Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  He looked at the newly-arrived men. There were a full dozen golden Mamluks with gritted swords and spears pointed at one of the two men.

  It was the Desert Wolf.

  The other was Edward the Saracen. He was only accompanied by one soldier.

  “So, the puzzle—or, as I prefer to think about it, just another plot against me, ….” the sultan said.

  Red Herring looked confused, “Against you, lord?”

  “Is it not obvious, Christian?”

  “Well…” The Scot scratched his chin.

  The only man who had something to lose … is me, not your miserable prince; his life is only a tool.”

  “But—” Red Herring tried to say something but decided not to interrupt the sultan.

  “Why I would risk breaking my freshly-signed peace treaty? Why risk inviting a new wave of Crusaders? Did you know there was a massive threat to this world coming from the east? The Mongols—you call them Tartars. You are history and we will be, too, soon. But we will fight.” He paused to take a breath.

  James was silent.

  “Did you know that the profit from controlling the trade in this region is five times bigger than that of your whole island? England, yes, I have heard of it. Did you know that when your precious Lord Edward arrived and realized there would be no hope, he tried to change the status quo in the overseas lands and lordships? Did you know he tried to change the direction of money, and the pocket where the gold sleep?”

  Red Herring said nothing.

  “Yes, my honest Scottish knight, and do you know who would make more profit from a prolonged war?” The sultan received no reply and continued. “Templars, Hospitallers, and the other military fanatic orders!” Baibars looked his guests in the eyes. “The Templars and Hospitallers are said to deliberately prolong the war between Christians and Muslims in order to collect more money from the pilgrims.” Baibars drank some water. “After the assassination, Edward would become a martyr for these people, a sign that would attract more and more followers and pilgrims from your backward and barbaric world.” He blinked for a moment. “And who will benefit from the movement of people and goods? The soulless Italians, the traders, the men who control the sea-roads. The future of the world is to conquer the seas.”

  “A martyr?”

  “The old man from the mountains, Shams al-Din’s father, and his assassins worked with the Templars. When the assassins couldn’t break the holy knights, they allied with them,” Baibars said. Peter had heard this rumor.

  “But the old man from the mountains faded in one of my prisons and now his son is trying to restore what is left of his possessions and power. The only ones that could help him are the military orders because these structures only profit from fear, war, and death.”

  He turned his eyes to Edward the Saracen, who was bandaged on his head and his ribs and, Peter thought, looked like a street dog after a brawl.

  “You … what should I do with you?” Baibars asked.

  Al-Rida’s son said nothing.

  “I gave you a chance to restore your father’s name ….”

  “I did what I was ordered to do—”

  “Now you are sided with the infidels? Traitor. You are like a snake that will do whatever is necessary to survive.” Baibars’ face looked furious.

  Peter observed the failed assassin. Edward the Saracen tried to look proud, but his reputation was tainted. He looked at the orphan; they were here because of him.

  “You will be hanged tomorrow, assassin,” Baibars said.

  Peter was shocked at the ease with which the sultan delivered the death sentence.

  Baibars turned his gaze to him as the guards took the assassin away.

  “You prevented one of my best spies to do what he received in a written order, and for some reason, this is some lucky mischief.”

  The sultan turned to the other corner of the tent. It was a large tent, as Peter had observed earlier, and from the inside, it looked even bigger.

  “Diyaab al-Sahra …,” the sultan said.

  The Desert Wolf said nothing.

  His face was like a rock and gave away nothing. Nevertheless, he turned his sight slowly to the host. All people in the tent were left breathless. The guards and the golden Mamluks around him were nervous and tight.

  “I am pleased you are alive,” Baibars said.

  “But your daughter is dead!” Ulf said. “Killed by your dogs!”

  The sultan blinked for a moment and took a few steps toward the Wolf.

  “I know,” he said and dropped his eyes for a moment, followed by his head. He murmured something to himself and focused on Ulf again. Peter was deeply struck by this moment. The sultan didn’t show any sign of sorrow or emotion from the news of his daughter’s death. His presence was absolutely controlled.

  “A daughter?” Peter and James looked at each other at the same time.

  “Your hounds came to my manor in peace,” Ulf said, “and killed her—killed everything—without hesitation. I thought we had an agreement!” The last was said with such vengeful passion. “Why?”

  Everyone froze.

  “Why?” This time Ulf’s tone was harsher.

  The orphan and his friends had all washed and been given clean tunics, but not the Wolf. He was covered from head to feet in dust, dried blood, and dark spots on his garments. Even his arms, from the end of his armor to his red leather vambraces, were tarnished by the blood of the previous night’s killing.

  He wasn’t able or hadn’t wanted to clean himself, Peter thought. His look was dark and scary, yet Baibars didn’t show any sign of being affected by it.

  “Why? Why send your hounds to attack us?”

  “I didn’t give such an order!” Baibars shouted.

  “He was the man who sent us to your manor!” Red Herring said quickly. “But we were too late.”

  Ulf was puzzled and looked at the Scottish knight.

  “He was the spy who delivered the location to Otto and guided us to your place. I saw his face.”

  So, the role of the sultan was deeper than he had thought. Peter’s mind was racing again. Ulf turned again to Baibars. “So, you knew that this would happen and did not do anything?”

  “I suspected, yes…” the sultan said.

  “But she was your daughter, your own blood ….” They started to scream at each other, the Desert Wolf and the father of his dead wife.

  “Yes, and I tried to fetch help, sending information to the infidels, because they were at least involved in the running plot ... and you—you were responsible for my daughter’s life, her health, her happiness …. This was the most important mission of your life, and you failed.” Now it was the sultan’s to unleash his anger toward Ulf.

  “You and your conspiracy games, you and your royal ideas for power and control ….” Ulf’s fists became white. “You …. I gave you everything you wanted from me. We had a deal.”

  Peter observed the sultan. He was a real force in ruling his own empire, he thought. But now his daughter was dead. He had nerves of steel, still; he didn’t show anything, he didn’t reveal any weakness or emotion.

  Yet, he had known about the plot and had done nothing.

  Peter suspected that the sultan was so eager to know who the plotters and traitors were, one and all that he failed to interfere in the attack on the manor in time. Peter thought he, himself, would want the same. Sultan Baibars had taken a risk and had failed. And one of his daughters was dead.

  For a moment, there was a dangerous silence in the tent.

  ***

  Baibars was focused on Ulf.

  “I loved to see a smile on her face,” the sultan said, “and because of my daughter, I lost your service. You were my ally and your sword served me well.”

  “And now she is dead,” Ulf said.

  Baibars shook his head and rose like a phoenix. His eyes were empty of love and life—instead, they were full of sorrow and determination. The same determination as the Wolf’s: to punish
the men who were responsible. Baibars knew this gaze—the expression which showed he would never stop hunting his prey.

  Baibars tried not to show his emotions to others.

  The lonely Wolf without a cause was the fading shadow of a past myth. But he was a fierce beast, ready to deliver vengeance with another song. The sultan knew he needed that song, which could bring fear into the hearts of his enemies once more, and it was about time release it.

  He looked at the warrior’s eyes. He, the sultan, had never been frightened by anything in his life except for Ulf’s eyes. Every time he looked into his eyes he saw the stone-cold soul of the Wolf. Whether others and his enemies saw the same?

  Baibars shivered.

  He, the sultan of these lands, was one of the best soldiers and generals. Although his strength was fading with the passing of years, he had experience winning battles, leading men and battalions, fighting wars, sacking fortresses and towns. He had won in all these endeavors, all his battles.

  But whenever he saw Ulf displaying his skills, it was like observing a fallen shadow from the sky, doing God’s work.

  Now, he thought, he needed to guide this weapon in the right direction once more.

  Baibars spoke easily. “In the beginning, it was a lust for power. I had desired the highest position in the kingdom so much. Then I realized everything had a price.” As he spoke, he moved closer and closer to Ulf. “The crown was heavy. The power went hand in hand with responsibility for the people,” the sultan continued, “Ordinary men and women needed order and safety. The world was in chaos. Someone needed to bring justice and order ….”

  “And you sacrificed your own daughter for that?”

  Baibars ignored Ulf and—as if he were speaking before a jury—he continued, “I needed to be a lion for my people. I needed to be that beast to bring stability for the sake of the realm. And if preventing a treacherous plot meant that someone would be exposed to danger, then I would take that risk again!”

  “She was my beloved one and she was your daughter. She loved you!” Ulf nearly shouted this last in fury.

  “Where were you? You were responsible for my daughter’s life, and you failed!”

  Ulf froze.

  “Diyaab al-Sahra …,” the sultan said. “You … what are you? A lonely wolf without a cause. You are a man who needs a cause.”

  “A cause?” Ulf’s face was furious. He leaped at the sultan, managed to wrest a sword from one of the guards, stabbed another in front of him, and faced Baibars. He did it so quickly that no one moved. By the time the guards had reached him, blood had been shed, a golden Mamluk lay dead, and Baibars’ life was at stake.

  “I have a cause.” Ulf grabbed Baibars by the throat.

  But the sultan looked calm. Baibars raised his hand toward his golden guards, signaling them not to move.

  “Anyone responsible for her death will pay. That is my cause,” Ulf said.

  Baibars looked at his fierce eyes, responding with the same. The moment was heavy with tension.

  “If you think this will bring back your beloved one and my daughter, do not hesitate, do it … do it!” Baibars shouted.

  The naked sword didn’t move.

  “If you think this would bring order and stability to this land, do it, now.” Baibars chose his words with care and spoke them as he would twist a sword into a man’s wound.

  The blade pointed to the sultan’s chest, almost pierced it; the two men locked eyes and would not look away. Ulf’s eyes were focused like a predator’s on its prey.

  The whole tent became darker. What on earth could prevent the vengeful Wolf, grieving for his lost family, from ripping apart the heart of an aged lion?

  Silence.

  Baibars’ heart was starting to beat fast and sweat appeared on his temple.

  “Daddy?” A child’s voice cut the darkness.

  Ulf turned his gaze to the source of the disruption, as did Baibars and the rest of the witnesses.

  “Uncle Ulf?” the little girl said.

  “Anna?” Baibars managed to say.

  The Wolf froze.

  ***

  Peter’s eyes were dry. He rubbed them a little with his forearm and blinked a few times. The scene he had witnessed in the sultan’s tent made them hold their breath.

  They had been interrupted by a little girl, whom Peter supposed to be another of the sultan’s daughters. The Desert Wolf had looked at her eyes, raising himself, and Peter saw a tear glide down his cheek.

  He stopped his hand from taking the sultan’s life. He watched her for a moment and stormed out from the tent, vanishing.

  Baibars said nothing, simply stood firm and hugged the little girl. She was beautiful and innocent, close to her sixth year. Her long, golden hair and blue eyes distinguished herself from the rest; her face was vivid and happy. Even when she saw Ulf, she showed an eagerness to hug him, too.

  The sultan watched the Wolf disappear.

  “Leave him alone,” he said to the guards and all were dismissed from the tent.

  “Children ….” Owen said outside. “It’s a bloody family affair, eh?”

  “Shut up, Welshman,” Hamo said.

  “Why? Some day you may have children too, handsome, then we will speak again!”

  Red Herring was silent.

  The golden soldiers escorted them to their tent. Peter managed to exchange a look with Edward the Saracen who was taken away.

  An old Mamluk bearing a white beard asked them in the Christians’ language to behave if they wanted to be allowed to move freely around the camp. He asked for James’ word, and when he received it, he turned his back on them and began to walk away.

  Peter stopped him, asking, “Who was the girl in the tent?”

  “It’s not your business.” The man was harsh.

  “Not the little one, the other one?”

  The old officer ignored the question, but before he walked away, he nodded to Ibn Abd al-Zahir, the sultan’s clerk who was constantly around.

  “Who was she?” Peter persisted to know. “The girl behind the sultan. I want to thank her.”

  “Why?”

  “She was in the tower,” Peter said.

  “Are you sure?” the clerk said.

  “She was there; it’s the same perfume. She took care of my wound and cut the rope from my hands. She helped me … and I want to thank her.”

  Sir James, Hamo, and Owen had surrounded the short man and he appeared to be uncomfortable, surrounded by the Crusaders, who were all a head taller than him.

  “She was there,” Hamo said. “I saw her, too.”

  The clerk smiled, then said something to a nearby guard, and the two laughed.

  “If she wants to speak to you, she will. If she doesn’t, no one can make her.”

  “Why? Who is she?”

  “One of the sultan’s daughters, the wildest one,” the clerk said and observed their open mouths with a smile. “You had better stay away from her. Take that as friendly advice, free of charge.”

  “How many daughters does he have?” Hamo was curious.

  “Seven,” the short man said, then stopped. “Six, now ….”

  There was an uneasy silence.

  They talked a little more, sat near their tent and enjoyed the view of the Salt Sea. The orphan found some water and while they rested, they were questioned by the clerk. He and one of his servants wrote down all they said: their names, their ranks, even their questions to the sultan. They recorded the men’s intentions, what they knew about the assassination, what they knew about the Wolf and anything that could be helpful to uncover the plot.

  “Why ask all these questions?” James asked. “I doubt the sultan reads it all.”

  “Our lord likes to be informed. As you know, he created a new information system, a new way of delivering news.”

  “What is he preparing for?” Hamo asked.

  “The Tartars?” Red Herring suggested.

  “You know Mongols—you call them Tartars�
��and their customs?” the clerk asked.

  “Only rumors,” Hamo said.

  “Twelve years ago, the Great Hilegu Khan—the Mongol ruler—tried to conquer these lands. He sent a letter with envoys to Qutuz—the Sultan before Baibars—calling on him to submit to his rule. This letter, although coached in Islamic terms and even containing verses from the Qur’an, expressed the traditional Mongol world view.”

  “Mongol world view?” Owen lifted an eyebrow.

  “The Mongols believe they have a heaven-given right to rule the world,” the clerk explained. “All those who resist are rebels who must be destroyed. There is no possibility of escaping, so Qutuz was counseled to submit at once. The letter also referred to the sultan Qutuz and disparaged his Mamluk origins, saying, ‘He is of the race of Mamluks who fled before our sword into this country, who enjoyed its comforts and then killed its rulers,’” the clerk quoted.

  “Sultan Qutuz killed their envoys,” Ibn Abd al-Zahir said. “Did you know that the Mongols never again negotiated or sent envoys to the people who had killed their messengers? Not until they conquered and killed them all as punishment.”

  “Really?” Peter was amazed.

  “As a matter of fact, Baibars was the man who suggested the beheading of the impudent envoys. Shortly after that, the Mongols unleashed their hordes. Baibars urged the sultan to meet them in open war and to teach them a lesson, saying that the Mamluk warriors weren’t scared and that they would gladly kill their enemies.”

  “What happened?” Peter was like a child near the fireplace, waiting to hear the full story.

  “The Mongols crossed the river Jordan, and there was a great battle near the Spring of Goliath. The Battle of Ayn Jalut.”

  “I have heard of this in the taverns,” Hamo said.

  “Qutuz even received permission from the Kingdom of Jerusalem to pass through safely and to supply his army on the eve of this great danger.”

  “The overseas barons helped him?” Hamo asked.

  “They hadn’t much of a choice, had they? Internal conflicts and the ongoing war for power between the Italian traders and the military orders had sapped their man power and resources.”