Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  Lady Eleanor, Lady Isabella and the other daughters of the Sultan were around the wagons with a few maids and some guards. Ulf’s gaze caught the eyes of the wife of Edward. The Spanish princess bent her head in gratitude and he nodded.

  It was time. He tied the leather straps of his boots below the knees. He put on his tunic and tied his belt around the sleeveless chainmail. His shoulders weren’t protected, but he needed the range of motion, to be able to turn, to move, and to evade. He knew all too well that, if he received a stroke, he would be a dead man. Ultimately, all men were mortal. The pain from his wounded left side gave his face a twitch. It was an elixir for his soul. He knew perfectly well that this adrenaline wouldn’t last forever.

  Ulf stood up, turned to Githa. He stared at her. She did not smile but looked at him sadly. She had already stood in his way twice. Two years ago, he found her half dead in some burning ruins and took her to the hospital. A few days ago, when they met Isabella, it was the second time he saved her. Ulf had noticed that she was somehow accustomed to his company now.

  He reached out and took his one-handed axe from her. He attached it to his belt, on his back. He put two daggers into his leather vambraces and attached one short blade to his left boot. The leather of his boots was hardened with small iron pieces, light but effective when used to kick an opponent.

  He approached the Hospitaller officer and she offered him a cup.

  “From Ibn al-Nafis,” she said. “For the wound.”

  He nodded his thanks and drank it. The bitter taste sent an alarm throughout his body. He was familiar with this elixir; it was for soldiers, to give them strength for one last battle. He hadn’t needed it until now. But the wound he had received from al-Rida had made him weak.

  He touched her lips.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  He knew she was looking at the fierce expression of a determined man, that his eyes showed no mercy. He knew she wouldn’t try to talk him out of his decision; she knew him better than that. She nodded silently and took a leather bag from the ground and followed him.

  The desert wind had arrived. The Desert Wolf also showed himself and his almost-white hair, darkened with blood and sweat.

  The enemy watched him. Ulf was tall; his hair and his stance couldn’t be mistaken. He jumped over a piece of rock and took a look at the battleground. He was calculating, giving the traitors enough time to know he was coming for them. He remembered a fierce battle from long before and the battalions that had come and broken like sea waves on the rocks.

  He smiled; in his hand, he had a green apple—his last. He remembered the face of the little baby when he had played with the apple a few days before. It was a natural joy, true and uncorrupted, not hidden from anyone. His smile was slight as he enjoyed the memory of this little baby. His beloved one had born his child.

  Ulf was wounded and bleeding, but he rose. He held his green apple in his left hand and he took a bite of it, enjoying its taste one last time. Then he turned to the opposing army.

  He raised his right hand and pointed a finger at the enemy’s leaders. Githa stood next to him and gave him the leather bag. He took it and pulled out of the bag the severed head of the Mamluk officer he had killed the night before. He raised it high enough that even the Sun could see it. Githa stabbed six lances into the ground near where he stood, with their spearheads pointed to the sky. He stepped to the first one and put the head of Ughan’s officer on it.

  The Desert Wolf turned his gaze to the enemy, five empty spearheads standing beside him.

  No one dared to move; all men stood, paralyzed as if they had been stung by a poisonous spider. Ulf let his mantle drop to the ground and he put his shield on his back.

  He watched the enemy.

  There was no going back. Ulf removed his blade from its scabbard and pointed to Berrat. He stood for a moment, closed his eyes, and tried to imagine—for the last time—the face of his beloved woman.

  He smiled.

  “My darling,” the wind whispered to him.

  “I will see you soon.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t cry for me, my darling, I will be with you soon. Don’t cry for me ....”

  Ding, dang, ding. The bell of an imaginary temple sounded heavily.

  He was, once more, in his favorite garden with his woman, the love of his life, the reason he felt alive. In his head rose the image of his beloved one. She smiled to him and whispered into his ear:

  Die my darling, but not today

  Raise your sword, my darling, and prepare

  Make it sing for me, my darling

  Sing, my darling, with your blade

  Die, my darling, but not today

  Kill, my darling, and kill in my name

  Avenge my soul, my darling

  Avenge my soul, today

  His heart was bleeding. The only way to silence this song in his mind was to make someone else bleed. It was simple.

  His eyes were still closed. It was about time to sing his song, the song of his trade: war. He had forgotten the last time he had heard it.

  The music in his ears was the echo of sorrow, of lost battles, of thousands of cries ringing in his mind. He would be dead soon. Time wasn’t on his side. It rose like a sea wave in a storm with no fear. There was no past or future, only now.

  …Think of me, you’re always in the dark

  Think of me, you’re never in the dark

  I am your light, your light, your light

  I will never break your heart

  “I will never break your heart,” she whispered and kissed his temple. His beloved one disappeared.

  His heart was now full of calm and determination to earn retribution. A wise man had once said that war was for the sake of peace. Yes, peace would exist after all men had been dealt the punishment they deserved. But this, now, wasn’t for the sake of peace, but for the sake of personal pleasure. Revenge. It was time for payback and nothing could take it away for him, not even the bleeding wound on his body.

  Ulf opened his eyes. He looked straight forward, then to the sky.

  He was in the desert once more, near the lake. For her, he was readier than ever. He was covered in sweat, bleeding, tired to the bone—but he wasn’t through yet; his thirst for blood wasn’t satisfied.

  Every living creature waited for the Desert Wolf to make his move. He had never disappointed his spectators and he wouldn’t disappoint them now, not in the face of the gods and the one who was always above them, the Sun.

  He walked straight forward, toward the enemy line. It would be fun. Bloody fun.

  ***

  Peter took a moment to observe him. A week before, Ulf had been a ragged man dressed in a tattered robe. But now, he stood between the two armies like an unleashed demigod warlord, dressed in his red-brown leather armor and boots which had been a gift from the sultan. His beloved Danish axe wasn’t something a man’s eyes could easily forget. He also had a double-edged steel sword, longer than the average one-handed swords.

  The pale god of war stretched his neck and shoulders. What was in his mind?

  Peter glanced at the sultan and then to the prince. He saw that Baibars looked at Edward and nodded. It was time to test the odds.

  The wind became stronger. It was late afternoon. Ulf was walking slowly, observing the enemy line. After around one hundred and fifty paces he stopped.

  “They will just shoot him,” Peter said.

  “He is beyond the reach of their arrows,” Owen said. “A clever bastard.”

  “What is he doing?” Peter asked.

  “We can’t hold them much longer,” James said.

  “So, he intends to kill them all?”

  “He will provoke them. And try to kill one of their leaders. It will affect the morale of the enemy and they will have one leader less to follow.”

  “But they will kill him. It’s suicide.”

  “Probably,” James said, “but in the turmoil, we may have a chance.”

  The defenders of
the lake watched, as did the enemy.

  Silence.

  “Berrat! Show yourself, you coward,” Ulf shouted. The bareheaded Mamluk and the former right hand of Baibars couldn’t be mistaken. He stepped forward.

  “Do you want to surrender, Diyaab al-Sahra?”

  “I want your head,” Ulf said.

  “This is not a man-to-man challenge, my friend. First, you must win the battle.” He shouted loud enough that every soldier in the valley could hear.

  Peter smiled. No one dared to stand against the Desert Wolf but evading the challenge would be a sign of cowardice. Berrat had no good options.

  “Or you can only kill children, women, and old men?” Ulf shouted.

  “Your wife yelled like a whore!” Barak retorted.

  “Wait your turn, dog. Officers are first to die,” Ulf said.

  Berrat was silent.

  “So, are you afraid of me, slave?” Ulf used the Frankish word to insult the tall officer. “The desert storm saved you from me once, but now the sky is clear. Come out and face me.”

  Peter realized what the Wolf was trying to achieve. If Berrat accepted the challenge, the battle would be delayed. Soon, the night would arrive and they would manage to escape or reinforcement would arrive. If Ulf won, their leaders would be one head less and Wolf’s spears in the sand would have one more head of a traitor to show. The Sultan of Egypt had the power to grant them amnesty; Berrat’s soldiers would have to choose their side once more. The odds could tip decidedly in the sultan and Edward’s favor.

  Yes, there was a chance that the Desert Wolf could lose the fight. After all, he was wounded. But this would give the defenders more motivation to fight for their lives. The renegades had no good options.

  The orphan was on the front line with Red Herring and they were eager to hear everything. Ulf stood outside the reach of their arrows. The land around him was littered with wounded horses and Mamluks—some dead, others still alive. Screams rose from the dying ones and dark blood mixed with the sand.

  A rider, near to the Wolf, was pinned under the body of his dead horse, pierced by three arrows. It looked as if his leg was broken; he couldn’t move and his face was grimaced with pain. The Desert Wolf repeated his invitation to Berrat once more, then approached the wounded soldier and hammered his skull with his axe, quickly and ruthlessly. The dull sound of broken bones and spilled blood echoed in the valley.

  Ulf’s eyes didn’t flinch. Watching the enemy line, he shouted, “Berrat, dog … come to me!”

  A crow flew above. Ulf noticed the bird on the clear skyline. The messenger of the gods was here—all eyes were now on this valley and the miserable lake. Peter thought his journey in this forsaken land was about to end. Would he see Acre again? It all depended on Ulf now.

  Why were there crows here?

  Peter observed the blood on Ulf’s axe; the dark liquid was flowing down the blade and a red drop fell on the sand near the warrior’s right foot. Blood on the sand. It called to mind an image of blood and snow ... but that was from long before. Now it was sand; the landscape had changed but the circumstances had not. All in all, it was the same: in the battle for power and money, the story never changed—only the kings, the princes, and their opponents. Most of them—the lofty rulers—never fought their own battles; only the poor soldiers, knights, and ordinary peasants died for reasons they could barely understand. The world would never change—only landscapes, clothes, and weapons. That much was undeniable. Even Vegetius wrote it so many years before.

  Peter observed the enemy line. Yet, he had seen Ulf kill a wounded and helpless man before and he had learned that the objectives defined the actions. After all, the Desert Wolf wasn’t a knight or some chivalrous fool in search of salvation. He was a ruthless and skillful killer who dealt in dispatching souls from this world.

  So, the enemy made their move.

  Berrat had made the decision instinctively. His pride was hurt; he knew he couldn’t match the Wolf one-on-one, so he chose not to risk it but, instead, to advance with his soldiers and to win this battle.

  Peter blinked and in the moment after Ulf crushed the skull of the wounded Mamluk, Berrat, Barak, Ughan and the men around them charged toward the Desert Wolf, seeking to conquer the heart of their opponents’ resistance. The warrior stood alone on the open ground and horseless. By killing the most renowned warrior on this side of the sea, would increase renegades’ chances of success against Edward and his experienced knights and Baibars’ royal guards. Peter’s jaw dropped.

  The renegades broke their lines and, in a wild charge, advanced on the pale warlord, who simply waited for them. Berrat rode his fine Arab horse with such determination that Peter was sure the horse could feel his rage. The bareheaded traitor looked focused on his target. The galloping hooves of the horses around him gave him confidence; he wasn’t alone. He turned his face to the left and right—almost a quarter of their army followed him. The Wolf would be a legendary trophy and they wanted his head.

  Both sides seemed thunderstruck. Berrat, Ughan, and their Mamluks were in the center; Master Bérard and his loyal Templar Knights were on their right wing, and the Tartar lord was on the left with his scattered horde.

  “Now!” Edward shouted. Peter glanced at the English prince who raised his sword. He noticed Sultan Baibars was ready too.

  It was time. The young man looked at Red Herring.

  “Advance!” Sir James shouted. The whole defensive line started to run as one. They needed to move a hundred paces at once to position their archers within range. It was a magnificent view of discipline and moving armored battalions into formation. Red Herring started a song and the rest of the squad joined him.

  Come with me, my brother,

  Come to fight at once

  Come to me, my brother

  Share your bravery with us

  Fight like demons and kill them all

  Kill, kill, kill ...

  The spirit of the infantry was confident and their wild march showed that they knew exactly what to do.

  The enemy cavalry was almost upon Ulf, who was farther from Peter and the rest of the defenders. The young man knew they needed to reach him fast and to form another shield wall. He was tired, he was in sweat, but he ran side by side with his sword brothers toward their fate.

  ***

  Ulf waited for Berrat and his Mamluks, drawing his sword from its scabbard and letting the leather sheath fall to the ground. He remembered his uncle teaching him how to kill a wild boar when he was a child and he smiled. Killing people was like hunting. Instead of a hunting lance, he held a Crusader blade. He had witnessed how they were used like spears in battle.

  He held the sword a few inches behind its crossguard and looked at his target.

  Berrat was the man who had given the order to attack his manor and to kill his family, the man who was responsible for the death of his beloved one. He had golden lamellar armor above his mail shirt, but the German blade was the finest sword a man could possess and Ulf had one in his hand. He looked at his enemy. Once, they had been close, shared one fate, fought for one cause. Now, one of them would kill the other.

  The Mamluks rode toward him, Berrat leading with Barak near him. They were almost within spear-throwing range. Ulf waited; he wanted to be sure. The Mamluk amir looked amused and raised his right hand with his saber.

  The Wolf threw his message, lunging his body forward and twisting his hand as he released the long blade like a javelin. It was a marvelously-balanced weapon; it flew it with a vengeful purpose and fury which no armor could stop.

  The missile pierced the charging rider a little below the throat with the sound of crushed bones, flesh, and failed armor. Berrat’s body was knocked back onto the ground.

  This ignited the battlefield. The leading warhorse, having lost its rider, also lost its motivation to run forward. Ulf, who had drawn his axe with his right hand and held his shield in his left, ran toward Berrat’s animal. Using his shield, he struck the horse as
ide. The blow pushed the warhorse to fall on its right, turning it into to an obstacle for the next horseman.

  A rider tried his luck swinging his blade at the Desert Wolf, but Ulf acted in haste, jumping over the fallen horse and leaping off it at the next rider. He swung his axe and smashed the skull of another rider as he pushed the previous one to the ground. It was like a sandstorm of flying blood and screams. The riders tried to surround the footman, but he surprised them with his mobility and speed as he delivered death with just a touch.

  One rider pushed him to the ground, but Ulf turned back on his knees like a cat, jumped toward another assailant, caught his shield with his axe, and pulled him down with such ease that the horseman looked like a child. While the man was falling, the Wolf pierced him through the neck with his blade and pulled a sword out from inside his shield. It was a bloody cloud of horses and people, the wounded Wolf biting them all. There was no sign that the riders would prevail. They slowed their speed, turning their horses slowly, trying to surround their target. But he gave them no chance. He jumped, stabbed, and pierced. He swung his axe, slinging his shield onto his back to protect him from behind. Ulf pushed hard against the enemy, delivering chaos, shedding blood, and detaching a number of limbs. He operated like a woodman cut his wood or a singer sang his song.

  But the mounted Mamluks were too many. Even leaderless, they were professionals trained for war, not for a ceremonial parade of armor.