man who helped us when we took your father’s castle.”
A strange silence filled the room for a moment.
“Why you didn’t tell me that before?” The mood of the host changed again.
“I didn’t want your emotions to interfere with our plan.” Berrat smiled. “After all, you will get your revenge soon enough.”
“Let’s hope so,” the host looked at the Mamluk
“Springs of Goliath,” Berrat said.
“What?” Shams al-Din said.
“The place is perfect for an ambush,” the Mamluk said, smiling. “Baibars knows it and he will not suspect anything.”
“Let’s hope you are right. We will wait for the sultan’s arrival and we will be ready.” The assassin leader smiled.
“Sir Julian will arrive with his Templars, as well as the Tartars. And the trap is set, but we must hurry.” Berrat said.
“We have the whole evening before us. Now let’s drink for our future,” Shams al-Din said.
***
The conspirators started to discuss some matters but Peter hardly heard their words; they talked silently. The second door opened.
A scantily-dressed slave girl arrived with drinks and fruit for the guests. The fresh air from the windows made her shiver.
Lady Isabella and Githa were delivered by a handful of guards who followed them.
Peter’s heart sank. He had hoped the women had managed to escape in the turmoil at the herb market. But no, fate was cruel.
The situation looked bad. Peter swore silently.
The young man felt extraordinarily tired. His shoulders shivered. His eyes couldn’t stay focused while he laid on the floor. Now everything was hurting him; he felt the pain from the hits he received in Acre and the scar on his face. His heart cried for his mentor. Although his body was tired, however, his soul was not. Peter was positive that somehow, they would manage to survive this. Yet, he felt almost ready to surrender, not to his enemies, but to the fatigue.
Peter was near Red Herring. He looked at his friend’s eyes and smelled the blood.
Suddenly, he heard something.
Shouts.
What was happening?
There were shouts again.
Everyone was alert: the guests, the guards, and even the prisoners.
Something was happening downstairs.
A man entered and he interrupted the host and his guests as they drank. He shouted something. Peter didn’t hear most of the part. Shams al-Din and his guests talked quickly and angrily. More and more guards arrived from the door through which Peter and James had entered. They were dispatched to investigate what was going on.
They seemed to be under attack. Peter wondered who would want to attack this strongly-fortified citadel. Perhaps the sultan, but this was his own property. It didn’t make sense. No.
Diyaab al-Sahra. The Desert Wolf.
Why the hell he would risk his own safety to help them?
Peter looked around, realizing that he hadn’t come for them. He grinned at his naivety. What on earth would bring the Wolf here? His humanity or altruism? The young man’s heart smiled.
The prey. Wolf and his prey. Peter observed the faces in the room. It was full of traitors, conspirators, murderers, and evil whisperers whom he suspected had a hand in killing Ulf’s beloved one. He hadn’t come for Peter and the rest, but for his revenge.
The orphan was sure this man had some humanity left in his heart. He had noticed earlier how he had looked at the baby. There had to be something left in his heart.
Or not.
He acknowledged the fact that, to do what must be done, a man must be brutal and heartless.
“We must run!” Berrat shouted.
“Why? Are you insane? Why should I run from the citadel? Even if the sultan were coming, I would not.”
“But you should be running.” Berrat grinned.
“Explain my ignorance,” Shams al-Din demanded.
“Diyaab al-Sahra is downstairs; soon he will be here. When he decides to appear, he is prepared. In a narrow place with tunnels, staircases, and rooms, no one can beat him. The numbers didn’t matter. If he has decided to come here to salute you, believe me: no one can stop him.”
“How we will stop him?” The eyes of the Shams al-Din were dancing around and panic showed on his face.
“We must retreat now! The only way to beat this beast is on open ground. Then the numbers will be our advantage,” Berrat said.
Screams echoed from below—a clash of blades, a scraping on the walls, and cries arose before dying. The terrifying thing was that no one could see what was happening downstairs, but they could imagine by the sounds they heard.
Peter smiled; he saw some hope in the night.
“Sir Julian, please send my regards to your master and tell him about the new plan. Now go, but use the other exit,” Shams al-Din said.
The orphan’s ears were alert. There was another exit. And what was the new plan?
“What about these rats?” The blond knight’s gaze was pointed to the captives.
“We will take care of them, now go.” Shams al-Din turned to the Mamluk amir. “You should, too.”
“What about you?”
“I’m right after you,” There was a little hesitation in Shams al-Din’s face.
Terror and darkness were singing from below. Peter heard some screams. Everyone’s ears were on alert. Something bad was happening. Someone was dying painfully. And someone was coming.
Only one man could bring so much terror and fear in the conspirators’ eyes. He was climbing the stairs of the tower.
The new screams made the host turn around. His eyes looked scared.
“We will meet as we planned.” The Mamluk looked at the Tartar leader and nodded to him, saying, “Follow me.”
The guests snuck away like a morning mist. The host shouted orders in his language. More soldiers arrived and they obeyed, heading toward the violence downstairs.
Shams al-Din turned his attention to the tied men in the center of the room.
The screams and the darkness were increasing. The orphan could hear men’s flesh and armor being pierced, bones breaking, and souls departing their bodies. The sound of killing was nearing the room.
“Our plan will succeed. Even without you.” Shams al-Din grinned, gave a signal, and four men surrounded Edward the Saracen, put a bag over his head, and dragged him toward the exit. He tried to free himself from their grip but failed.
“Take the ladies and kill the rest!” the host commanded and left the room.
The orphan knew he must find what was left of his strength if he wanted to survive. Although he was tired, he knew he had to try harder.
He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. After a moment, Peter’s eyes were focused on his target. He managed to look at Hamo and hoped the knight had the same idea as him. He blinked and held his breath. Everything in his body gave him pain. But the determination in hi
s heart and soul gave him hope.
In that moment, he turned from captive to predator.
Just then, Peter heard two massive blows from an axe on the door, and then the room exploded.
The wooden door was in pieces. A few guards were thrown backward as Peter saw the flying darts from the corridor pierced them. A smoke appeared as the Desert Wolf arrived. He was covered in blood from head to toe.
He looked calm as he stepped over a dead body and entered the room. The smoke ceramic bomb he had used caused havoc, clouds of smoke and red mist, and everyone in the room froze, providing a distraction for Peter, who lunged forward and hammered his fists at the nearest guard, who was dragging Edward the Saracen. He surprised the soldier, as most of the people in the room were staring at the door. The orphan managed to put his target down, using his head and shoulder. Edward the Saracen lost his balance, too, and hit his head on the floor.
The remaining guards near the entrance attacked the Wolf. Yet, his reputation brought fear into their hearts, as Peter could see on their faces and the way they stepped slowly. The short man dressed in white who had previously struck Peter and his four followers who were standing around Shams al-Din didn’t move. The host pointed to the prisoners and his personal guards naked their swords and walked toward Peter.
Hamo, Owen, and the rest tried to push the two guards who were near them, too, while Shams al-Din’s personal guards advanced toward the orphan and Edward the Saracen.
Peter tried to stand on his feet. His hands were still tied behind him; he had no armor or weapons, except his heart and mind. Yet, he remembered Wolf’s words about the weapons, that the real weapon wasn’t the iron or the wooden piece in a man’s hand, but the man himself. This was the real danger; the man was the real tool of delivering death. He smiled, realizing what the Wolf’s words meant, and his smile was caught by the approaching enemy. The guards stopped for a second. They were confused by the strange joy in the face of this unknown man from Acre. This little moment gave him hope. He noticed a metal jug near him and kicked it hard toward the attackers.
The object hit the forehead of the short man clad in white. His neck tilted backward, and he fell like a tree cut down with an axe.
The rest of his men stopped for a moment, looked at the motionless body of their officer and then to the orphan who guarded their target, the assassin.
The orphan wasn’t looking at them but was trying to release his hands. To his surprise, the rope was cut from behind. He smelled the perfume. He turned his face and saw the girl.
She gave him a fruit knife.
Time slowed around Peter again, as he turned to the next enemy who advanced toward him. He ducked a stroke meant to hack his neck and stepped to the left, while he stabbed the man in his armpit with his right hand. The fruit knife was a little, one-edged blade designed for kitchen work, but a deadly tool in the young man’s hand. The Saracen cried out, Peter stepped close, grabbed the attacker’s sword palm, and stuck the knife in his neck. The blood from the dying man made a reddish fountain and almost blinded the orphan.
He pushed the dead man toward the second attacker who tried to avoid it but stumbled and fell on Peter's feet. The black-haired young man kicked the fallen guard’s head and faced the other attackers. The other two men stopped again, they were confused, and their target was armed. Regardless of the smoke, most of the candles gave the fighting men enough light to see each other.
Peter stepped closer to Isabella and pushed her behind him, too. Githa took a sword from a dead guard and stood beside Peter. He was covered with blood and sweat but he was ready for battle, as he took the sword from the fallen guard. He acted as a shield between Isabella and the attackers. His heart was full of determination and vengeful fire.
The girl had freed Hamo and he had knocked out one of the guards. Owen was already armed with a spear from a dead sentry and he thrust it into another guard. Sir James kicked one Saracen, despite his wound. There was a real battlefield in the room; everyone was fighting with someone.
He saw that the Wolf had killed the guards near the entrance and was walking toward the Peter’s attackers. Ulf didn’t take prisoners. He stabbed one from the back and hammered the face of the other with his axe. Peter heard a death scream and a dull sound of a body which fell on the ground.
Silence. The fight was over.
Red Herring sat down, and Peter knelt near him.
“They will pay, the traitor will pay.” James’s voice was weak.
Shams al-Din had escaped with the rest of his supporters and blocked the exit door from the outside.
There were dead bodies everywhere.
But it wasn’t over yet.
Another sound of alarm rose in their ears.
Chapter Fourteen
Holy Land, Wednesday, 22nd June in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ; Somewhere in the Golden Mamluk Camp
Peter sat quietly, head bowed, shoulders stooped.
He wasn’t in Jerusalem anymore.
He remembered the golden officer and his soldiers who had stormed the hall. They had tied Peter and his friends again, dragged them out from the tower and loaded them into wooden carts like cattle.
When he awoke, they were in a tent. It was a hot day and he did not know where he was. He lay in the tent, thinking about the tower. He was haunted by the thought that they had failed in their mission to fetch a healer for the English crown prince. They had lost a few of Hamo’s men.
And what they had achieved so far?
“Nothing!” rang in his head. But he knew that he couldn’t afford such thoughts.
“Pull yourself together, Peter,” he said to himself.
It was hard. His mind was still back in the Tower of David in Jerusalem, poring over images of horror and dead bodies. He had seen the Desert Wolf in action before, but it hadn’t prepared him for this. On his way out of the tower, throughout the stairwell was a road of a bloody violence, death, and pain. Peter had witnessed some terrible things; some limbs were cut off, some heads were released from their responsibilities, too. Some necks were slanted in an unnatural position, and some broken bones were visible. There was much bloodshed
All these images of death made Peter want to vomit. The last steps toward the outer door were a real test for his stomach. He had leaned against the wall to take a breath and an inscription on the wall had stolen his attention.
“LEGXF,” it read.
It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t remember what.
Ulf had delivered a ferocious and merciless death to all the soldiers and guards he had met. Peter could see terrifying grimaces of pain and helplessness on the victims’ faces.
His fierce determination to dispatch his vengeance seem to fuel his desire to kill them all and at times, Peter could see a little joy in his eyes.
Was it a battle joy?
He had heard tell of men who entered in a state of wild fury during the battle, their battle joy bringing their battle skills to a different level. Some imbibed drinks and potions to accelerate the process, to suppress their conscience, or to forget their fear. Peter had heard that one could buy such a potion in the herb market to prepare oneself before the fight. But he had not seen Ulf take such a potion on the evening of the fight. He had looked calm, and in the next moment he drew his blade and displayed his killing skills. It was terrifying.
His reputation was crucial. Stories about the Wolf seemed like legends, but when the lad witnessed his work, he could say they all were true.
This sight of dead men in the Tower of David was burned into his memory, and he couldn’t wash it away. It was like his body was marked forever from inside and he couldn’t remove it.
Peter put his hands over his eyes. He had thought that knighthood and soldiering were to protect the weak and the sick and to serve the law or some noble cause. But now he seemed only to witness death—meaningless death and injustice.
Was this the way of chivalry? Was this the path of the defender of the weak,
the defender of the law?
If there was any law, it was that the stronger man always won; the rest obeyed or died. His mind was shaken, as was his heart. He had even become a murderer in this quest. True, his intention had been to free his friends, but this didn’t change the fact he had killed men.
“Is this the life you want, Peter?” he asked himself.
Sin after sin, he climbed this doomed road. He was afraid for his soul and his heart. Nevertheless, he only wanted to survive.
Or did he want more?
The glory was ringing in his mind. He was a miserable soul who had lived in the dark, and now he wanted everything from life. He wanted to see the world, he wanted to win every battle he faced, he wanted to taste everything life had to offer. He also wanted to avenge his mentor.
Peter needed some water. He needed to clear his heart and mind of hate and sadness. The young man opened his eyes again and tried to take a breath. He wanted to scratch the wound on his thighs but he had been warned not to do that. He had used the medicine Owen had given him. The desire to scratch was more demanding than ever. Peter tried not to think about it, but it wasn’t an easy task.
He tried to focus, but it was hard. His throat was dry and his lips were cracked.
“Water?” No one moved. He looked around. There was salt in his mouth. Peter turned his gaze and noticed he was in a soldier’s tent and Hamo was lying next to him. There was a little round table with a jug of water.
Water. His mood began to resurrect.
The cold liquid kissed his lips, blissfully. The only thing a man could want in the desert under the Sun was water. There were two ceramic cups, but the orphan drank directly from the big jug. He decided not to overdo it, having read of the risk to the stomach of drinking too much water in the book with Nickolas. He had drunk enough for now.
He rose and tried to move his limbs, one by one—his shoulders, his arms, and his neck. He felt a little stiff. How long had he slept? A few moments, a few hours, or an entire day? They were short of time for their mission. Peter wondered where Red Herring was.
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 24