Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  The renegades were so many, he thought. Still, he didn’t see any signs of the enemy crossing the river on the newly formed lake, to trap the sultan’s forces from behind and prevent his retreat.

  Ughan hadn’t managed to complete his trap; he hadn’t positioned his soldiers on Mount Gilboa so he could attack them from the back.

  There was hope.

  Or they were very well hidden and he could not see them.

  James spat on the ground. It would be a bloody afternoon.

  ***

  In the middle of the valley, the leaders of the two armies met. On one side stood the son of Nonagenarian, Shams al-Din; Berrat; and Ughan, who was followed by Siraghan al-Tatari. They were all on black horses with the exception of Berrat. He was riding an excellent white warhorse.

  Berrat observed his followers, Shams al-Din looked tense and was placed his bandaged hand over the saddle. Ughan’s eyes were alert as the leader of the Mongols, al-Tatari, was constantly scratching his chin. The bareheaded Mamluk turned his sight to the opposite side, the sultan. Baibars had chosen Ibn Abd al-Zahir to accompany him and the Crusader, Sir James. His old friend’s face didn’t betray any single emotion, while the clerk seemed nervous as he looked around and drops of sweat ran down his forehead. Berrat looked at the big red-haired Crusader. This was an unexpected move from Baibars to bring him here. Why? He didn’t understand. James’ head was tilted back looking down the nose, as his eyes were alert and narrowed. The knight didn’t hide his disgust toward him.

  The air was hot as if the Sun anticipated what would happen next. The men were all on horses and stopped a few paces away from each other. There was a moment of waiting and the tension grew.

  “Do you bring my daughter?” Baibars began.

  “Do you bring my father?” Shams al-Din countered.

  “All this for an old man who didn’t recognize or respect my rule?” Baibars’ words were sharp.

  “He is my father!”

  “Not anymore. He passed away,” Baibars said.

  “How?” Shams al-Din’s face lacked the control of emotions the sultan had. He looked like a child about to cry.

  “He was old. It was his time,” Baibars said.

  “Put down your weapons and surrender!” Shams al-Din shouted. “And we will not harm your daughter.”

  Sultan Baibars said nothing.

  “Surrender, my friend,” Berrat said, “And you may live long enough to see your precious Anna once more.”

  “I want to see her now! Show her to me!”

  “No,” Ughan said.

  “Why?” Baibars gave a small, twisted smile. “Isn’t she with you?”

  “Surrender!” Shams al-Din repeated.

  “Shut up, dog!” The sultan’s cold voice cut the hot air. “You lack your father’s wisdom and manners. He was a prudent man before losing his mind. But you? You will lose your head today!”

  Shams al-Din’s gapped mouth stared. Ughan and the assassins’ leader were astonished by the sudden change in Baibars’ voice. They had the upper hand and more soldiers. But Berrat knew his old friend, Baibars, well. Was there any chance that this fight would blow over? No. Now they knew that the afternoon would be hard and bloody. The Lion hadn’t come here simply to give up his crown. He had come to make his last stand.

  “What you want, Berrat?” the sultan asked.

  “I want everything. And I want it now,” the bareheaded Mamluk said. “I am tired of being your shadow. I want everything. Your time is up.”

  “And you think you are ready?”

  “More than ever.”

  “You started a civil war on the eve of а new Mongol invasion. What chance did you think you had to rule? Your actions opened the doors for the horde. Do you think your Tartar allies will be satisfied with this? They are always hungry for more land, plunder, and slaves. They do not build anything; they just destroy, pillage, and conquer. The Romans conquered but they also built. Even we build. Not the Tartars.”

  Sultan Baibars looked at Berrat’s eyes.

  “And you, my friend, unleashed them.”

  “No.”

  “Berrat, walk away from these renegades and I promise you a quick death, and your family will be unharmed,” Baibars said.

  “You offer me reconciliation?”

  “Traitors do not deserve that.”

  “After so many years of loyalty, a man deserves only a quick death?”

  Baibars face was expressionless.

  “I will take my chances today!” Berrat scratched his bare head. “As I see it, our soldiers outnumber yours, five to one. What do you think? What are my chances now, my friend?”

  “You just lost your chance for an honorable death, traitor.”

  “But what are yours? Who are these people standing next to you?” Ughan aimed to break the unresponsive face of the sultan. “Your numbers are insignificant and you are even forced to use infidels to fight for you. What humiliation! Look at who you have brought with you: a wounded Crusader knight and a short clerk.”

  Shams al-Din and Ughan laughed. Berrat did not.

  He looked again at Baibars’ two followers. So, he, the sultan, had purposely chosen them to display a lack of respect for his opponents’ status. He was determined to show them that they were nothing, only a fading past. That he was the real ruler. Berrat felt that his lips set in a grim line.

  Sultan Baibars nodded to the clerk. “He is here to write about my sunny walk in the desert today. The day I met some criminals and killed them while walking with my daughter and enjoying the Sun. Your names will fade into dust and oblivion.”

  The Lion of the desert would fight to the end. Berrat knew that. He determined that they had one chance to bring him down and they must seize it or they would be annihilated and their families would be pulled violently and painfully from the world of the living.

  He knew his old friend well; Sultan Baibars always had a backup plan and was always prepared. He wasn’t a man to be underestimated; he was the bravest soldier and leader of men Berrat knew and this scared him to death. He had always wondered how it would feel when they met again after the sultan found out about the plot and his treachery. He always felt some veneration when he stood before him—this time was no exception.

  “I spared your life Lord Siraghan al-Tatari and let you live in my realm. Is that the way you repay me?” Baibars' blazing eyes turned to the Mongol. The round-faced horseman bowed his head and said nothing.

  The sultan stood up in his saddle and looked around.

  “If you can’t show me my daughter, there is nothing to talk about. I will give you one last chance. Surrender or die!”

  Shams al-Din’s jaw sagged. Ughan and Berrat were shocked by the sultan’s impudence too.

  ***

  Baibars turned away from them. He rode around them, slowly, and shouted aloud, addressing the renegade battalions standing on the opposite slope.

  “You, my friends, are standing on the wrong side of the valley.” He said this to one specific Mamluk battalion, which he hoped had still not decided which side to take. He knew he could be wrong, but he had to try. He knew he must earn some time.

  Baibars was the master of this realm, his empire. He had developed an efficient network to deliver news around the kingdom. The enemy knew they couldn’t afford to waste time. They had to overcome the sultan and to establish a new regime of mercenaries, traders, and military orders to rule.

  “Think again!” the sultan said. “You are on the wrong side. I will give you a second chance. I will spare your lives and that of your families. This is my last word.”

  There was some moaning in the ranks of Berrat’s Mamluks. Yet, it was hard to see their faces.

  Silence.

  “You are too late, my friend.” Ughan gave a poisoned smile and laughed.

  “You are insane!” Shams al-Din shouted.

  “Still, I am the sultan,” Baibars gave them a twisted face.

  “Not for long!” Ughan said and he g
ave a signal. A rider delivered a few bags to Ughan, who opened them and threw what was inside onto the ground. Dead carrier pigeons.

  “Your cries for help won’t reach their recipients,” Berrat said.

  “If you say so!” Baibars returned to James and Ibn Abd al-Zahir.

  There was a moment of a silence. Nobody spoke.

  “So be it!” Baibars shouted. “The next time we met face-to-face, it will be in the middle of battle. The steel of my blade will be the last thing you see!” He turned his back on them and rode to his men.

  It was time to prepare for a fight.

  Baibars positioned himself and his men with their backs to the lake near the northwest end of Mount Gilboa. It was a huge risk. But he had taken big risks all his life and he didn’t regret it.

  He had received intelligence via his spy network that a fresh northern battalion belonging to Ughan was marching toward the valley. Another battalion of Bedouins had joined the assassins, too. However, he hoped some of his most trusted friends—subjects he had made amirs long before—would answer his call. He must wait and survive while his own Mamluks arrived from the south, too.

  But the front line of the enemies was ready to charge his little force.

  ***

  James looked at their own soldiers and position.

  They were near the southern curve of the valley which ran alongside the mountain. Baibars’ force was almost 700 men. The sultan had divided his army into three sections: 200 on the left flank, 200 on his right, and 300 in the center. Baibars had ordered almost all of his men to be unsaddled. A group of men had been dispatched to take the horses behind the battle line. The animals were tired from the march through the desert and they needed some water and rest.

  It looked as if the sultan’s plan was to meet the enemies on foot. Red Herring and the Genoese were in the center, and they formed a defensive line of men nearly 50 meters long. The first two rows of the line were of men with shields and spears and behind them were positioned the archers. The left flank and the right aligned in the same way.

  James was not on foot; he was on his fine battle horse and observed the whole line. Red Herring turned his sight toward the enemy. They were positioned on the opposite side of the valley, almost a league away, on the slope of the Hill of Moreh. They formed six battalions. The Templar Knights were placed on the right flank of the enemy. James estimated that they were about 300 strong knights and their sergeants. Behind them, there was a small detachment of the assassin’s corps, but he couldn’t count them.

  In the center of the enemy lines were positioned Berrat’s Mamluks and behind him, Ughan’s forces: almost 600 strong, heavy horsemen. This was the main force that would be unleashed on them. Red Herring had fought many battles; he knew one day, he would die on such battlefield. He hoped only to die in a great battle that was worth the price.

  He turned his face to the right, where the Tartar hordes were positioned on the left flank of the enemy. They were almost 2000 light cavalry archers, divided into two battalions. When their leaders returned to their forces, they slowly started to regroup and to form into squadrons. The squadrons of hell, somebody called them. James would face this kind of soldiers for the first time. He had heard they had been beaten once, by Mamluks led by Baibars almost twelve years before.

  He hoped they received the same fate today.

  He raised his eyes toward the end of the desert. It was almost midday of Midsummer, the day that St. John the Baptist was born more than 1000 years before. How did people know that? Because of recorded history.

  It was always the winners who wrote history and he hoped to write his own history today. The sultan had allowed him to make his own standard: a white background with six red herrings over it—three on the first row, two on the second, and one on the third row—with red crosses between them. He was proud to be fighting under his family colors once more. He hadn’t left his homeland unwillingly. Edward hadn’t wanted to leave behind the knights who had fought on Simon de Montfort’s side. He had offered them letters of protection for their lands and family for four years while they joined him on a Crusade. Sir James’s Lord offered someone to take the vow instead of him: Red Herring.

  But now, he wondered, where was Peter? Was he alive? And Hamo?

  He reckoned the enemy’s united forces of assassins, traitor Templars, Mamluks, Tartars, and Bedouins were more than 3000, fully equipped with mail, spears, swords, and bows, strong and made confident by their numbers.

  A horn sounded in the valley.

  The enemy’s left wing was on the move. They would attack in waves. The Tartars’ two battalions were divided into five assault squadrons—horse archers. They marched close to the middle, between the two lines, and prepared to unleash their missiles.

  They approached and they accelerated their charge.

  “Shields up!” Red Herring shouted. The defensive line acted as one and built an iron wall.

  “Archers, on my mark,” Pelu shouted. Owen was behind him.

  The first squadron was almost there, ready to release their missiles at Baibars’ right wing. They rode as one unit. Had they practiced that? Red Herring knew how hard it was to be disciplined while charging.

  The first unit threw their missiles and turned to their left. Then the next squadron arrived. The five squadrons charged in succession. The Tartars’ intentions were to send wave after wave at them. They approached, accelerated their charge, threw their missiles, and turned to their left, again and again. They traded their horses for fresh ones. The enemy tried to overtake them with a rush, hoping that their shield wall would fall apart.

  Two arrows stuck in James's shield. He cut them with his sword. He heard the song of the flying arrows and the dull sound when an arrowhead hit its target. He saw a man near him with an arrow pierced his left eye and he fell flat on his back as he tried to scream and died.

  “Shields men!” He cried out again under the rain of the Mongols’ arrows.

  The enemy’s right wing, where the Templars were, didn’t move. They were waiting for the right moment to charge and to scatter Baibars’ thin defensive line.

  But the land was soaking wet from the previous night’s rainstorm; although the upper soil layer had dried in the Sun, beneath it was mud. The attackers progressed slowly and the horses seemed nervous.

  Then the Red Herring heard the sultan.

  “Release!”

  Sultan’s archers shot their arrows and the Genoese were shooting, too. They waited for the enemy to turn and shoot their bolts. The volley’s sound was unforgettable. Owen, who stood behind him, was shooting with his longbow.

  “Die, bastards.” Owen’s harsh accent and his dusty face distinguished him from the others. It was a rare view, a Welshman and a Scot fighting alongside Genoese crossbowmen with the elite of the sultan.

  Death was flying—sounds of missiles penetrating armor and flesh echoed in the valley, mixed with the cries of men. The Tartars were light-armored; most of their protection was leather, as they wanted to be fast and deadly. But the soil didn’t let them. As they turned, they showed their unprotected side. The archers behind James smelled blood. Horses were crying, men were dying, and blood was flowing. One third of a squadron was annihilated from a single volley. The next squadron hesitated at the wounded bodies of their own. James hoped they had enough arrows.

  The Mamluks and the Templars seemed to be waiting for something. He saw movement in the ranks of the knights. It was a signal for the Christian knights to prepare for a charge.

  Sir James had feared this. He knew what the mailed horsemen of the Crusaders were capable of. They were unstoppable, and they would sweep them like a steel hurricane. The sultan’s first line consisted of armored Mamluk, but they didn’t possess such large, thick shields as the Crusaders had, nor their long lances. The encounter would be deadly.

  On Herring’s right, a cloud appeared and the northern Mamluks battalion flourished their standards: Ughan’s banners. They were the same as
one of the enemy battalions.

  “Holy Mother!” James said. They were doomed.

  Cheers from the enemies arrived. It looked like their long-awaited reinforcements had arrived. The Templar Knights were on the move.

  ***

  Peter’s heart was working fast.

  He felt tired but elated too as he knew what he must do. He didn’t feel fear, but the opposite—there was joy in what lay ahead. He wanted to fight in the battle, the madness of this coup d’état.

  He knew a coup d’état was achieved by force—by killing, by assassination, by attacking the peaceful common folk or by war. All this to fulfill someone’s ambition for power.

  Ambition—this word was dangerous. When a madman had too much ambition, there would be a bloody coup d’état.

  And now it was happening. Everything was set up; every player was ready on the chess board. Peter was eager to join.

  He raised his eyes and observed the horde he led. The horse horde. Clouds of dust from their ride masked the lack of soldiers on the backs of the poor animals. Ulf and Ivar had taken the horses from the Mamluks they had overwhelmed in the ruins the night before.

  By some stroke of luck, the boy they had found with the princess, Anna, was the son of the Bedouins’ leader. The Mamluks had taken the boy hostage to force the Bedouins to fight on their side. Their leader had good relations with the sultan, but he was ready to break them for the safety of his heir. After Peter and his friends released the boy, the Bedouins had turned against the Mamluks and forced them to surrender, all for a child.

  Now, they hastened their horse pack toward the battle. They wanted to unleash their charge toward the enemy and instill chaos and fear. Still, they had a task to do, a brave and knightly one. To arrive on time.

  Peter and Ulf rode ahead of this horse army without warriors. The real soldiers were the battle trained stallions; their wild run posed the real danger.

  Ivar, Hamo, Isabella, and the children followed behind. They were close to the valley. He could see the clouds from the battle and the two opposite forces standing against each other.