Storms of Retribution

by James Boschert

  But this is a different game.

  —Rudyard Kipling

  Prince Al-Adil’s features betrayed his ill-concealed rage, even as he reported to the sultan the evening after Talon’s disappearance. The sun had already set, leaving a crimson sky and high clouds streaked blood-red.

  “He is gone, my Lord. Vanished into thin air like a ghost! No one saw him leave, and no one knows where he could have gone. We thought he must still be in the city, he was badly wounded after all; but somehow he managed to smuggle himself out last night.” The prince looked nonplussed.”I am almost ready to believe what people say about that man. That he is indeed a magician.” He shook his head.

  “How would that be possible?” the sultan asked sharply; he was clearly annoyed.

  “Er, we think it might have been as a dead body, Lord,” Al-Adil muttered unhappily.

  “Are you quite serious?” the sultan asked. Now his voice sounded incredulous, but it was also tinged with amusement. “The cunning scoundrel! Ever resourceful,” he murmured.

  The prince did not hear him. “Once we had searched the city and the citadel, which took most of the day, we began to look further afield. Eventually a cart full of dead men was discovered near the lake.”

  Al-Adil had personally gone out to verify the report and had put a scented cloth over his nose; the stink of the sun-cooked corpses had been noisome. Even the oxen were disturbed and bellowing, which is what had drawn the searchers to the copse of trees in the first place. They were trying to pull away from the rocking cart full of the dead, which kept following them about.

  “Such disrespect!” the sultan sighed. “Go on,” he added. Al-Adil failed to notice the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  “We found two dead men in the copse, killed by some assassin, but also a poor man who had been tied up and left behind, Lord. My men tell me that the oxen must have walked about and trampled him, and one of them had even defecated upon the poor man. He was lying under their rears when help arrived and was almost mad with thirst and humiliation.”

  The sultan fished out a kerchief from within his robes with which he dabbed at his eyes, keeping his hand in front of his mouth at the same time.

  “Is everything all right, my Lord?” the prince asked, his tone solicitous.

  “Yes, er no, I have something in my eye.” The sultan cleared his throat. “Please continue with your report.” He coughed.

  The Prince, who had vowed terrible retribution upon the fugitive if he caught him, went on. “We don’t know how he could have jumped into a cart and escaped without help, Lord. The last time I saw him he couldn’t even walk!” He growled through his teeth, “I personally interrogated the Greek doctor of the hospital. He claimed Talon was at the citadel, and Doctor Mehdi did verify that he was.”

  “Sooo, who could possibly have helped?” the sultan demanded, wiping his eyes again with the kerchief. He frowned. “Didn’t he give his word, along with the others nobles, not to escape?”

  The prince looked uncomfortable. “We were … negotiating, Lord. We had not quite arrived at the point of parole.”

  The Sultan had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

  “There must have been at least one other. He could not have escaped on his own, or slain those men, wounded as he was!” Al-Adil exclaimed.

  Sultan Salah Ed Din felt a thin cold trickle along his forearms. “Yes, I think I can guess who it might have been,” he said slowly. He had Reza in mind. He was glad of one thing. They obviously harbored no great ill will towards him, or he would be dead by now.

  “Have you sent out search parties along the roads?”

  “I have, Lord. Talon appears to have vanished into thin air. What seems to be the problem, Lord? Is something wrong? You seem, discomfited,” the prince said almost accusingly. He thought he had heard the sultan make a sound suspiciously like a snort of laughter.

  “No, no… it is nothing, Brother. I just have something in my throat; there is a lot of dust in the air today,” the sultan said, wiping his eyes one last time and putting the kerchief away. That cunning Frank, Lord Talon, had slipped away yet again! He attempted to give his angry brother reassurance. His face resumed its normally stern expression as he said, “And no, I am not in the least bit amused by any of this, Brother. This rogue should be captured. Make sure you bring him in, alive,” he told the prince. “If you can catch him,” he finished under his breath.

  Should they be captured, which he considered unlikely, he knew just what he would do with them. They could be set upon Rashid Ed Din, his mortal enemy who lurked in the mountains of Lebanon. These two might just succeed where others had failed, and remove a menace that had bothered Salah Ed Din for years.

  He sighed. “Now we have more important things to discuss. Send out the word to the army that we are to leave for Acre in two days, and when we have taken it we will go north and take Tyre. After which we will fulfill our destiny.”

  “What do you plan for the infidel Rideford, my Lord? He is after all a Templar, and you have executed all the others.”

  “Ah, yes, but this man will be useful. He is still the Grand Master of the Templars. As such, by keeping him alive I will be able to forestall any election of another Grand Master. They have to obey him, even if I put him naked on a donkey before their gates and he requests them to surrender. That foolish man is my greatest ally in the Christian camp.” The Sultan sounded quite pleased with that idea.

  *****

  Rashid Ed Din was at that moment pacing his chambers in a towering rage. Cringing before him was one of his young killers, who had just come back from Cyprus.

  “You are telling me that both the corsairs and the men from the palace of that incompetent idiot failed in their mission, and that there is no news of any of our own men?” the man who was known as the School Teacher hissed at the groveling messenger.

  “I, I, er, yes, Lord,” the man almost wailed. “Lord, I could not find out anything of what happened during the battle, but I know the pirates were repulsed and even lost a ship, while those from the palace were decimated and the survivors came back with their tails between their legs. There is absolutely nothing heard from our men. The only conclusion is that they must have died or been taken prisoner, Lord.”

  Rashid Ed Din knew very well that none of his men would willingly allow themselves to be taken prisoner, but he was incensed by the failure of the mission, which would have provided him with a castle that was both strategically located and virtually impregnable. His cold, calculating mind contemplated revenge against that upstart “Information Gatherer” who had instigated the plan in the first place.

  Some weeks before this debacle, one of his agents had been approached in Beirut, after he and his companions had completed a task, delivering to the Templar citadel a chest full of gold: the annual tithe agreed upon by that Order and the Master, as Rashid was also known. Rashid paid the Templars for the protection they afforded his castles from Salah Ed Din, the hated, Kurdish-born leader of the Sunni Arab world.

  This arrangement had only provided mixed results, and in the light of the very recent Christian demise at Hattin, which the whole world now knew about, Rashid felt it even more urgent to find a place where he could be more secure. With the Templars no longer able to protect Rashid, the Sultan would come after his castles in the mountains after he had dealt with his Christian foes.

  News had come to him about the castle of Kantara, which the heretic Talon and his slippery companion Reza had finessed from under the nose of Isaac Komnenos. Rashid was grudgingly respectful of that accomplishment. Now, apparently, he and the Emperor had similar goals: the removal of Talon and his kin as soon and thoroughly as possible.

  Having met with the Greek, Zenos, he had thought the opportunity ripe, especially with the capture of Makhid, the leader of the corsairs. Rashid had little interest in Makhid himself, but Makhid’s cousin, Abul-Zinad, hated Makhid and wanted to replace him as leader of the corsairs from Dalmatia. Getting wind o
f this from his very active spies, Rashid’s men had approached Abul-Zinad in turn, and the scheme had been set in motion. The prospect of gold had sweetened the pot for Abul-Zinad, although Rashid had been determined to keep it all, with the capture of the castle. Had they succeeded, Rashid might have rewarded the Information Gatherer; but, having failed, the Greek was going to hear from Rashid in no uncertain manner.

  Rashid paused in his pacing and eyed with disgust the man on the floor in front of him. He was so frightened that his head was banging repeatedly on the carpet upon which he knelt.

  “Stop that, and listen if you value your life,” The Master barked. “This is what I want you to do. I want that upstart in the palace to be punished.”

  “How Lord?”

  “In the usual manner. Now get out!”

  *****

  Talon and his two companions came within sight of Tyre three days after leaving Tiberius. They were exhausted and very hungry. It had been too dangerous to stop for any length of time, and equally ill advised to make a fire at night. Not unsurprisingly, the countryside was crawling with bands of Arab horsemen who roved at will, a good many of them probably on the look out for the fugitives.

  With Yosef guiding them, they stayed off the roads as much as possible, and made their way across country. Herders, who had previously been numerous, had been quick to move their flocks deeper into the low mountains and kept themselves scarce, for marauders took what they wanted and left little behind. Whenever Talon’s small band came across a shepherd by accident, Yosef paid for what they needed from their meager supply of coin stolen in Tiberius.

  Without protest, Talon endured as best he could the jolting and swaying of the horse. Whenever they could stop near a stream, which were few and far between at this time of year, they cleaned the ugly entry and exit wounds and rebound them with care. He and Yosef would scrutinize the area, trying to discern any sign of corruption, but found nothing to add to their other concerns. Talon felt clear headed, but utterly exhausted at the end of each day of the circuitous riding necessary to avoid any unwelcome encounters.

  At one time they came across the corpses of peasants who had not been fortunate enough to escape. Marauding Arabs had found them, and what they had left behind was ghastly.

  “Is it always like this, Lord?” Brandt asked, staring at the mutilated remains. A warrior used to battle, this butchery enraged and disturbed him.

  “Often,” Talon answered. “The men who did this were not true warriors.”

  The Saxon looked ill and wanted to bury the bodies, but Yosef said no. They could not leave any clues as to their passing.

  “You are very close to the Lord Talon,” Brandt remarked at one time to Yosef.

  I have known him since we were young,” Yosef responded. “But you, why do you serve him?” he demanded.

  “I know of no lord who would have attended to their comrade the way he did for your wound during the battle. Then he picked me out from the slaves. There was no need to do so. He cares for his people,” the Saxon stated simply. “I can serve someone like that. To the death, if need be.”

  Yosef nodded. He had wanted to know how true this huge man would be, should their situation become worse. So they continued on and passed more huts and farms, some charred by fire, others still smoking.

  *****

  Tyre was a welcome sight when they stood their horses on a low hill several leagues from the causeway. Talon noted that the surrounding countryside was denuded of peasants, caravans, and any normal activity by people. The fields, once well tilled in the fertile soil, were becoming patches of dust; the cottages and huts were abandoned. All these ominous signs indicated that news of the disaster at the Horns of Hattin had driven everyone to seek the shelter of the city, with its high walls and at least the illusion of security.

  As they approached the still busy causeway, they could see the wreckage left behind by the refugees. They passed abandoned carts with a wheel missing or with broken shafts, some hanging off the edge of the road and others half submerged in the sea on either side. Possessions had been dropped in haste and abandoned, which attested to the panic that now reigned. Picking their way across the causeway, they arrived at the gates, which were firmly shut. Brandt had to call up to the men standing on the walls above. Despite the clear presence of a Frank, they still issued a challenge.

  “Who goes there? Name yourselves!” one called down. Talon noted that a couple of Genoese bowmen were standing nearby. His contempt for these mercenaries was intense. They had proved t useless during the Battle of Hattin, fleeing at the first opportunity. Yet here were some of them challenging his arrival at the gates!

  “Lord Talon requires entrance!” Brandt bellowed up at the surly men, who reluctantly pushed the gates open enough to allow them entry. Then the doors were closed with a crash and barred by the nervous soldiers.

  Yosef led the way through streets packed with refugees camping where they had stopped, towards the harbor, desperately hoping that their ship would still be tied to the quayside. They were to be disappointed; there was no ship to greet them, merely an ominous quiet broken by the occasional shrill squawk of a gull. Only a few fishing boats were bobbing up and down in the greasy waters of the harbor. No ships of war or merchant vessels were to be seen.

  “They are gone, Lord,” Yosef said, his dismay written all over his face.

  “God’s will,” Talon said unhappily as he surveyed the empty waters. His glance roved out to the twin towers protecting the entrance, hoping against hope that he would see one of his ships entering the harbor, so they could be out of this noisome place. Instead he could just see the white caps of the waves as the wind picked up. He glanced up at the banners, which flapped defiantly from the tallest towers, stating that this city still remained in the hands of the Christians, but that was poor comfort to those who only wanted to leave this troubled land.

  “We must find accommodation,” he said. Brandt nodded agreement. “I shall do what I can to find a clean, safe place until a ship comes, Lord. A ship will come, will it not?” he asked, his bright blue eyes fixed upon Talon hopefully. Talon smiled at him despite his misgivings.

  “Yes, Brandt. Our ship must have taken Reza home. I just hope that they will remember to come back and pick us up before too long.” He also hoped that it would be before Salah Ed Din and his army camped outside the city and laid siege to it.

  Brandt dismounted clumsily—he was not a good horseman—gave the reins to Yosef, then hitched up his trews and ambled off to see what could be done about a place to stay.

  It did not take long for him to return, bringing with him a man Talon recognized. It was the steward employed by Count Raymond, who hurried up and bowed courteously to Talon. “God’s greeting, Lord! We, we did not know you still lived!” he stammered. “Stragglers who survived the battle have been arriving all week, but very few of the lords. I give thanks to God for your safe arrival.” There was surprise written all over his lined face. “I am honored to greet you, even during these terrible times!” he exclaimed. “So tragic!” He wrung his hands. “All the news of the south has been just terrible. I don’t know what is to become of us!”

  “God’s greetings to you, Steward. As you can see, I am here and alive, although in somewhat distressed condition,” Talon said as he started to dismount, Brandt hastened to assist him, then held him steady while he talked to the steward.

  “Is the Count here?” Talon asked. He had to lean on Brandt; his leg still refused to support his own weight.

  The steward shook his head. “It saddens me to say that he is not, Lord Talon. He arrived some days after the battle with others, but then he went on to Tripoli. We have news that he is very ill. They say it is the pleurisy.” The steward shrugged. “It is in God’s hands now. Soon after he arrived there he took to his bed, and we have heard nothing of him since.”

  He seemed to collect himself and said solicitously, “Lord, you look weary, and injured. I can offer the same accommodations a
s before and the services of a physician for your wound.” He glanced at Talon’s dirty, blood-stained bandage.

  Talon nodded. “I gladly accept your hospitality, Steward. God bless you. As to a physician, we shall see.” He paused. “If the Count is not here, who is in charge of the city?”

  The steward took his time answering. Finally he said, “It is Lord Reginald of Sidon, Lord. He is the leader of the city at present.” He sounded unhappy.

  Talon thought about that as he and his companions were ushered into the familiar chambers he and Reza had occupied before. He had told Rav’an that they would be away for only a couple of weeks, and now it was July. He had been away for almost four months!

  News arrived that evening via pigeon that Acre had surrendered. While not unexpected, it was still a terrible blow to the morale of the city. Those with friends or relatives in Acre bemoaned their fate. Talon himself wondered what might have happened to Martin, the young monk who had been such a help in the past. The bells tolled single mournful notes and people crowded into the churches, seeking comfort in prayer and worship. Most knelt where they could, some beat their chests, while others wailed and tossed handfuls of ash over their heads, a behavior Talon had never fully understood.

  He had his own injury to deal with, and he desperately needed rest; but word was out that he had survived the battle of Hattin. Before he had even managed to bathe, some men who were commanders were asking to see him. He wondered why they didn’t go to Lord Reginald. Eventually Brandt was forced to keep them at bay by closing the main doorway in their faces.

  Talon could envisage the entire countryside being criss-crossed by bands of Arab cavalry, with groups of desperate Christians seeking refuge wherever they could. In the middle of this chaos was the massive army of Salah Ed Din, composed of some thirty thousand men, perhaps more, now that he had won so decisively. He thanked God that he and his two companions had made it to the safety of Tyre. The question now was, would one of his ships come to take him away, or were they doomed to a long siege and possible recapture?