The Sun was almost down behind the hill.
“No campfire,” Ulf said. “Now we’ll wait.”
Peter felt like a child before a game. Darkness hugged the passage when two battalions arrived at the fortress from the north. Peter’s group observed them as the soldiers crossed the river. He estimated at least 200 Mamluks and more than 200 Bedouins. The Mamluks looked different than the golden soldiers of the sultan, as if from another realm. They were disheveled and dusty as if they had marched all day long.
They dismounted and started to make a night camp around the fortress. Some of the Mamluks entered, but the Bedouins were all left outside the walls.
“Sir James told me that most of the Bedouins obey the old man of the mountains, the same man who led the assassins, the father of Shams al-Din,” Hamo said.
“The Bedouins believe that no man can die, except on the day fate decide for him. For this reason, they don't wear armor,” Ivar added. He held a small knife in his right hand and was making a whistle from a piece of wood. “They also believe that, when a man dies for his lord, or for any good purpose, his body passes on to a better life, happier than before.”
“No armor?” Peter wasn’t sure he heard right.
“In battle, they carry nothing but sword and spear. Nearly all of them are clad in furs,” Ivar said. “They lived in the realm of Egypt, in the realm of Jerusalem, and in all other countries that belong to the Saracens and infidels, to whom they pay heavy tributes every year. They are the real desert masters. They can smell when there will be a battle and booty.” Ivar looked at the whistle in his hand and tried it. Nothing occurred and he continued to use his knife to shape it.
“Look,” Ulf said, pointing below. “The Mamluks are wearing the colors of Ughan.”
“It looks like the Bedouins are in alliance with the Mamluks of the north, then,” observed Ivar. “Ughan’s battalion. Still, they cannot be trusted. They have always been on the side of the old man of the mountains. And Shams al-Din is his direct heir.”
“They are gathering their forces,” Peter said.
“And rebuilding the fortress to control the passage of the River Jordan,” Hamo said.
“We will wait until the Moon gets tired. Then we will enter.” Ulf said.
“Four versus 400? That’s without counting the guards and the workers.”
“Are you scared, young lord?” Ivar challenged him.
“I am all things, but not scared.”
“But you should be.”
Clouds hid the horizon.
Peter pulled an apple from the bag.
“You were right about riding and that the feeling isn’t the same after a week,” he said and gave the fruit to Ulf. “Why green apples?” The young man sat down beside him and bit one fruit too.
“I like them.” Ulf stared at Peter. “When I was a child, every time I was sad, my mother gave me a green apple.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes, a green one. Now every time I look at this fruit I see my mother's face in my memories.”
“Where is she now?”
He did not say more, but instead, he looked up at the sky and his face became bleak. Peter didn’t ask again.
After some time, he observed that four riders arrived and entered the fortress. They were dressed in dark clothes, unlike the rest.
Mercenary knights? Could it be Julian?
“Look!” Peter pointed at the newcomers.
“We must hurry,” Hamo said. “They may have come to take them away.”
“Why? They won’t go into the desert at night. If they’re here to take the prisoners, they will rest and leave in the morning,” Ulf said.
They waited in the dark.
For a moment, Peter thought about Isabella. He couldn’t remove this woman from his head—her smile, her eyes, her soft hair, her pale face. He had seen the way Hamo and other men looked at her. It was like magic when she entered the stage; all eyes were pinned on her. She was a beauty, and she was charming. Above all, she had been clever enough to survive all these years in this forsaken land. This was a rare combination: beauty, and cleverness.
On the other hand, he thought of the sultan’s daughter, the one who had been in the tower. She was more like him—not necessarily noble in her behavior, but wild; the fire of youth was in her face and heart. She was adventurous like the orphan; she possessed more than prettiness and a smile.
Peter smiled. He had forgotten to ask for her name. He asked Ulf, who only grunted and responded that this was a question for her.
The young man urged himself to focus; now wasn’t the time to think about women, even if he was on course to save one.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Peter asked Ulf.
“I had a teacher,” the experienced warrior looked at the sky then turned his eyes to Peter. Ulf told him that his master had taught him, as a boy, how to use both his hands. He had beaten Ulf—hard—when he favored one hand.
“My teacher was constantly telling me that if I wanted to live and to deliver my message or revenge, I needed to be more, much more than the other soldiers. To be that man, you must be completely dedicated and train hard. It is a continuous process.”
“Training is continuous?” Peter asked.
“Yes, I trained all my life to be such a warrior, to survive and to win. And then I met her ….” Ulf paused. “But now she is gone.”
Peter observed the Wolf’s face. He looked lost in his dark world.
His face was empty, his emotions lost long ago.
“Only one thing can ease the pain,” Ulf said.
“What?”
“Release the anger.”
“Does it help you?” Peter asked.
“No,” the warrior said and looked at the sky. “But I know only this way, to kill them all.”
The conversation was over for now. The orphan sat down and fell asleep. He was so tired that even the light drizzle which had begun to fall lulled him.
Ulf woke him up. Peter rubbed his eyes and stood. He noticed the rain had put out all the campfires in the fortress. It looked like the drizzle was going to rain all night.
“Where have you been?”
“Scouting.” He tossed four Bedouin outfits, marked with blood, at their feet.
Peter stood and wiped out the water from his forehead. It had even gotten in his ears. There were a few hours before sunrise.
They folded their weapons in their clothes and tied them up on their backs. They left behind all their mail armor and anything else that could reflect the moonlight. Ulf ordered them to leave the shields, too; he didn’t want to risk someone slipping and alarming the guards. They put the new garments on over their leather armor. The rain didn’t stop but only grew thicker. No stars could be seen in the sky and the Moon was missing, too.
This would be a night of knives—silent and deadly—Ulf warned them.
“Do not hesitate! If you do, you are dead. Worse, your friends will be dead, your mission ruined, and your princess lost.” The harsh Northman emphasized again, “Do not hesitate! Just do whatever you must. When the enemy starts to wake up, you have to thrust, stab, kill, and silence him.” These words were still in the orphan’s head.
At the tower in Jerusalem, Peter hadn’t had enough time to think; he had been tired and vengeful. He had killed a guard without hesitation. The situation had been one-on-one, eyes open, face-to-face. He had delivered justice for James. But now … in the dark, while the opponents were sleeping, he felt strange. He tried to imagine what would be in guards’ place. To sleep and someone to enter in the night to cut your throat. But it was like the Desert Wolf was reading his mind,
“It is their responsibility to protect and not let us inside. If you leave the door open, wolves will attack your herd.”
But first, they had to find the ladies.
They crept through the night, as the sound of the unstoppable rain covered their steps. They approached a part of the wall on which there was a
wooden scaffolding. The darkness was their hideout.
Two sentries were hiding from the rain under a tent, leaving one part of the stone wall unguarded. The newly-erected pieces of stone were attached with mortar, which was wet and muddy. Ulf showed them how to put their short blades between the stones and climb up, step by step, in the darkness. Soon, they had all jumped over the wall, and they were on the third story of the fortress, a hundred paces from the tower.
Peter saw a light at the top of the tower. There must have been a guard on the top, hidden from their sight and under some shelter to protect the torch from the rain.
Ulf nodded toward the light and gave them a signal to wait in the shadow of the tower. While the orphan and the rest were waiting, Ivar climbed and, after a few moments, the light was shaken and a tiny sound announced that no guards would see them from the top.
“Maybe they aren’t here and this is a trap,” Peter suggested.
“Trap? For whom? For you? For me? Or for him?” Hamo said with irony.
“Quiet! Look to your left, second story—the wooden garret windows with the tiny light from the inside,” Ulf said.
They froze and looked where he was pointing. They would have to walk along the parapet on the wall, the length of the fortress. The courtyard was full of tents and sleeping men; a few campfires were still dancing, but the sentries were hiding from the rain.
“A lot of soldiers,” Peter noted.
“War is coming, and for that you need soldiers. The renegades who want to overhaul the sultan and his authorities will need a lot more than these men,” Ivar said.
“Why?”
“Baibars is a dangerous man. He is a soldier, a captain, and leader of men. Beware of an old man in a profession where men usually die young,” Ivar said.
Ulf signaled to them to shut up. Then he pointed through the yard and observed a stone arc. Stone pieces of the structure, left from the Crusaders’ builders, still hung over the two walls, connecting them. The entrance under the arc would lead them to the inner yard of the fortress. But they had to go over it.
Ulf began to climb over the arc, step by step, and then he slid on the slope to the opposite side. Peter and Hamo followed his example. For a moment, the orphan thought he would fall. He looked down and observed some improvised shelters, constructed in a hurry to protect the sleeping men from the torrent. His heartbeat accelerated and he sweated.
A hand grabbed him and steadied him.
“Look at me, Peter!” Hamo’s voice was quiet, focused on the young man. Darkness was around them, but the orphan could see the fire from the camp reflected in Hamo’s eyes.
“I am fine,” Peter faltered.
He dragged himself to the other side and took a deep breath. They climbed over the roof. It was tiled and slippery from the rain. Ulf transferred himself close to the window and hung down on its left. It seemed so easy when Ulf did it. He peered inside and raised his right hand, showing two fingers.
The orphan heart was pulsating hard; he was afraid the enemy would hear it.
So, in the room, there were at least two guards. But what about the rest? Peter looked at the opposite building, the place they thought the enemy held the captives. They must cross the inner yard to enter it. Under other circumstances, it would be easy. But now they were in the middle of an enemy camp full of soldiers.
The Desert Wolf caught a part of the wooden beam and hung, relaxed his body, and released himself. Peter heard the dull sound when Ulf landed, and turned around like a cat and moved against the wall in a heartbeat.
Peter did the same; he was used to running among the ruins of the Genoese quarters in Acre after the Saint Sabas war, and he was nimble. For Hamo, it was much harder to land lightly and leap quickly against the wall. But he managed it, somehow.
Standing, Peter observed that they were in the inner yard; it was smaller, with a stone well in the middle. There weren’t any sentries here, only the rain dancing on the tile and the mud.
The stable was in the courtyard, but Peter could hear a little noise from it. The horses weren’t calm. The drizzle would turn into a storm, the orphan predicted.
They were soaked as if they had been swimming in their clothes, and their faces were hard to recognize. Their four shadows approached the first door.
Ulf was near the wooden door, which stood ajar. Light from inside was dancing and making shadows on the wall. At least two men’s voices could be heard inside.
When the Desert Wolf had explained to them what the plan was, it had seemed easy: To wait until the dying parts of the night, to enter under the cover of the night, to find Anna, Isabella, and Edward the Saracen, and to retreat. Easy, like a walk in a garden. The orphan hadn’t imagined this journey would be soaked with water, darkness, and patience. Not to mention the danger.
They heard voices clearly speaking their language.
“Christians?” Hamo’s face was in wonder.
“The four riders,” Peter assumed.
To succeed in this endeavor would be equal to a miracle. Still, he knew the kidnapped souls wouldn’t have a chance without them. One chance was all they needed now. And some luck.
Distant thunder cut the sky and echoed for a few heartbeats. This was a sign; soon there would be more lightning in the sky.
Peter closed his eyes for a moment and tried to focus.
What was inside the door?
The rain was singing, tap, tap. It seemed as though it would never stop.
***
Dark riders were all over the place.
“Kill them all,” Julian shouted, joy in his voice.
Ughan said nothing. He had agreed with the Templar’s proposition. He turned his gaze to survey the whole valley. The city of Nablus was sacked with ruthless speed.
“Uncontrollable refugees are a threat to society,” Ughan said. “Isn’t that right Berrat?”
He nodded toward the man on his right. The bareheaded Mamluk was watching. It was dark; soldiers were puttering around with torches. The screams and cries had almost died out.
The united forces of Ughan’s personal battalions, Julian’s Templars, and Berrat’s men had surprised the inhabitants. They let the old, the women, the children, and the sick leave through the desert and executed the rest.
“Uncontrollable refugees are a threat to society,” Berrat repeated to himself. He had learned it from his friend, Baibars—now the sultan, but not for long.
They created a mass of refugees. From his experience, he knew the sight of these helpless, crying people inspired hatred of the government because it showed that the ruler had failed to protect his own people and taxpayers. It also brought fear to the mind of the opponent. And now Sultan Baibars was their opponent. Whether this strategy would work the time would show.
They were prepared. They had been planning this. It wasn’t an ordinary attack to satisfy the hunger for plunder; it was with purpose. They used these tactics against the sultan.
Baibars was the ultimate enemy. He wasn’t a pale commander with yellow spots around his mouth; he was an old man in a profession in which men usually died young. And Berrat knew his friend well.
Were they still friends?
They had shared everything, up until Baibars had become a sultan. After that, the danger was for Berrat, but not the spoils of victory. This had tainted their friendship. Berrat wanted more. He knew he must wait for the perfect moment. He had waited so long, it was painful. He had established control over the sultan’s network and used it well for his personal benefit.
He managed to unite Ughan and Sir Thomas Bérard, the leader of the Templars under one cause. Siraghan al-Tatari, the Tartar lord had not been easy to persuade; he still remembered the kindness Baibars had shown to him and his men.
Berrat had needed to provide a letter from his faraway lineage lord to persuade him. It had cost him a hefty sum to bribe the convoy, and a year to get it. But the effort had paid off.
The assassins, on the other hand, had not been hard to
convince. All one needed were a bunch of promises, a bag of gold, and to push the finger into the wound. Shams al-Din was blinded by his desire for revenge of his father’s fate. The assassins’ leader was easy to manipulate.
Berrat smiled. His plan was almost complete.
Barak had failed. The orders had been clear: kill Diyaab al-Sahra, take his wife—the sultan’s daughter—and start the second stage of the plan, assassinating this impudent English prince. This would bring the peace accord to an abrupt end, make the military orders look for payback, and draw Baibars onto the open battlefield.
His daughter would be bait. Baibars had a weakness, as any father would. When they met, they would capture him.
The plan had been simple, clear, and clever. Yet, this dog, Barak, hadn’t managed to finish his task. He was astonished how Red Herring had managed to interfere with the attack on Wolf’s manor.
He had underestimated Otto; he suspected this knight was different from the others, but still, he couldn’t determine how they had obtained the information. He would be seeking answers later, discovering who had sold this news.
The assassination had failed, as well. But a new opportunity had arrived. The Crusaders had acted stupid and helped him. It didn’t matter now. They, the renegades, were close to their goal. The end was near, as was the victory. Berrat had waited a lifetime for such opportunity. Now, everything was set and he was ready.
Berrat and his brother in the conspiracy were so close to achieving their plan.
A Wolf and an orphan had stood in their path.
He had almost caught the Wolf on the night of the sandstorm. But then the orphan had appeared from nowhere and saved him—for now. No one could avoid the inevitable.
Yet, the Wolf had almost ruined their plan when he had appeared in the tower of the citadel. They had managed to recover; now they had Anna. But the sultan already knew of Berrat’s betrayal.
Now, he must face his old friend on the battlefield—this wouldn’t be settled otherwise. The battalions were mustering: Templars, assassins, Tartar cavalry, his loyal Mamluks, and some from the north, Ughan’s own. He still was anticipating an answer from the Hospitallers; they wouldn’t want to be left without a share of the plunder and fame, and they would want to avenge their assassinated prince.
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 30