Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  “Blood-brother?” Owen smiled. Red Herring slapped him on his neck to silence him.

  “You may also name your prize, whatever you want from me,” Baibars added.

  All this shocked Peter. The sword of his father was presented to him from the sultan. The man who slew him. The father whom he never knew. His image was somehow strange and distant for him. He wanted to learn more about his father. And Peter had saved his father’s killer who made him his blood-brother.

  Such irony and Fate loves it.

  ***

  Ten years before, Baibars had met a Templar Knight named Matthew Sauvage. The knight had been a prisoner, but a great man, nonetheless. Baibars had made him his blood-brother. This decision gave him benefits. Since then he had used their personal friendship to negotiate agreements and truces with the Christians. Now again, he trusted his instincts and made the son of Longsword his blood-brother. He just knew he had to do the same way with Peter as he already owed his life to him.

  Sultan Baibars looked at Peter’s innocent face.

  When he was in prison in Karak thirty-two years before with his then master he met a prophet. This old and crippled man had said to him back there that: Three great warriors would define Baibars’ fate, a prophecy had decreed: one to threaten his life, one to fight on his side, and the last to be the first two combined.

  “Is he the one?” Ibn Abd al-Zahir asked.

  The Lion of Egypt didn’t answer. He was back in his memories.

  He had been young and ambitious, but he hadn’t lacked bravery. He thought of himself as anything but a coward. He had survived many things since he had met the old, dying prophet.

  It rang in his head as if it had happened just the day before.

  “One to threaten your life, one to fight on your side, and the last to be the first two combined, but more dangerous than others.” The old man’s words echoed in his mind.

  One he had met at Mansura. William Longsword.

  He was the only one who had almost killed Baibars. The sultan hadn’t seen such zeal, devotion, and bravery before. This knight, a dark-haired Christian demon, had almost succeeded in killing him. Baibars managed to escape death by virtue of luck and the help of one of his friends.

  One had saved him. The Desert Wolf. Ulf was the one who had fought on Baibars’ side. He had been delivered from the waves; there had been a shipwreck and the Wolf was the sole survivor. Had it been luck again? Baibars had almost given an order to kill him. But his heart had decided against his mind’s decision. This man had turned the odds in his favor. He was the man and the sultan he was today because of Ulf.

  Since then, Baibars had asked himself when the third one would appear—the third great warrior from the prophecy. He had encountered many brave soldiers, but none could compare to the other two.

  And now he thought he had met him, at last: the third one. Peter Longsword, the orphan from Acre. The man who had saved his life. The son of William Longsword, in whose veins ran the blood of the Lionheart, walking on the steps of the Desert Wolf.

  Baibars was amazed by this.

  Fate had a strange sense of humor.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Holy Land, Thursday, 23rd June in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ; Somewhere north of Jerusalem; St John’s Eve

  “You are insane!” Sir James scolded him. “Why not simply let the bugger hang? Why?”

  “It is not right that the man dies like this. It doesn’t seem right.” Peter had difficulty explaining.

  They discussed the favor which Peter had asked of Sultan Baibars: to spare Edward the Saracen’s life. The orphan had pity for this man. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt it wasn’t right for him to be hanged like a helpless rat. After all, Peter owed him for sparing his life in Acre.

  “He is a treacherous bastard. Remember that. He switched sides. No man who does that can be trusted,” James said.

  Peter looked at the Scottish knight. James had never been a fan of Edward the Saracen.

  The enemy had struck fast the night before. In the tower of the citadel, they had been exposed and had managed to escape by an inch. The conspirators had sacrificed many lives to slow down the Wolf.

  Today, the enemy had the upper hand. Today, they had the one thing that could break a man’s will and desire to fight: Sultan Baibars’ most beloved child, Anna.

  But Baibars wasn’t an ordinary man. Neither was Anna’s Uncle Ulf.

  The Desert Wolf had rejoined their group just before Peter received the sultan’s gift. Fast as the wind, another spy had arrived with news of a force gathering between them and the city of Acre. Ughan’s northern battalions marched south, alongside the river Jordan. A renegade Tartar army led by Siraghan al-Tatari had already reached the Iron Hills northeast of the fortress of Qaqun to join forces with Berrat and Ughan’s soldiers. Soon they will all come together and wait for the Sultan to arrive.

  The enemy had but one crucial blow to deliver and the path to the throne of the Muslim world would be free.

  “Call your battalions?” Ibn Abd al-Zahir suggested.

  “My most trusted one was annihilated in the desert storm, led by Berrat.” Baibars looked accusingly at Ulf and the orphan.

  “The traitor,” Ulf said.

  “The betrayal of the closest people hurts most,” al-Zahir said.

  “Is there a betrayal that does not hurt?” Baibars looked stone-faced toward the clerk.

  Another rider delivered more news. A small raiding party, probably from the night assault, was heading north toward the northern battalions. The sultan’s network was working; even far from civilization, he received news.

  “So, Anna and Lady Isabella were taken north.” James nodded.

  “Why do you bother? You can make another daughter,” Ibn al-Nafis said.

  Baibars looked at his friend’s face. “I am the most powerful man in this realm. I cannot allow the renegades to determine my decisions. Yes, I can make as many daughters as I want. But I cannot leave any of my children at the mercy of my enemy.” Sultan’s tone was stone-cold.

  The answer shocked the orphan. So, it is not for his daughter's sake, but for the sultan’s pride. Peter bowed his head and looked at the dusty ground. He preferred to think that it was all about Anna. Baibars turned to him and said, “‘If you want to go fast, go alone,’ a wise man once said. ‘If you want to go far, go together.’”

  Ulf wanted to go alone. But Baibars insisted that they should be as many as the souls who had been kidnapped: Anna, Isabella, and al-Rida’s son. Peter and Hamo volunteered at once.

  He remembered his night with her and his protective instinct kicked into high gear. He wanted to see her again, her smile and her face. Her angel’s face was so innocent, like Anna’s. Ivar the ostringer, the personal guard and falconer of the young lady, volunteered too.

  They would ride as if there was no tomorrow, and if they failed...

  The rest would stay behind to gather as many trusted soldiers as possible in a day and then marched to the meeting point. On St John’s Feast day, Baibars was to come for his daughter at midday at Ayn Jalut, the Springs of Goliath.

  The meeting would be bloody. Peter didn’t think for a moment that the sultan would leave everything to diplomacy. Not this time. He had lost one daughter. One more had been kidnapped.

  “Five to go.” Dark humor rose in Peter’s mind. But this act of the enemy had crossed a line—the bloody line of pride. There would be no peace for anyone.

  Peter grinned. The end of their quest was near, like a song. It promised to be deadly and momentous. The song would be sung for a child’s rescue, a princess, and a kingdom. There would be sword brothers, bravery, knighthood, and revenge. The song would be marvelous.

  Yes, revenge. Everyone had his path to follow.

  Peter noticed that Baibars looked calm. He remembered the expression he had worn while they walked and talked on the shore of the salt sea.

  “The enemies have their bait.”

&nbs
p; “Anna,” Peter said.

  “But now the Wolf has his cause once more. Anna is a little copy of his beloved one, my eldest daughter.” The sultan looked like a heartless bastard; he spoke of the situation as if it were another ordinary opportunity to battle. He looked back at the conversation he had with the other daughter. If they were the sultan’s weakness, why would he bring them with him to the desert? Why would he hide her in his enemy’s lair?

  Because he didn’t trust anybody.

  Still, he showed nerves of steel. No emotion, no panic, no rushed decisions, no bad temper toward the circumstances, although he was known for it.

  “They made the mistake I was waiting for,” Baibars said to him. “Like in a game of chess. The son of Nonagenarian, Shams al-Din. He tried to play the game of the kings. Some succeed at this, others do not. Will he succeed? I doubt it.”

  “A mistake?”

  “Anna!”

  “You hoped they would kidnap her?” Peter asked.

  “Don’t be silly. I am a father. Do you really think I hoped for that? But, yes, they made a rare mistake. They have tried to eliminate Diyaab al-Sahra. Why? Because they fear him. And they should. Now, his vision is clear; he knows who the real enemy is.”

  Baibars looked at the sky.

  “They captured the wrong person. They kidnapped the wrong target,” the Sultan said. “And who do you think will bring her back?”

  “Ulf?”

  “Berrat and Ughan, the men you saw in the citadel in Jerusalem, must pay for their actions. And not only them but their families and all who were involved. This time, Wolf has not only to kill but also to save the life of a child.” And to make the world a better place, Peter thought. For that intention, the world needs its beasts—the most bloodthirsty predators—on his side.

  “Even you have a motivation and a cause: your Lady of Beirut,” Baibars said.

  He was right, Peter thought.

  “In your eyes, I see the hate you bear toward me. I understand that. But now the spy games are over. The masks have fallen away. It is time for our turn,” Baibars had said earlier to Ulf.

  Sir James was invited to stay behind to join the sultan’s war council. Owen stayed to watch after him. He wasn’t sure if they were sultan’s guests or hostages.

  The demands of the renegades were that the sultan should be in a specific place on Midsummer to exchange the old man of the mountains, Shams al-Din’s father, for Anna.

  There was one problem, Peter understood: the old man was dead. There could be no exchange.

  “What, then?”

  “The plotters will reap what they sow,” Baibars said, his face twisting. “War is coming. And we must face it.”

  “Lads, I wish I could ride with you.” Red Herring’s face sank; he was a man of action, and staying in the camp was difficult for him.

  “You should fully recover first, Sir James, but we will meet again,” Hamo said.

  “Watch out lads, do not do anything stupid,” Red Herring shouted at their backs.

  They left the camp: the Desert Wolf, Peter, Hamo, and Ivar the ostringer. They rode like demons—fast as if a whole army of angels pursued them. This was a race for lives and salvation—for Anna, Isabella, and the two Edwards. But they were also after death; they were on a hunt.

  Sweat covered Peter’s neck. He was dressed in a white robe with a hood over his head. The heat was harsh though the Sun wasn’t up yet.

  “Here we go again,” he thought, “riding toward the unknown.” The whole story was happening so fast.

  Peter looked in front of him, where Ulf was riding. Hamo rode behind Peter and Ivar was last. Ulf knew him from before. The young man examined Anna’s bodyguard. His nose looked like the beak of an eagle; it was fitting that he was an ostringer, a falconer. Peter had asked Ivar about his bird—a golden eagle he kept with him—and had learned its name was Igor. It was a marvelous creature. Peter knew it was expensive to possess one; it was a hobby for royals. Not simply nobility; only royalty. They took pride in competing with each other, hunting with birds of prey. The golden eagle was one of the best hunters.

  “Igor can catch even a wolf,” Ivar had said.

  Anna had a hobby; she loved eagles. Especially golden ones. For that reason, her father had presented her with this man as her personal bodyguard, one of the best falconers in the world. Ivar was like a nursemaid to Lady Anna. Nursemaid, guard, and falconer—Peter was jealous. Where was his father, to give him such presents?

  Ivar was tall and stocky; he had a big brow and blue eyes. His light brown long hair was usually tied at the back of his neck. He seemed to be in his late thirties but he possessed fearsome agility. He spoke rarely; he didn’t ask questions and didn’t say much.

  They were riding at full speed toward their target, never mind the heat. It was a wild chase against time. They were running against the odds.

  And they rode, four men toward countless enemies coming from the north. Peter didn’t count himself a proper soldier yet, somehow. He had been bound to this story from the beginning, but he didn’t feel ready to put himself side-by-side with the men who were riding with him.

  Peter felt somehow rejuvenated. The end of the game was near. In the past week, he had seen a whole new world. He felt drunk as if he were drinking deep from the cup of life.

  He wanted more. He was ready to unleash his vengeful thoughts soon.

  The Sun had awakened long ago.

  They were dressed like locals, not only because of the heat. Hamo’s destrier had been brought to him from Jerusalem and now he was happy again. The others rode some of the sultan’s best horses. They didn’t give rest to the animals, nor themselves. The River Jordan was on their right; they followed its bed, climbing cliffs, descending slopes. Ulf spurred them hard.

  The kidnappers had almost four hours of advantage. Still, they were dragging a child, a woman, and a wounded and tied assassin; they must be slowed down. Or so Peter hoped.

  “Look, down to our right!” Hamo shouted.

  There was a dust cloud a few hours ahead of them.

  “Our target?” the orphan asked hopefully.

  Ulf said nothing. They traveled fast and light, with no additional bags—just the clothes on their backs, some light leather armor, their weapons, plus some water and Arab biscuits in the bags around their necks—nothing more. A wise man would say they were mad to go through the desert and the wilderness like that, but Peter trusted the judgment of the Desert Wolf.

  “Rainstorm is coming,” Ulf said.

  Peter looked at the sky, but there was nothing except the smile of their unstoppable follower, the Sun.

  “What rainstorm? It’s almost Midsummer in the desert.” Hamo also examined the horizon.

  “The last few years, there were storms, rains, and floods during this time of the year,” Ivar said.

  “We survived a sandstorm a few days ago, too,” the orphan added to no one in particular.

  “The land and the weather are changing,” Ulf said.

  “God is punishing us,” Hamo said.

  “Any weather—good or bad—affects everyone and everything. Even the wildest creatures,” Peter said.

  “They are near,” Ulf said.

  “What we will do when we catch them?”

  Hamo and Ulf said nothing. The orphan wasn’t sure he was ready to face the obvious answer.

  As sunset approached, they were close to their prey. They reached the end of the cliffs and observed the river bank and what lay ahead.

  Peter surveyed the landscape. There was a place to cross the river—a natural slope down to a gulf, where the riverbed branched like narrow sleeves which were crossable during the summer—a natural path created by almighty God.

  There were ruins on the left bank of the river from a fortress which had once guarded the passage. The stone wall—or what was left of it—was about six meters high. There were also the remains of an old bridge; pieces of destroyed rocks, rotten trees, and planks were visible. Someon
e was rebuilding the fortification, Peter could see. Carts, stone, and wooden parts had been delivered and were stored on the right side of the river. The entire place was full of workers and soldiers who protected the raw materials and oversaw the builders.

  “Someone must be in a hurry to complete the work during the summer,” Hamo said.

  Most of the reconstruction was finished. The fortress was square-shaped, with a four-sided wall and a tower on the eastern end. It was an old-fashioned design. They were building over the ruins, without clearing the ground, and they were in a hurry.

  “In France, I discovered that builders of fortification and castles now prefer round towers, as they resist catapult and trebuchet fire better. The round tower will not crumble so easily,” Hamo said.

  “But this was built long ago,” Ulf said.

  “And now someone is rebuilding it,” Ivar observed.

  “Mamluks from the north?” Peter asked.

  “Perhaps,” Ulf said.

  The Saracens were working on it fast, and it wasn’t cheap to bring so many resources and workers to one place these days.

  “In the time of Saladin, this border castle was erected by the King of Jerusalem against the agreement they had with the sultan back there,” Ulf said. “The Knights Templar, in their greed, insisted on imposing taxes on the passage. It was almost done when the Sultan’s force overran the fortress. According to the story, there were no survivors; it was a bloody slaughter. The Christian king arrived too late and when he saw the smoke from the fire, he turned back his horse. Saladin razed it to the ground. Still, he left some stones to remind the Crusaders what would happen to them if they broke their word.”

  “When was that?” Peter asked.

  “Long ago … even before Richard the Lionheart’s arrival, before Saladin broke the Kingdom of Jerusalem. It was when the kingdom of the Christians was strong and great,” Ulf said.

  They saw that their prey was taking cover for the night inside of the fortress.

  It would be an interesting night.

  “Now what?” the orphan asked.