Storms of Retribution

by James Boschert

  Talon gasped with surprise and gripped Yosef’s hand even harder, his delight showing in his eyes.

  “We will talk later, Lord. I have to steal some money and pay the men who brought you here, or there will be questions,” Yosef said as he stood up. Talon nodded agreement. “That should not be hard for someone like you, my lad,” he smiled. Yosef grinned, then. “You are not to move from this place until I come back. Do you understand?” He spoke loudly, gesturing aggressively.

  Talon looked meek and Brandt, taking his lead from Talon, bowed his head submissively. Yosef strode away, behaving like a lord himself.

  “So now… there is some hope….” Talon murmured. “Are you wounded?” he asked the large Saxon.

  “No, Lord. I was simply made to surrender along with everyone else in the citadel,” was the low response.

  “Ah, so it was surrendered. That is no surprise, but what has become of the Countess Eschiva of Bures?”

  “I think she was granted safe passage to join the Count Raymond, Lord,” Brandt said. “We peasants, of course, were made prisoners.” He sounded bitter but resigned.

  “I was not very hopeful before, but now that Yosef has appeared I feel much better,” Talon said.

  “When he thought you were lost he swore he would go and find you, but we were driven off the field.”

  “You stayed with him?” Talon was surprised. Self preservation was what he had expected, but apparently this man had felt otherwise.

  “What happened to the Count?” Talon asked.

  Brandt spat onto the rushes nearby, “He simply rode off with barely a backward glance. I am sorry, my Lord. I do not think he did the most honorable thing!” Brandt’s tone was tinged with bitterness. Rather than follow the Count, I remained here to help defend the citadel.”

  Talon glanced up at glowering Saxon, re-evaluating him.

  “Don’t judge him too harshly, Brandt,” he said in a low tone. “He is a sick man, and capture would have killed him most assuredly. He has already spent ten years in one of their dungeons. I am pleased that he did not fall on that field of shame and stupidity,” Talon assured the Saxon. “And I am glad that his lady managed to negotiate a way out of this mess. However, I pity the poor people like you were who are left to the mercies of the Arab conquerors.”

  “While I am grateful to you for taking me away from that fate, can you tell me what is to become of us, Lord?” Brandt asked. His voice, while unafraid, was nonetheless a little apprehensive.

  “Why, for a start you are now in my service, unless you would have it otherwise.” Talon smiled up at the Saxon.

  “That, Lord, is just as I could want it, especially under these circumstances,” Brandt replied with a rueful grin. “I shall serve you to the best of my ability. Before God I declare this.”

  “Then that is settled. So now we shall do our best, with Yosef’s aid, to escape.”

  “Escape? But you are badly wounded, Lord!” Brandt could not hide his astonishment at Talon’s words.

  “I can still ride, and with Yosef and you to help me… we shall see,” Talon responded. “We have to get to Tyre before the Sultan, or our only means of getting to Cyprus will be cut off. Careful now, here comes the physician. Just sit there and say nothing.”

  Artemus shuffled up and stared down at Talon. “Ah, Lord Talon. I had heard you were here, but as you can see I have been somewhat busy. How are you?” he rasped in Arabic.

  “Not at my very best, as you can see, Doctor. But better for having seen you,” Talon responded.

  “I am informed that I am under the protection of the Prince, and that is thanks to you, Lord.” The doctor gave a brief nod of his head, the closest thing to a “Thank-you,” Talon reflected, he was likely to get from the physician. He knelt, and took Talon’s pulse, then placed a dry hand on his forehead, peering into his eyes.

  “How long ago was the wound?” he asked, as he examined the ugly entry and exit of the injury.

  Three days ago,” Talon said, and winced as the doctor prodded the area around the wound.

  “Well, I am glad to see that there appears to be no infection, and you are not feverish. Your eyes appear to be clear, which is a credit to the physician who treated you. I shall just ensure that the wound is kept clean and well covered,” he stated. “Who is this?” He indicated the huge, filthy Saxon, who was squatting nearby, watching.

  “He is my servant,” Talon replied. “I have just purchased him back.”

  “I see. And that other man, he, too, is your servant if my memory serves me right?”

  Talon tensed. “Yes,” he replied in Greek.

  “Ah. Just so,” Artemus murmured in the same language. “How full of surprises you are, Lord Talon. If you plan to leave, don’t worry. I shall be discreet. But I don’t want any nastiness in this house. I gave my pledge not to escape, and my physician’s oath is important to me.”

  Talon vented a silent sigh of relief. “My word upon it, Doctor. You will have no problems, of that kind, while I am in this house.”

  “Good. Then I shall leave you.” He gave Brandt a disapproving look. “This man of yours can make himself useful by looking after you, firstly by washing his hands, and then by folding those burial cloths over there,” he said pointedly, as he indicated a pile of whitish sheets in the corner near to Talon’s pallet. “Despite my best efforts we still have to use them from time to time.” The doctor rose and turned away.

  *****

  Yosef blended in easily amongst the wandering, jostling soldiery crowding around the food stalls and merchants carts. A couple of houses had been commandeered and converted into whore houses, and these were doing a roaring trade. The camp followers had moved into the city. He began to relieve some of the soldiers of their money by the simple expedient of cutting their purses with a tiny, very sharp knife that his mentor Reza has taught him to keep on his person. Despite the Mohammedan ban on alcohol, not a few of the soldiers were drunk, and these proved to be easy targets.

  Before very long Yosef had collected a nice handful of coins. He then left the area and went in search of the overseer, who was himself drunk and seated in a mess of his own making not very far from the prisoners. One of the starving and thirsty prisoners begged him for water in French, which Yosef could just understand. He took up the skin near the overseer, who protested.

  “You will not have any profit if you do not take better care of the slaves!” Yosef retorted contemptuously, and he tossed the full skin of water to the slave. “Make sure you pass it around,” he said in French to the surprised and grateful man.

  Yosef then tossed a couple of silver coins to the delighted overseer, and vanished into the milling crowd. He arrived back at the hospital several hours later, bearing a meal of nan and pieces of chicken for Talon and Brandt. Both men began to eat with gusto, while he settled himself cross-legged in front of Talon.

  “We must escape, and it must be tonight,” he stated simply. They were ignored by the other patients, most of whom were sleeping fitfully in their own alcoves, so the three of them had a small degree of privacy. Nevertheless they were still careful to keep their voices down. Talon and Yosef spoke to one another in Farsi.

  “We need horses,” Talon said.

  “I have three of them in a grove near to the lake in a gully. Our problem is to get you out of the city.” Yosef knew that under normal circumstances he and Talon could evade any of the sentries and simply vanish, but with Talon wounded and barely able to walk, not to mention their new-found and very obviously Frankish-looking Saxon in tow, it was quite another matter.

  “I think the doctor was trying to tell me something earlier,” Talon said, pointing to the now neatly folded pile of sheets that Brandt had stacked close by.

  Yosef glanced at the pile. “Those are for the dead… ah….yes, of course,” he murmured. “You both just have to die, Lord.” His eyes gleamed with amusement.

  “Not both of us, just me.” Talon returned the grin. “But we will need transp
ort to get us out through the gates.”

  “I have noticed that the carts are still moving in and out of the gates, even though it is quite late,” Yosef replied. The removal of the dead continued, even as the celebrations got under way. “I shall find a cart and bring it to the door. Can you be ready?”

  Talon looked at the silent Saxon, who had not understood a word. “Yes, I shall explain to him. We will be ready.” Yosef got to his feet. “God protect, Lord. May He bless our enterprise. “

  “Go with God, my friend.”

  Yosef disappeared, and Talon began to explain to Brandt what had to be done.

  Roughly an hour later, Talon heard the sound of plodding oxen hauling a creaking cart come to a stop at the sharp command of their driver. He knew the voice. “Now!” he whispered to Brandt. Talon gulped a deep breath and became utterly limp.

  With one swift motion Brandt knelt, scooped up Talon’s limp body, and stood. Talon could not see anything; he was wound from head to foot in white cotton cloths, and he had to bite his lip to not cry out with pain. The Saxon carried his dead weight towards the door, weaving among the pallets of sick and wounded men.

  Most of the torches in their sconces had gone out, but a single torch still flickered near the doorway, casting huge, moving shadows against the walls. The monstrous shadow cast by the Saxon and his burden was a sinister thing to behold for those still awake, wounded and already traumatized by the recent battle, some of whom cringed and whimpered with fear. Others who were conversing in low voices stopped as the strange sight walked past. The huge man who carried his limp burden, seemingly without effort, caused many to remember that it could be their corpses carried off tomorrow or the next day. One or two muttered, “God is Great. God be kind to that poor man’s soul,” as Brandt walked slowly by. Talon had to stay completely limp and hold his breath. It was a lot harder than he had thought, but he gritted his teeth and prayed they would soon be out of the building.

  Standing outside in the dark alleyway next to the oxen was Yosef. Now he wore an ankle-length, dirty and stained cotton thobe with a hood that he had pulled over his head, half concealing his face. Instead of a sword he held a long stick with which to goad the oxen. “Hurry up, you Frans Infidel pig,” he called out. “I don’t have all night! We have other calls to make, not just this one, you know.”

  Now Brandt saw that there were other white-sheeted bodes in the cart already, which made him hesitate, but Yosef indicated to him to place Talon on the right side. This he did with care, and then Yosef rolled one of the stiff corpses so that it partially covered Talon. The pressure against his injured thigh elicited a low groan from Talon, but Yosef tapped him gently on the shoulder by way of reassurance and warning, then rolled some more shrouded forms closer to make a tighter bundle.

  “Can you breathe?” he whispered.

  “Yes, just.”

  Good, then we go.” Yosef tapped the hindquarters of the oxen, and the beasts began to move forward.

  Then came a call which made the two walking men turn. “Hold there! What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like we are doing?” Yosef demanded irritably. “We are carting off the dead heroes from the hospital back there.”

  A man holding a spear stepped out of the shadows. “I’m the night guard and it is my business to ask questions,” he stated pompously. He was poorly armed, wearing only a leather jerkin with round plates sewn on at widely spaced intervals. He came into the light of the single torch that was mounted above the lintel of the hospital and peered at the contents of the cart. “Ah, yes, you may proceed,” he said, starting to back away, but then he gave a start.

  At that very moment Talon had taken a deep breath, unaware that he had a spectator. “My God! Did you see that?” the man exclaimed. “One of those bodies moved, I swear it!”

  He got no further. Brandt seized him by the head and rammed it against the side of the cart with a loud crack.

  “What do I do with this?” he asked Yosef, holding onto the limp body by the back of its neck.

  “Wait!” Yosef said, and disappeared for a minute back into the hospital, to reappear soon after with a length of cotton sheeting. “Wrap this around him and toss him into the back. Hurry!”

  Brandt did as he was told, and the unconscious body of the guard joined the dead with a thump that rocked the cart. Talon gasped. “What happened?” he mumbled, his voice muffled.

  Yosef leaned over the side. “Brandt just took care of it, Lord. I would not want to arm wrestle that Saxon for money, I can tell you!”

  “You would probably cheat!” Talon chuckled.” You never did like to lose.”

  Yosef snickered. “Probably. Hah!” He jabbed the oxen again to get them moving.

  He gestured to Brandt and threw a filthy robe at him. “Put that on, and hurry!” he said. “You must put the hood up and stoop like you are old.” He demonstrated an exaggerated stoop. Brandt didn’t fully understand the poorly pronounced French, but the actions were clear, and soon two hooded cart-men were wending their way to the gates of the citadel.

  By the time they arrived at the gates, the night was well advanced and the sentries were tired. Another cart was just returning, empty, with a tired and testy driver.

  “I have been at this all night and I am worn out and hungry. Don’t make life so difficult for me. Look! The damned cart is empty. By the hair on the Mullah’s forehead, are you blind?” he shouted at the sentry, who was peering officiously into the vehicle.

  Yosef took this moment to move his laden cart forward. He was not surprised when they simply waved him through; he was well aware that no one wanted to keep corpses lying around; burial services for the dead were a religious obligation. “God’s blessings,” he called out. He had noticed that the sentries were more interested in incoming traffic than the carriers of the dead, who were all heading towards the burial mounds closer to the lake.

  “God is Great. They died for our Sultan. May God grant their souls quick entry to heaven. Bury them well,” one of the nearer sentries said piously, and he tapped the side of the cart motioning them through. Even as he did so, the guard whom Brandt had knocked unconscious woke up, stirred, then began to sit up; but the quick-witted Brandt walking alongside the cart saw the movement before the guard turned his head in response to the muffled sound. His fist flew out and his knuckles connected with the luckless man’s temple. He subsided in a limp heap, but the sentry peered at Brandt.

  “Who is that with you?” he demanded, pointing to the Saxon who was again trying to make himself invisible by huddling next to one of the oxen. “He looks like a Frans!”

  “Him?” Yosef said contemptuously. “He is, but he’s my slave now. His master is among the dead on this cart. This ox digs the graves.” Yosef prodded Brandt with the stick. “See how big he is? Ha ha ha!”

  “Humph,” the guard muttered. “Looks strong enough. Make him dig ‘em nice and deep. Now get out of here, go on. Go in peace.” The man walked back towards the brazier where his comrades were gathered.

  “Peace be with you,” Yosef intoned towards his departing back.

  It took them another very uncomfortable hour to reach the place where Yosef had left the horses. They were approaching a copse of stunted trees growing alongside a small stream when Yosef became aware that not all was well. He noticed the flicker of something in among the trees where the horses should have been.

  “We have a problem ahead,” he muttered to Brandt, forgetting the Saxon might have difficulty with his bad French. Brand only partially understood, but lifted his head and peered into the darkness. “I see nothing,” he murmured. Yosef scowled.

  “There are some unwelcome visitors. Stay with Lord Talon and get him out of the cart while I go investigate,” Yosef told him. “You understand me?” he asked, pointing to the bodies on the cart and pantomiming.

  While Brandt began to roll the bodies off Talon in order to get him out of the cart, Yosef drew a long sword out from under the bodies nearest
the front, then vanished into the darkness. Brandt felt the hairs on his forearms rise. The man was a phantom.

  “Lord Talon?” he whispered.

  “Are we there yet?” Talon wheezed from the side of the cart. “For God’s sake, get me out of here, Brandt. I am suffocating and the smell is killing me!” His voice was muffled.

  Brandt extracted his new master and cut him free of his wrappings. Talon sat on the back of the cart and rubbed his arms. “Phew! That was uncomfortable. Where is Yosef?”

  Yosef, meanwhile, had crept up in a roundabout manner to the point where he could see who or what was near the horses. Crouched in the shadows, he made out the forms of two armed men, facing towards the city as though they might be waiting. Their horses were tethered alongside his.

  They were far enough apart for Yosef to see each one clearly, but he waited to make sure there were no others. The men stayed where they were and whispered to one another. He strained his ears to hear what they were saying.

  “When whoever tied the horses here come back, we can take them prisoner, and we’ll be well rewarded, so stay where you are and don’t move until I tell you,” one of them said, making it easy for Yosef to pick who to come upon first. That man died with Yosef’s hand around his mouth and sword buried in his heart from behind; he fell with just enough noise to alert the other.

  “Ahmed?” the man queried, and turned just as Yosef appeared like some demon of the darkness and slashed at his neck with his bloody sword. Yosef spun around to make sure there was no one else, and then wiped the blade on the dead man’s shirt. It was time to leave.

  _______________________

  Fortress of Tyre

  Chapter 23

  The Siege of Tyre

  I have been given my charge to keep—

  Well have I kept the same!

  Playing with strife for the most of my life,