Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  Peter looked at the improvised sand map and said nothing. She pointed again with her finger at the sand, north of Jerusalem.

  “Ughan’s men and his allies are moving,” she said.

  “What we are going to do now?” Peter looked at the stars then back to her.

  “My father always has a plan. We will see.” Her eyes were beautiful.

  Darkness was all around. Some clouds wrapped the Moon and most of the stars; the song of the night became soundless.

  Peter looked around. He saw some tents and some tired sentries.

  A shadow moved.

  The orphan’s eye caught it and it was gone in the blink of an eye.

  He looked at the girl and the two ran, following it.

  He jumped over a campfire, flying like a hawk after prey. He heard her steps and breath behind him.

  After a few heartbeats, he was near to the rear of Sultan Baibars’ tent, and something wasn’t right.

  “Where are the guards?” she asked.

  A noise from inside the tent made him turn.

  Peter had no time to say anything. Everything around him was moving slowly, and he felt he was on a wave again. The wave of destiny.

  The wind blew at him like during the sandstorm. But this was different. It was like a blurred song surrounding his face. His hair was dancing and his eyes were drying. The wind was playing with his face. The wind was everywhere: around his neck, in his ears and his eyes, between his shoulders and on his back. It was a whispering song for a dance, a slow one. Still, he was determined to follow his instincts and to find out what was bothering him.

  Peter rushed into the ruler’s tent. He lunged toward the enemy. This time, it was Baibars’ life which was threatened.

  An assassin dressed in dark clothes held a bloody dagger in his hands, aimed at the chest of his target. The sultan had fallen on his back, and the body of a dead assassin lay near him. The old lion had put up a fight. Still, he had almost lost his life. Almost.

  Peter introduced himself like a hurricane and hammered the assailant’s back, using his speed and shoulder to hit him hard. As a guest in Baibars’ camp, he was unarmed. Still, he remembered what Ulf had taught him. The man himself was his most dangerous weapon, not the iron in his hand.

  Baibars eyes were wide open from the surprise of seeing Peter. After a moment, his daughter arrived. She was quick and stabbed the intruder in his neck as he struggled to stand again.

  “No …,” the sultan shouted, “I wanted to question him.” But it was too late. She pulled the knife from the attacker, who fell dead near her.

  There was a third man, watching from the dark. He had naked his sword and was ready to attack Baibars as Peter and the girl entered. She started to shout orders. A noise coming from soldiers and cries cut the silence of the night. Sultan Baibars was in danger.

  The third man tried to approach the ruler but hesitated. His indecisive step exposed him from the darkness. Peter caught this move in the corner of his eye. He rose from the ground and started to run toward him.

  The hunt began. Peter focused only on the man in front of him, who ran fast but turned to see who his pursuer was. The orphan didn’t think but instinctively tried to catch him. The two men left the camp behind in the darkness. Peter saw a slope ahead of them and curves formed by rocks. Though tired, he didn’t give up. He knew the assassins were part of the problem, and as soon they eliminated them, they would be free to continue their mission. He followed the man down the slope in the night, barely able see where he was running.

  Peter lost his footing, falling into a small, underground cave near the rocks around the Salt Sea.

  He opened his eyes as he stood up and felt a pain in his back and his right shoulder. The young man looked around. It looked more like a tomb, and he stumbled over skeleton bones.

  “Damn it.” He cursed his luck. How would he get out?

  He could hardly see in the dark as the only light came from the Moon through the opening above his head. Peter searched the cave with his hands. He found something wrapped in an old piece of leather. It was too dark to see what it was but he felt the coldness of an iron, which was as long as his elbow. He leaned against the wall.

  The cave could be his resting place, as it was for the poor fellows whose remains he had found here.

  He evaluated his situation. Peter stood again and tried to climb, but his attempt was unsuccessful. He couldn’t find a hand- or foothold. The underground cave was small; judging by his fall, he assumed the height to be about three meters and the width seemed about four. The orphan could see the Moon through the place where he had fallen in. He cursed again.

  “Peter, how did you get down here?” he asked himself, then sat down. Finally, the night and his weariness drew him to sleep.

  He awoke when he heard his name spoken. He looked up at the cave entrance. He saw a silhouette of a daughter and a father, surrounded by a dozen golden helms lit by the smiling Moon.

  A rope was dropped. Peter climbed, escaping the darkness. The assailant was long gone.

  The assassination attempt had failed. The assassins must have been truly desperate to attempt such a dangerous task.

  Peter and the rest walked in silence to the camp.

  “In debt to an orphan from Acre!” Baibars said at last. “Such irony! You have certainly earned some fame in a short time.”

  Peter just stared at the lights of the camp. He had just saved the life of his father's killer.

  “You, Longsword, you have saved many important lives in just a week: Edward, Ulf, James, Isabella of Ibelin, even the life of the Genovese captain is under your belt. You saved my life too. And now all of us owe our next breath to you.”

  The sultan laughed. The world was falling apart, and what was he doing? Laughing.

  Fate was merciful, wasn’t it?

  He looked at Peter.

  “With this deed, you have signed the death sentence of your kingdom.”

  The orphan was puzzled. He had expected some gratitude, but not this response.

  “The Christian kingdom—or, as you call it, the Kingdom of Jerusalem—is doomed. You know why? Because I am determined to conquer it. It is on the land I have claimed.”

  “But you had no rights over this land!” Peter dared to speak.

  “But you did? No, nobody had rights over this land. This is a realm of God and we are just creatures passing through.”

  The orphan wasn’t sure he understood this.

  “The right is on the winner’s side, Longsword. And who is the winner? The strongest? No. The cleverest? No. The most prudent? No.”

  He left Peter to think about his last words for a few moments.

  “The winner must be all these things, but most of all he must have a cause. The winner trains hard; he prepares himself. He invests his life to be ready when the right time comes. But what links all champions? Devotion to a cause. My cause is to unite Egypt and Damascus, to unite the Muslim world and to fight back the hordes from the east. The Mongols,” Baibars said. He smiled at Peter and continued. “So, remember, my dear savior, the devoted player with a cause always wins. Your kingdom, unfortunately, is not ready and never will be. Even if new Crusaders arrive, they will not save your kingdom from its fate.”

  “But ….”

  “Nobody will,” Baibars said. “Either I or the Tartars will overrun you soon. Your leaders are too greedy and think only for themselves. Your world needs an overall change—a new structure and new laws, even a new way of thinking. But you are far behind us.” The sultan took a breath. “The threat from the east must be repelled by a united force. Your kingdom lacks this. Who do you think has the better odds?”

  “Odds of what?” Peter asked.

  “To destroy your kingdom first? The Mamluk empire or the Tartars?”

  Peter was astonished by the savage look on Sultan Baibars’ face. This man was different from the others he knew. The orphan was speechless. Was there irony in his voice?

  “Sa
ving my life has earned you my favor, but you have doomed your kingdom. What irony. Be sure that the Mamluk empire will finish your coastal dominion. There will be no words for rights or demands. I will win. There is no question about that.”

  “It’s not over yet,” Peter said quietly.

  “But you must remember this day. The day you saved my life. You will be rewarded. I expect such duty to protect their master from my soldiers. But from you, I didn’t expect it, and I am thankful,” Baibars said.

  A three Mamluk officers interrupted their conversation with news It was in a language Peter could not understand. As the sultan listened to them, his face twisted with rage.

  Even with the pain in his leg, the most powerful man in the realm ran toward the other side of the camp with a determined stride. His retinue—including Peter—followed him through the darkness with flaming torches. Suddenly, all was alive in the camp and there was chaos around it.

  “There had been a second attack,” sultan’s daughter explained to Peter what the soldier had said.

  While all the guards in the Mamluks’ camp were running to their master after the assassination attempt, a second wave of assassins had stormed in from the opposite side and managed to infiltrate the sentries and to kidnap Isabella and the youngest daughter of Baibars, Anna.

  They had vanished into the night, leaving a written message for Baibars.

  Peter learned later that the conspirators had demanded that Baibars meet them in a specific place if he wanted to see his daughter again. After two days, on Midsummer, Baibars had to march to the meeting point: Ayn Jalut, the Springs of Goliath. The sultan had to come for his daughter at midday.

  Peter understood that Sultan Baibars hadn’t time to gather an army; he had only his most trusted battalion at the ready. He also knew that the assassins would lay a trap. What was Baibars to do?

  The sultan had to use all the force he had: his intelligence network, the Desert Wolf, and the Crusaders guests.

  The little princess was missing, along with Isabella and Edward the Saracen. Githa had been wounded but not the sultan.

  The enemy had their bait. But they had made a mistake—a bad one.

  ***

  The Sun was almost on his trail.

  Peter, James, Hamo, and Owen sat in front of the tent in the camp and waited to find out what the Sultan's next move would be. The orphan looked at his find from the cave—an ancient Roman iron vambrace with an inscription on one side. There was some rust on the iron armguard but it was remarkably well-preserved. It was a small piece of armor, not heavy, and covered his arm from the wrist to the elbow. It was a perfect fit for Peter’s left forearm.

  James took the item and looked at the inscription:

  “LONGINOS,” it read, and below this, “LEG X FRE.”

  Peter remembered, from the Vegetius book, that Roman soldiers had inscribed symbols of their names and legions on their armor. Who was the man to whom this piece of armor had belonged? He had seen such letters in the Tower of David.

  “Maybe it belonged to a Roman soldier?” Peter asked.

  “In France, a monk told us a legend about Longinos. During the crucifixion of Christ, a man who was a blind Roman soldier thrust his spear into Jesus’s body,” James drank some water and returned the iron vambrace to Peter. “Some of Christ’s blood fell over the soldier’s eyes and people said Longinos was healed.”

  “Healed? Are you serious?” Peter grinned.

  “Hey, these are not my words, but the story which the French monk told us,” James touched the bandage over his wound. “I wish I can heal so fast.”

  “You’re saying this vambrace is from the time of Jesus?”

  “Maybe it is, maybe it is not. It is curious,” Red Herring smiled at him. “The ancient Romans called it a ‘manica’ or something like that and it was a part of their segmental armor. Every legionary soldier owned it.”

  “How do you know so much of the Romans?” Peter asked.

  “In Durham, my family has a full set of armor in our armory. The Romans lived on our lands, far in the north of England.”

  Upon reflection, he decided not to reveal it to others except his friends. He feared that the church might want to claim his discovery. Red Herring approved of his decision.

  “It’s a lucky charm and it’s only for you, lad. But if you want to sell it, call me first.”

  Ibn Abd al-Zahir, the sultan’s clerk arrived with puffy eyes.

  “Follow me!” he ordered and guided them to the sultan. Peter hoped they would learn their destiny.

  Rather than lead them to the sultan’s tent, the clerk turned toward the slope. Soon they reached the shore of the Dead Sea.

  Baibars was dressed in a tunic and was in the water up to his naked knees. He saw their arrival and walked toward them. The golden Mamluk soldiers surrounded him at every step. Nevertheless, the sultan looked calm. He raised his hand to the orphan, beckoning him closer.

  “Walk with me, Peter Longsword.”

  The others stared but said nothing.

  They walked side by side for a few steps. Baibars looked toward where the Sun would soon be rising. When they were far enough that no one could hear them, he smiled at the lad.

  “I wish to walk with you and to know the man to whom I owe my life.”

  Peter didn’t know what to say.

  “First, again, thank you for your deed, as it wasn’t your duty,” the old man said, looking the younger man in the eyes. “Second, I would like to know what were you doing so late with my daughter in the night.”

  Peter was shocked by the request.

  “We … talked,” he managed to say.

  “Just talk?”

  “I wanted to thank her for saving my life in the tower,” Peter said.

  “Fate is unpredictable,” Baibars said, smiling. “One saved life leads to another; she saved you, and then you saved me. Such irony. What you think?”

  “I am glad she saved me,” Peter said.

  “I am glad she saved you, too.”

  Baibars changed the subject.

  “This man, Ulf, is unbeatable, one-on-one. Even if there are ten soldiers against him, he will win again. But do you know what would make him a better warrior?”

  “What?”

  “A cause, as I said before. The cause makes you a better man, makes you value life and the precious little things in life ….”

  The sultan raised his left hand toward the landscape.

  “…the Sun, the warmth, a smile, love, a child’s laugh, the satisfaction when you build something in your life more than a straw hut,” Baibars said.

  “… a smile?”

  “Someday you will understand that you can’t buy a smile—a simple child’s smile.” He stared at the lad. “Take this knowledge in advance, but you must accept and understand it first before you can benefit from it.” The older man smiled. “All these things form your own cause, something more to fight for than survival. To fight for the things and people you love—that, my friend, gives you a cause”

  “A cause.”

  “Yes, and it makes you a better man, hence a better warrior. A warrior fighting for his own cause can match ten men who don’t have one. No one can change that, and guess who will win?”

  “Ulf.”

  “You’ve seen what he can do, imagine what he is capable when he has a cause.”

  Peter said nothing, swimming in his own thoughts.

  “I’ve witnessed him when he had a cause,” Baibars said, “I’d never seen such determination and such devotion before. I almost felt sorry for the forsaken souls whom he stood against.”

  “At the last fortress mission?”

  “Are you intending to follow his path?” Baibars asked.

  Peter wondered for a moment what to say.

  “I wish I could fight like him, to take my revenge on the man who killed the closest thing I had to family.”

  “An honest answer, but you should beware of the path of the vengeful warrior.
” He looked the orphan at the eyes and said, “It will drain your soul.”

  A rider arrived and interrupted them.

  It was the woman from the tower. They returned to the others, and Peter felt the curious looks of the others upon him. Everybody wanted to know why Baibars had taken him for a private chat.

  The daughter of the sultan brought something wrapped in a piece of linen cloth. She dismounted and gave it to her father. The short clerk, the physician, and a dozen golden guards stood around him. Red Herring, Hamo, and Owen were ten steps away from the shelter and there were another dozen Mamluks in the area.

  Ulf dragged himself from nowhere and stood behind the girl, showing no aggression.

  “Last night, this man saved my life,” Baibars said and gestured toward the orphan.

  All eyes were on Peter.

  “Not again,” Owen said with an ironic smile.

  “This gift is to remember your courage and your name.”

  The sultan unfolded what his daughter had brought. It was a sword, a real Crusader’s blade.

  It was a magnificent masterwork, a little longer than the more common ‘hand-and-a-half’. The blade seemed expensive; it was four-sided—like a flat diamond—and had a reinforced triangular midrib. The sword possessed a stiff cross-section and reinforced tip, and the round pommel had a cross on it.

  Peter’s jaw dropped a bit as he remained silent. This gift definitely surprised him. He felt like a child receiving a long-anticipated gift from his father. The weapon seemed versatile, a custom-made masterpiece. Now he felt like a child, his eyes full of joy.

  “Peter,” Baibars said. “With my grateful joy, I present to you this gift and I am indebted to you. Peter Longsword—” The sultan offered his hand. “—to whom I will be obliged forever. You are my blood-brother, now, and I am yours.”

  One servant had appeared and brought an old scabbard to dress the blade and the sultan gave it to the orphan.

  “This was the sword of your father, William Longsword, which I have possessed since the victory at Al-Mansurah. Now, I return it to you, its rightful owner.”

  Peter noticed all eyes were on him waiting for his reaction.