Mamluk Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Sultan Qalawun sat on the raised dais inside his temporary command pavilion, a blood-red tent erected on the high ground of the surrounding desert. His ranking emir were assembled around him, their armor dull, caked with the dust and blood of war. Only their faces and hands were clean, for they had all used the cauldron of water outside the tent to wash away the filth of battle before presenting themselves to their sultan. Even the lamellar cuirass of his eighteen-year-old son bore the glorious smears of war. Qalawun wondered how many Mongols the young man had killed. The wild look in his eyes spoke of at least one, but Qalawun doubted it was many more than that. It was all right, though. The boy had not yet caught time’s eye. He would have ample opportunities to prove himself.
Ah, youth, Qalawun thought. He flexed the aged muscles in his sword arm and glanced down at the golden mail covering it. Matching greaves protected his thighs and a conical helmet sat on a nearby table. Nothing was solid gold of course, for that would have been far too heavy to wear and beyond useless as armor. Although this delicate, gold-plated mail was probably not much better. It had been some time since he had worn a true set of armor.
He looked around at the tent full of hardened warriors. The few that met his gaze did so with only respect and adoration in their eyes. And why not? He had defeated the Mongol hordes not once, but twice now. Twenty years ago, on the plains of Ain Jalut he had fought under the command of Sultan Baybairs himself. While the rest of the world cowered at the relentless onslaught of the barbarians from the steppes, the Mamluks had stood their ground and sent the Mongol wave crashing back upon itself. Being the barbarians that they were, they proved themselves incapable of learning from that first encounter and Qalawun used the same strategy, the same formations, to break them once again.
Qalawun nodded to his most trusted emir and vice-sultan, Turuntay, who was a thick, heavily bearded man. Like Qalawun himself, Turuntay had been a Kipchak Turk before the sultan’s men took him from his village when he was still young enough to forget who he was.
“Bring him in,” Turuntay said.
Two warriors dragged a man into the tent on his knees with his hands tied behind his back. He fell onto his side when they deposited him roughly on the carpeted ground.
“Kneel,” Turuntay shouted. “You are in the presence of Sultan al-Malik al-Mansur Saif ad-Din Qalawun al-Alfis-Salihi, defender of the words of Allah, His holy territories, and all His people.”
The Mongol’s eyes flicked open but he made no attempt to sit up.
“Get him up,” Turuntay said to the men on either side of the captive. They yanked him upright to his knees and steadied him there with their fists wrapped in his ragged shirt. The Mongol straightened as best he could and stared directly at Qalawun with his almond-shaped eyes. His clean-shaven face was swollen around the mouth and cut in several places, but other than that he seemed unharmed.
Qalawun leaned forward. “You are the Mongol general,” he said. It was not a question. Qalawun’s vizier stepped forward and began to interpret the sultan’s words to the barbarian in his own tongue, but the man spit at him.
“I do not need an old man to tell me the words of a dog,” he said in strongly accented, yet perfectly intelligible, Turkic. One of the warriors holding him had his scimitar half pulled from its scabbard before Qalawun stopped him with a shake of his head.
“You speak our words,” Qalawun said.
The Mongol’s lips curled back. “You think they are so special, your words? So difficult to learn? They are nothing. You think you won something today, but the will of heaven cannot be stopped. The bloodline of Jhingis Khan cannot be stopped. His grandson will return, and you will never speak your words again unless the Great Khan wills it so.”
Qalawun leaned forward in his high-backed chair. “Your talk bores me, Mongol, for I have heard it all before. Twenty years ago at Ain Jalut. Then, as now, your barbarian kin fell to Mamluk swords and arrows by the thousands. It took longer for us to clean your blood off our weapons than it did to slaughter your horde.”
Qalawun turned to the emir on his left. “Kitbugha. Let him feel the hand of a Mamluk.”
Kitbugha stepped forward and backhanded the Mongol across his face, snapping the general’s head to the side and eliciting a groan of pain.
“Kitbugha was in your Khan’s army at Ain Jalut. I took him prisoner at that battle. I do not know why I did not kill him, for I killed so many that day, one more would have made no difference. But Allah stilled my blade and put pity in my heart. I allowed Kitbugha to serve me. I saw to his education, and in time, I made him into a man. A Mamluk.”
Qalawun nodded to Kitbugha and he stepped back into place beside the sultan. Then Qalawun stood and leisurely took the Mongol general’s face in one hand. He dug his thumb under one cheekbone and his fingers under the other and applied pressure on the nerves there to turn the man’s head to look at him. The palm of his hand covered the Mongol’s mouth, in case he tried to spit at him.
“If Jhingis Khan himself were still alive, and he led his horde against us, it is his head I would hold in my hand right now.”
The Mongol squirmed against the perceived blasphemy until Qalawun squeezed his fingers and the man’s eyes watered.
“The Mongols will always be inferior to my Mamluk warriors. That is truly heaven’s will. And do you know why? Your soldiers are herdsmen and bandits who, for a few short years, play at war. They ride their ponies at their enemy, loose their arrows, and run away before they can be caught. That is the way of the steppe warrior. And it has worked until now because you have never come up against other skilled horse archers. You see, the Mamluks have their roots in the steppes as well.”
Qalawun released his grip and eased himself back into his chair. The Mongol’s mouth opened and closed to ease the pain in his jaw.
“Do you know what ‘Mamluk’ means?” Qalawun asked.
“Dog,” the Mongol said. “Dogs with only one god.”
“In a way you are right. Most of us did not accept the teachings of Allah until we were men, like Kitbugha, here. Mamluk means ‘owned.’ Most of us were bought at a young age. We were selected for our physical attributes and then trained in the warrior arts since we were children. My own name means ‘one thousand dinars’ for that is what my master paid for me. We are slaves. Warrior slaves whose entire lives are devoted to war. We know nothing else. If it helps, you may blame your losses of today, and twenty years ago, on the poor quality of your armor and swords, the inferior bows with which you launch your poorly crafted arrows, or even the superior strength and speed of our larger Arabian stallions over your steppe ponies. But these are excuses.”
Qalawun stood once again. He reached out his hand and slowly wound his fingers in the Mongol’s long hair. He made a fist, pulling the man’s head back. The barbarian’s nostrils flared and his chest heaved, but his dark eyes stared into Qalawun’s own with a seething hatred.
“We Mamluks are not Egyptians. We are not Arabs, nor are we all Turks, though we often choose to speak that language. We come from all manner of countries and backgrounds, but many of us are horsemen from the steppes. We are cultured, educated, disciplined versions of yourselves. Everything you aspire to be. Today, barbarians of the steppes have been defeated by men of the steppes. As it happened those many years ago at Ain Jalut. As it will happen again.”
A small, jeweled dagger appeared in Qalawun’s hand. He drew it across the Mongol’s throat and the man’s eyes went wide.
“How could it ever be otherwise?”
The Mongol opened his mouth to say something, but blood had already filled his throat and was beginning to flow out of the fine slit in his neck and spread downward. In a few short moments, the rags on his chest turned redder than the finest silk. The Mongol was dragged from the room before he was truly dead, lest he spoil the sultan’s carpets any more than he already had.
Qalawun scanned the room. His emir, on the whole, seemed pleased with his handling of the enemy general. His son, Khalil, however, wore more of a scowl than usual. Qalawun turned his back to the boy and made his way to his chair.
“Next I would have the knights of the cross brought before me,” Qalawun said to no one in particular. The warrior nearest the door threw aside the ornate silk curtains and disappeared outside. Seconds later he returned with an escort of guards and seven prisoners. Joined at the neck with a line of chain, their hands tied behind their backs, these men were obviously not Mongols. Their pale skin marked them as Franks, but the way their hair was cut short on top and the unkempt style of their beards suggested they were much more than simple soldiers. Five had been stripped of their armor and wore only light breeches and sweat-stained undershirts of gray cotton. But for whatever reason, two of the men still wore their red battle tunics over mail hauberks. Splayed across each man’s chest was a white cross. They were Hospitallers and Qalawun knew full well how they liked to claim this white cross was meant to symbolize peace, or a moment of stillness upon the blood-red battlefield of war. It was Qalawun’s turn to scowl. He had fought the Holy Christian Orders all his life. These were not men of peace.
With a curt nod of his head, the Hospitallers were knocked to their knees with the pommels of swords.
“Who amongst you has the authority to speak with me?” Qalawun said in fluent French.
All the Hospitallers lowered their eyes, save one of the men still wearing his red tunic.
“I am Brother Dumont, a captain of the Knights of Saint John of Jerusalem, currently stationed at Margat,” the man said.
“You command these men?” Qalawun asked.
“Our commander fell in the battle,” Dumont said. “But yes, I believe I am the highest ranking one of my brethren who yet lives.”
“You realize that by siding with the Mongols you have violated the peace treaty we have had with your grand master these past years?”
We were ordered here by our prior. That is all I know.”
“Is that so? All of you come from the fortress of Margat then?”
Dumont nodded.
“And I suppose the grand master of your order in Acre knows nothing of this treachery?”
“I am not privy to the knowledge of my order’s leaders.”
“No, of course not,” Qalawun said. “Your God’s Holy Orders are as secretive as its priests, no?” He leaned back into his chair and let the silence in the tent build.
“What will you do with us?” Dumont asked.
“A fair question, Captain. The truth is I cannot decide. Perhaps my son will have some ideas. Khalil?”
Qalawun’s son stepped forward. “Yes, Father?” He did not speak French, so he had no idea what the Hospitaller and Qalawun had been discussing.
“What would you do with the Hospitaller prisoners if you were in my position?”
“Father?”
“I ask for your opinion, my son. What do you think we should do with the prisoners?”
Khalil’s eyes narrowed. “They are sworn enemies of Islam. They must be executed of course.”
Captain Dumont shifted on his knees and Qalawun suspected he might understand enough Turkic to grasp the plight of his situation.
“Yes, of course,” Qalawun said. “And how would you execute them?”
The boy did not hesitate. “They must be tied to posts in Cairo’s square and lashed every day until they die, so the people understand what we protect them from.”
Qalawun fought to keep his eyebrows from arching at the response. He nodded and said, “I see.” He turned to the vizier. “Clear my pavilion. I should like to confer with my son.”
Less than a minute later Qalawun and Khalil were alone.
“Do you know why I asked for your advice just now Khalil?”
“To see me shamed in front of your emir,” Khalil said.
Qalawun closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “No, Khalil. Despite what you may think, that was not my intention.”
Khalil threw up his hands. “And what else am I to think? I know you had no intention of ever following my advice.”
Qalawun felt his blood rise and the heat radiate up into his face. “Have you ever seen a man whipped to death?”
Khalil shrugged. “I am not sure. Perhaps when I was a young boy.”
Qalawun shook his head. “A skilled master of the leather can keep a man alive for weeks. In fact, it is more likely the man would starve to death than die from the whip.”
“All the better. The longer the Christians lived the better the spectacle for our people,” Khalil said.
Qalawun stood and took a step toward his son. “Spectacle? A man suffering the leather cries out for only one or two days. Any more and the pain closes down his body. He loses consciousness. What good would it do for our citizens to see us whip a silent, bloody piece of meat day in and day out, while the carrion eaters circle overhead?”
Khalil stared straight ahead, his gold-flecked brown eyes seething with emotion, but whether he felt anger toward himself, or at his father, Qalawun could not tell.
“I sought to give you an opportunity today to impress the emir,” Qalawun said.
Khalil turned to look at his father. The boy’s eyes softened, somewhat. “Why would I need to impress any one of them? My sultan is not amongst them.”
Qalawun forced one of his rare smiles. “Without the emir, there can be no sultan.” He stepped forward and put his hand on Khalil’s shoulder. “They are all Mamluk. You are not.”
“So you have always told me,” Khalil said.
“I tell you so you are prepared. When I am gone, the only way you will take my place as sultan will be if the emir allow you to do so. For that to happen you must earn their respect.”
Under his hand, Qalawun felt the tension in Khalil’s body shift.
“What do we do with the Hospitallers?” Khalil asked.
Qalawun removed his hand from the boy’s shoulder and nodded. “You are right. They must be punished. And not only the knights of Margat who sided with our enemies. Their entire order must suffer.”
Khalil’s face lit up. “Yes, Father.”
“But not today. Our army is tired, our resources depleted.”
“Then when?” Khalil asked.
“Not as soon as you would like, Khalil. But by Allah’s might, they will suffer. I make this promise to you, not as your father, but as your sultan.”
“And the prisoners?”
“Ah, yes. Go now and have them assembled. Execute all but one of the Hospitallers in front of the emir. Do it yourself, but give them a swift death. They are warriors, after all, and they fought bravely. Cut off their heads one by one and let the captain live so he can tell his superiors what happens when the Mamluks are betrayed.”
This seemed to appease Khalil, for he stood up straight. ”Yes, My Sultan.”
Qalawun watched his son stride from the pavilion. As the curtains fluttered in the early evening breeze, his gaze settled on a puddle of red on the carpet between him and the doorway. He bent over, his back and knees protesting, and swiped three fingers through the remains of the Mongol’s lifeblood. Qalawun stood upright, and with his eyes fixated on the doorway, wiped his hand down the front of his chest, leaving a rusty smear across the golden mail.
He closed his eyes to focus his senses. Outside, he heard the commotion of men being forced to their knees. Seconds later Khalil grunted and his blade sang as it separated head from body. The stroke had been swift and true, and it brought a satisfied smile to the old man’s face. He felt the wrinkles on his face tighten as they resisted the unfamiliar sensation, and he became keenly aware that, unlike his son, Time had found him. But he had much to do before he surrendered to its ravages.
Qalawun, on this day, arguably the most powerful man in the world, suddenly felt very old.

CHAPTER 2

Foulques de Villaret plowed through the early evening throng of people scrambling along the streets of Acre hustling to finish the last tasks of the day. Or, as he crossed from the Venetian quarter into the Genoan slums, begin the revelries of the night. Lost in thought, with his simple black cloak wrapped around him and his hood pulled over his head, he strode through the alleys ignoring the catcalls of women and the unwelcome stares of men.
Admiral. Foulques had never heard anything so ridiculous in all his life. What had gotten into the grand master’s head? Or rather, who? Foulques sensed the hand of his uncle in this move. Even from England, he seemed to have more control over Foulques’s life than Foulques himself. He could have arranged it with the grand master, for Guillaume de Villaret had the influence. But he could have had the good grace to ask Foulques before having him exiled to the island of Cyprus. He could understand that his uncle was trying to look after him, as he always had. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before Qalawun and his Mamluks attacked. Guillaume was no doubt just trying to save his nephew by getting him out of Acre before it fell under siege.
Out of Acre. The thought chilled him more than he cared to admit. Acre was the only place he had ever called home. Could he ever know another? He was told the city’s beauty was unequaled in all of the Levant. In Foulques’s mind, even Jerusalem itself could not compare, though he would never say the thought aloud. Acre’s main bazaar was a place of wonder, intoxicating with the colors and scents of spices gathered from the four corners of the world. Its deep harbor of azure blue water was so clear that you could see fifty feet into its depths and count the sea creatures glistening under the sun. Some felt threatened by the myriad of people, the sheer number of languages spoken on the city’s streets, but that was one of the things Foulques treasured about his city. As a child he had spent countless hours wandering through the market listening to the strange words of traders and travelers from afar. When he could not understand what was spoken, he would make up stories about them. As the years passed, he found he no longer had to rely on his imagination so much, for there were few conversations he could not follow. But for all its glory, the city had its share of darkness as well.
With these thoughts rambling back and forth through his mind, Foulques did not see the guard seated at a small table outside the gambling hall’s main entrance until the man stood. He placed himself between Foulques and the closed door.
“Far enough. The Greek does not allow priests or monks in any of his establishments,” the guard said in Arabic, holding a hand out in front of Foulques’s bowed head.
Foulques stopped more than a full arm’s length away. He lowered his hood and let the split down the front of his robe fall open to reveal the sword beneath. He wore no mail, but the way the guard’s eyes widened, Foulques was sure the man no longer thought he was a priest. Still, he did not move from in front of the door.
“Forgive me. I did not know you to be a man of the Hospital,” the guard said, this time in broken French.
“I have business inside,” Foulques said, in Arabic.
“Perhaps I could take a message? Who is it you wish to speak with?” The words flowed out of the guard’s mouth quickly, like he was both grateful to be speaking his native tongue and eager to be rid of the Hospitaller.
“A Genoan. Vignolo dei Vignoli. I was told he is inside.”
“Give me a moment and I will see if the man you seek—”
“No need. He is here,” Foulques said.
He stepped forward, giving the guard the choice of either initiating a physical confrontation with a soldier of the Order, or making an undignified leap aside. It was not a difficult choice.
Foulques pushed open the door and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the room. A few years past, Stephanos the Greek had moved from a rented hut, half of which was carved into the ground below street level, into a much larger building that boasted a solid paver stone floor and a ceiling high enough to keep some of the smoke out of its patrons’ eyes. Other than that, it was not much of an improvement. It was still in a seedy area on the edge of the Venetian Quarter, and its clientele consisted of an odd mix of every type imaginable, from Genoan dock laborers and mercenaries to the occasional young man of noble blood.
As Foulques’s vision grew used to the lack of light, and his lungs to the thickness of the smoke-filled air, he saw that all eyes were upon him. A half-dozen men stood around an oval table, drinks in hand, a scattering of coins placed before them. Stephanos, a thick man with an even thicker head of curly gray hair, sat on a keg of ale behind the table. His hooded eyes took in every movement of the place with a seemingly detached interest. Another similar table stood off to the side, but it was empty as it was not yet midday.
A tall figure detached himself from their midst and took a few hesitant steps toward the knight. “Foulques? Brother Foulques! My good friend,” Vignolo dei Vignoli said in a loud voice that carried to all corners and all ears. The rest of the hazard players gathered around the table immediately lost interest in the Hospitaller and returned to their game.
Once he closed the distance, Vignolo lowered his voice. “I would say it is a pleasure to see you, Foulques, but that has rarely been the case in the past. I suspect it should prove no different on this occasion.”
“Have you had your fill of honest work, then?” Foulques said. “The Hospital has been more than generous to you these past few years.”
“And I suspect even more generous shortly?”
Vignolo flashed one of his self-sure grins, revealing white teeth and a handsome face that seemed at odds with the dismal room in which they stood. It had been over seven years since Foulques, with five hundred young peasant children from the Alps in tow, had first met Vignolo on the docks of Genoa. At the time, Foulques had had serious doubts about the man’s character and purity of soul. But Vignolo had come through for the Hospital, and later, for Foulques himself. Foulques owed the Genoan his life, and that knowledge weighed more heavily on the knight than he cared to admit.
“Let us have it, then,” Vignolo said. “Tell me the size of ship your grand master needs and where we will be going. And I will be blameless later if you leave anything out, though I know you will.”
“We should sit,” Foulques said. A rhythmic thumping sound began in a room directly above them and a sprinkle of dust drifted loose from the ceiling. He fought back a sneeze and glanced around the room. “Somewhere other than here, however.”
“Nonsense,” Vignolo said, pulling out a stool from under a nearby table. “There is a perfectly good seat right here.”
Foulques did not miss the casual glance Vignolo cast back toward the hazard table, nor was it possible to ignore the feel of Stephanos the Greek’s eyes following Vignolo’s every move. No doubt Vignolo had gambled away more than he had come with. That would explain his relatively welcoming demeanor toward Foulques.
After the two men had sat down, and a tired but strong-looking woman dropped off a couple of mugs of mead, Foulques wasted no time in getting to the point.
“The Hospital has need of your talents, Vignolo, but it is not of the usual variety. It will require you being away from Acre for an extended period of time.”
Vignolo shrugged and leaned back on his stool with both hands wrapped around the clay mug in front of him. “You would have me leave all this behind? I can only hope my compensation will reflect the hardships I should endure.”
“I have been authorized to pay you far more than you are worth. You can be sure of that.”
Vignolo’s eyes narrowed and he slowly leaned forward. “What is wrong, Foulques? You have the smell of a desperate man about you. Exactly how long will we be gone?”
“I cannot say,” Foulques said. He forced himself to meet Vignolo’s eyes with his own.
“Our destination? Surely that you can enlighten me on.”
“The island of Cyprus.”
“Cyprus?” Vignolo laughed and took a long pull off his drink. “You let me think we were headed for the dark heart of Cairo, not the home of the King of Jerusalem. I have not had any direct dealings with the young King Henry himself, but his brother is no stranger to me. And I must say, he and I have more in common than you know.”
“Prince Amalric’s appetites for both women and drink are no secret,” Foulques said.
“You left out gambling. He is a young noble with no titles to weigh him down, yet all the family riches of Cyprus are at his fingertips. How else is he to fill his time?”
Foulques shook his head. “I did not come to debate how royals should live their lives. We have other concerns.”
“You have other concerns. You always do. Me, I have debts. When do we leave?”
“Just like that? What happened to the income from your estate on Rhodes?”
Vignolo rolled his eyes. “My steward has petitioned the Byzantine Emperor. He claims his workers have not been paid for three years, and until this misunderstanding gets sorted, the Emperor has confiscated all my holdings on Rhodes.”
“A misunderstanding, is it?”
“It is my steward. He is stealing from me, I know it.”
“How would you know it? Have you even been to Rhodes?”
“Do not lecture me, Foulques. What would a monk know about business matters?”
Foulques reached inside his robe and pulled out a purse. It was not large, but it was stuffed with as much coin as it could possibly hold.
“As I have told you before. I am no monk.” He dropped the purse on the table between them. It hit hard, with a loud, satisfying clink of metal.
Vignoli immediately covered it with his hands and pulled it close. In a hushed tone, he said, “You are a mad monk, is what you are. This is not the place to be throwing full purses around.” He cast a nervous glance toward the hazard table. Foulques followed his eyes. Everyone seemed to be absorbed in the game. “Now tell me what you want done so we can get out of here.”
Foulques leaned back on his stool. “I need you to make a seaman out of me.”
A twitch started at the corner of Vignolo’s mouth. It quickly spread into a full-blown smile, accompanied by a series of head shakes when he realized Foulques was serious.
“You? A seaman? Anything else, Brother Foulques? The moon, perhaps?”
“Yes. I want you to turn a hundred of the Schwyzers into seamen as well.”
Vignolo broke into open laughter at that. The moment he was able to contain himself, he stood up and wiped his eyes.
“Well, you mad monk. We had best be on our way. My life’s work is before me.” He held up the coin purse. “I trust more of these will follow?”
Foulques nodded. “As many as it takes.”
Vignolo turned and shouted at the hazard table. “Stephanos!” He tossed the entire purse in the Greek’s general direction. Several pairs of hungry eyes followed its flight, but it was the stocky man on the stool with the crazy gray hair whose hand shot up and snatched it out of the air.
“Watch that for me until I get back, will you?”

CHAPTER 3

The sun of the Levant was unforgiving at midday, especially when seated upon a sweating destrier. Thomas found himself longing for a set of mail the likes of which the leader of his eight-man patrol, Brother Alain, wore over his padded hauberk. The small, finely crafted metal links of the knight’s armor hugged every crevice of his body as he swayed in his saddle, emulating the movements of muscle and bone. While Thomas’s scale mail fell over his own frame with all the comfort and grace of an ale barrel. A knight had let Thomas try on his mail a year ago, when Pirmin had organized an impromptu celebration of Thomas’s thirteenth birthday. Thomas doubted it actually was his birthday, but Pirmin was quite adamant. And when he got it in his head to organize a celebration of any kind, there was no stopping him. Thomas had been shocked at how the steel pulled the heat from his body, even as it clung to his torso like a second skin.
A rivulet of sweat leaked from under his helmet and stung his eye. He felt his scar tighten and tug all along the length of his face, right down to his jaw, as he tried to blink the stinging sensation away. His mount veered out of formation a step or two as he turned his head back to see why his rider was squirming in the saddle. Thomas hastily set him back on the path with a firm nudge of his knees.
Brother Alain was the only knight in the eight-man patrol, but all the others were experienced brother-sergeants. They rode two men abreast, and Thomas, since he was the most inexperienced, was in the second to last set. Only Brother Alain and Roderic, the sergeant at his side, carried lances. They were weapons reserved for the knightly class, or the most deserving and well-trained of the men-at-arms.
As though Brother Alain could feel Thomas’s coveting eyes on his back, he turned in his own saddle and scanned his men until his gaze settled on the youngest member in his troop.
“Brother Thomas. Join me here in the front, if you will.” A new bead of sweat fell into Thomas’s other eye.
Brother Alain spoke a few words to the man at his side. Roderic turned his horse away from the column and trotted toward the rear. He gave Thomas a nod as they passed each other and then Roderic took up a position at the very back as the sergeants jostled to fill in the gap Thomas left.
They continued on in silence for a few minutes, but Thomas could feel Brother Alain watching him from the corner of his eye. “It is good to be nervous,” Alain said.
“I am not nervous,” Thomas said, a little too quickly.
Alain nodded. “All the same, it is nervous men who tend to outlive the complacent ones.”
Thomas was about to protest, but as he searched for the right words, he suddenly realized Brother Alain had stopped his horse. Thomas brought his own mount to a halt and twisted back to look at the knight. His hand was raised and the column behind him had pulled up into a tight formation.
“Do you hear that?” Alain asked of no one in particular.
The sergeant behind him nodded. “Steel,” he said.
Thomas wanted to take off his helmet so he could hear better, but that would be a mistake. Instead, he strained his ears beneath his arming cap and thought he could just make out the sounds of voices coming from up ahead on the road.
“Fighting,” Alain said. “Sergeants! With me.” He nudged his horse into a trot, pulling Thomas along with a nod of his head. “Stay close to me, Brother Thomas.”
Thomas concentrated on doing as Alain said. He kept his destrier close enough to smell the oiled leather of the knight’s saddle. He could have reached out and put a hand on Brother Alain’s shoulder. His horse was so well trained that the moment Alain nudged his own destrier into a gallop, Thomas’s horse matched the new pace instantly without any instruction. The wind blew under his helmet, bringing with it a welcome coolness, and at the same time an excited beat to his heart.
Up ahead they could see a circle of men and women standing protectively around three or four carts. Whirling around them on white steeds, a dozen desert dwellers thrust at them with spears, or loosed arrows from short bows. More than one figure lay unmoving on the road with one of the deadly shafts embedded in his back or chest.
The Hospitallers picked up speed. Thomas blew out a breath to calm his insides. This is what he had trained for. He had spent years imagining this moment. He was one of God’s warriors racing to the aid of those in need. And what is more, he led the charge. He risked a sideways glance at Brother Alain. The knight’s image blurred as the wind stung Thomas’s eyes and he felt tears leak from their corners. A grin stretched his lips and spread across his face, straining the long, pale scar to its limit.
There must have been a dozen Bedouins darting in and out of the small group of wagons and their defenders. Most were on horseback, but a few stood on the ground off the side of the road, launching black-shafted arrows from bows as curved as Satan’s horns. Alain targeted one of these footmen with his lance and Thomas found his own horse being forced to veer away from the wagons, where the main fighting was sure to occur. Carried along with Alain’s charge, Thomas recognized this was an attempt by the veteran knight to protect the young sergeant at his side. Disappointment flared in Thomas.
The Bedouin in Alain’s sights panicked when he saw the destrier bearing down on him. He threw his bow aside and launched himself toward a nearby tree. Alain’s lance skewered him in mid-air. The momentum of the charge tore the weapon from the knight’s hand and forced him to steer his mount sharply to the left to avoid careening into the foliage at the side of the road. Thomas reined his destrier in and wheeled the stallion out of the way to give Alain room as he shot past in front. As Thomas turned his mount back toward the wagons, movement on the other side of the road caught his eye. A man, clad head-to-foot in the black robe of a desert dweller, raised his wickedly curved bow and loosed an arrow at Brother Alain’s back. Thomas opened his mouth to shout a warning but his voice refused to obey. Sitting there in his saddle, his sword in hand and mouth hanging open, every muscle in Thomas’s body suddenly froze. The Battle Furies had taken him.
He had been warned of this in his training, time and time again. The stress of battle effected men differently. Some lost their minds, flying into an uncontrolled blood frenzy, sometimes attacking both friend and foe alike in blind rage. The spirits of the battlefield, the Furies, loved men such as these, for they fed off the misery and chaos they caused. The spirits would hover about the battle, stealing men’s thoughts and coaxing them into greater and greater acts of violence and mayhem until the warrior was utterly spent, or himself destroyed.
But there was also another type of Fury that preyed on mortals. These were the ancient ones, the Terror Furies, and they were much more dangerous. For they no longer received sustenance from the simple suffering of humans. A mortal’s death was the only thing that could curb their hunger. For a time. To this end, they would find a man in danger and steal his ability to move. Then, at the exact moment of death, the Fury would feed.
All this, and more, coursed through Thomas’s mind as he watched the Bedouin draw his bow. The arrow sprang forward, its gray feather fletchings sending it spiraling toward the unaware knight’s back. The archer misjudged the distance, for instead of taking Alain in the middle of his back, it floated upward to the high point of its trajectory and slammed into the top of the knight’s helmet. There was a loud metallic clang and Alain’s head slammed forward, but the curved surface of his helmet turned the projectile aside, and it glanced off into the woods.
The sound of the arrow hitting Alain’s helmet broke the Fury’s hold on Thomas. Breath rushed into his lungs and he flexed the muscles both in the hand holding his sword and the one holding his horse’s reins. He jammed his heels into his destrier’s side and a scream burst from his throat. He could move. And he knew, so long as he kept moving, the Terror Fury could not harm him. The lesser Furies could, perhaps, but that would not be a useless death.
The archer turned toward Thomas and nocked a new arrow. Thomas felt his mount spring into a gallop as the bowman raised his weapon and sighted down the shaft. Thomas hunched low in his saddle, his sword held before him pointed at his foe as had been drilled into him time and time again. He saw the bow limbs snap forward but he lost sight of the arrow. The next thing he knew he was going forward over his horse’s neck. He tried to grab a handful of mane as he flew by, but the stallion’s neck was bent so far forward and Thomas’s forward momentum so great, that the coarse hair was ripped from his grasp. He caught a glimpse of something black protruding from the horse’s chest, and as both he, and his mount, tumbled into the road, he saw the gray feathers splattered with blood. His horse screamed and Thomas knew he had to throw himself from his saddle or risk being crushed to death by the stallion, but there simply was not time. He saw the hard road, felt it tear at the skin under his leggings, saw his horse’s legs above him blocking out the sky, then the road again. He felt a crushing weight over one leg, a suffocating presence on his chest, the sky presented itself once again, then he was on one knee with nothing but blackness in front of him.
His sword arm was straight out in front, and it dawned on him then that his gloved hand still clutched his blade. The blackness took shape. Thomas looked up, his vision unhindered by the loss of his helmet, and a set of brown eyes wide with agony, stared back. The Bedouin fell first to his knees, then to his side, dragging Thomas’s blade out of his hand.
Remembering his earlier battle with the Terror Fury, Thomas told himself he must keep moving. He pivoted on his knee and looked in the direction of voices coming from behind him. Alain and Roderick were running toward him on foot. Behind them, near the wagons, the other sergeants were sitting calmly atop their destriers while a few fleeing riders made their escape through the woods. Thomas knew he should join the men at the wagons, but realized his sword was still in the form on the ground beside him. He turned back and reached down to retrieve it, but as soon as he placed his hand on the pommel, the Bedouin’s body bucked and a high-pitched moan escaped his lips. Thomas flinched and withdrew his hand. He looked at the man’s face. His covering had fallen away and Thomas looked into the clean-shaven face of a boy younger than himself. Surely no older than thirteen.
A boy. Mary, Mother of God.
Thomas looked again to his sword embedded up to the hilt in the boy’s stomach.
I must remove it. The boy will die…
As soon as he touched the handle, the boy cried out and squirmed in pain. He grabbed onto Thomas’s hand with a strength that belied both his size and age. He said something Thomas did not understand and shook his head. His eyes were wide and they would not let Thomas look away.
Thomas was dimly aware of voices behind him, and although he could hear the words, he could not comprehend their meaning, nor tear his eyes from the boy’s own.
“Lung shot from the air in the blood,” Roderick said.
“Afraid so. This one will not be seeing the stables again,” Alain said.
“You want me to put him out?”
Thomas did not know if Alain slit his stallion’s throat himself or if he had Roderick do it. But the horse let out one last cry before its suffering was over.
The boy, however, took much longer to die. Thomas sat, the boy’s hand clutching his own, until the end. He would not allow the Furies to feed on this one.