“What Qalawun said means nothing now,” said Olav.
“What do you mean?”
“Ha, you haven’t heard yet? The word I hear is that Qalawun has died. His son is now leader.”
“Khalil?” said the Mason.
“The same, even though his father thought he was worthless.”
“So much the worse for us. Qalawun had the wisdom of his years. He could be reasoned with. Khalil will need to prove his strength.”
The three men sat around the table talking. After an hour Olav’s wife appeared and laid out a simple meal. As they ate the faces of Olav’s children peered around the door.
“We have no shortage of rooms for you,” said Olav as darkness fell. “The pilgrim business is not what it was.”
“How is it to farm this land?” asked Salvatore.
“Farming? Don’t talk to me about farming. The first year we planted we had a drought, everything died. The next year we had locusts and everything was eaten. Disasters,” said Olav.
“But this year has been good, no?” said Salvatore.
“A bumper crop,” said Olav shaking his head sadly. “Do you know how bad for prices a good harvest is? Terrible.”
The laughter of the three men floated out over the olive trees and rows of ripening crops, the light from the farmhouse a pinprick of life in the dark valley. None of the other buildings in the valley showed any light at all.
Five hundred paces from the farm, a line of silent horsemen sat watching and listening.
“At dawn,” said their leader.
Questions
“Nice aircraft,” said Sparke, looking around the first-class cabin. The airline used the word, “smoother” in all its advertising, and everything that the staff did was focused around making the experience of international flying as painless and as smooth as possible.
“So how did you propose then?” said Tilly.
Sparke struggled for a moment to connect his comment about the airline to Tilly’s question, then decided that it wasn’t worth the effort.
“Proposed as in when I was married?”
“Uh huh,” said Tilly.
“OK, well… that’s a new topic. Let me see. I think that one of her friends said that we were a great couple and that she thought we were going to get married. After that it just, sort of, became something that seemed inevitable. We went out together, then she moved into my flat more or less full-time, then it seemed that everyone we knew just started mentioning it somehow.”
“You just, what, woke up married one day without realizing it?”
“It wasn’t an accident, just that a few other couples got married and, well, it seemed like our turn or something.”
“That’s right, you drifted into it, you mentioned that,” said Tilly.
Sparke turned in his seat to look directly at Tilly then said, “You seem to be asking a lot of questions about my very short and not very interesting marriage.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. What do you want to know? Ask me anything.”
“What was she like?”
“She was, and still is, a nice person.”
“Would I like her?”
“I expect so,” said Sparke. “She seems to like you well enough.”
Tilly put down the tablet she had been holding. “What do you mean?”
“She told me she liked you. You met her when you came to my old office in Munich, I introduced you to her. Birgit.”
Tilly sat bolt upright. “Birgit? She was one of the women I met in your office. Was she the tall one with the short blond hair?”
“That’s her,” said Sparke. “She thought you were very nice, she made a point of telling me.”
“I can’t believe you never told me that was her.”
“How would I have done that? ‘Tilly, this is Birgit. She’s in charge of risk evaluation on chemical production and transportation and also my former wife,’ something like that?”
“Afterwards, you could have told me afterwards.”
“Why would I have done that? You and I were just working together then. I had no idea we would get together.”
Sparke paused, then said, “Actually, that’s not true. More accurate to say that I had no idea that you would ever be interested in me. I never thought I stood a chance.”
Tilly stared at Sparke for a moment, then said, “You just said one thing that makes me think you are strange and one thing that makes me think you are a wee bit lovely. As soon as I decide how I feel about that I’ll let you know.” She went back to looking at her screen.
In the cockpit, a few meters ahead of Sparke and Tilly, the pilot and co-pilot looked at the weather warning. The storm was moving south quickly. They could take an alternative route to miss the worst of the weather, but there was still no way to avoid hitting some turbulence. The trip would not be so smooth. The pilot set a course that would take the aircraft to the north of the storm’s center skirting the coast of Turkey, and then sent the new course to flight control.
As part of the airline’s focus on a smooth customer experience, it was policy to let the passengers see the pilots when possible. Flight crew made a point of occasionally walking the length of the aircraft, nodding, smiling and making eye contact with as many paying passengers as they could. With some bumpy weather ahead, the pilot decided to show himself. He called a member of the cabin crew into the cockpit and set off for a short walkabout to inspire confidence.
Dawns and departures
“You will see the road better if you wait an hour for the sun,” said Olav.
The Mason shook his head, saying, “We need to get ahead of the day. If we make good time we can make Acre before nightfall.”
Olav reached up and patted the neck of the Mason’s horse. “It may be a long time before I see the face of a friend again. Let me mark the moment,” he said. He reached down to the ground then passed a canvas sack to the Mason.
The Mason took the sack and looked inside. “I cannot take this,” he said.
“It is for you, it’s of no use to me now. I mean it, if you don’t take it, it will be on the fire to heat up my breakfast.”
“This is the same one?” said the Mason, looking at the crossbow which he took from the sack.
“The only one,” said Olav.
The Mason cradled the weapon in his hands. This was the crossbow that all others had been measured against as he had been trained as a Templar. No one had ever out-shot Olav in speed or accuracy. It was useless to Olav now, a weapon like this could kill a man, perhaps two, but it was not going to keep him safe. Surviving in this valley would depend on more than weapons of war.
“It will have a good home with me,” said the Mason. “I will look after it until you ask for it.”
“Safe travels,” said Olav, “and to you my friend, Salvatore. I hope the Mason here proves as good a friend to you as he has been to me.”
“We will meet again, Olav,” said Salvatore. “I will show you how we cook mutton in Tuscany. A good osso buco will make you forget pork sausage for a lifetime.”
The two Templars pushed their mounts into a slow walk westwards. Olav said nothing when he saw that their pack animals were now behind them, not in front. They were riding at the half-ready, not wearing shields or helmets, but arms and legs in plate and weapons slung on their backs. They were right to take such precautions and Olav was glad that they were leaving before sun up.
Crossing the valley was an enough easy task as the road was clear enough for the horses to follow without much guidance, and the last of the moon gave the Mason and Salvatore enough light to keep Mont Sulpice in view to their north.
As the flat valley rose into the hills the Mason stopped. Reaching Acre in one day with a single mount took care and good pacing. The first light of dawn was touching the landscape around them, bringing the farms and neat olive groves into relief.
“A good place for a man to settle,” said Salvatore. The Mason said nothing, gazing across the vall
ey. Salvatore followed his gaze, wondering if his friend and leader was having his own dreams of working a farm, of having a wife.
The road they had come by was marked by a line of young cedar trees planted by Olav to mark his field and to cool the breeze that swept up the valley to his farm. It was a strangely European feature in this Arab landscape.
There was movement among the trees; dark spots were shifting. Salvatore blinked and peered closely across the valley.
“Movement,” he said quietly. “Men on horseback by the trees at the farm.” Both men watched as the dots moved up the road and through the farm gate. Neither of them spoke, there was no need. Civilians did not ride in column, and they did not arrive at dawn.
The Mason turned his back on the scene, facing up into the hills.
“We have a long road ahead,” he said, walking to his horse. Salvatore watched the farm for a few moments. He saw the tiny figures spread out around the farm building. A figure appeared from a door and walked towards the men. A moment later the walking figure crumpled to the ground. Salvatore turned and followed the Mason.
Their path snaked up the hillside, often switching back and forth as it wound its way up to the high pass. Neither man spoke as they glanced back at the farm. It was too far now to make out the figures, but both saw the thin line of smoke rising from the farm as it burned.
As they crested a ridge, Salvatore looked down at the valley road.
“A dozen, no more,” he said as he saw the figures follow the road they had taken. The two Templars, clad in chain mail and accompanied by their pack horses, were making little better than walking pace. Neither made any move to speed up.
“We will be beyond the Pilgrim Gate before they reach us,” said the Mason.
The Saracens kept a regular pace as they followed the Templars, one rider well ahead of the rest.
As the path narrowed, hemmed in by rocks at either side, the riders slowed, then stopped. Salvatore watched as the lead horseman spurred his mount through the tightest part of the pass, stopped at the far side where the ground began to open out, then turned and rode back slowly.
A moment later the head of the column appeared through the pass. The Mason and Salvatore waited until the first two men were through before they started killing. At twenty paces an iron headed crossbow bolt could pierce the heaviest armor; the light breastplates of the Arab soldiers were no protection.
Salvatore fired the first of the three weapons and passed it back to the Mason who began the laborious process of recocking it as Salvatore fired the other two. Even as he fired, Salvatore noted the smoothness of the mechanism of Olav’s bow. As the third bolt flew, Salvatore reached back to take the reloaded weapon from the Mason. Four bolts, four dead Saracens.
The mouth of the narrow pass was now choked with kicking horses and dying men. Behind the mess, Salvatore and the Mason could hear shouting from the rest of the column as they tried to push through the chaos.
The walls of the pass were ten feet high on either side. The two Templars could hear the noise of Arab weapons being drawn as they sprinted around the rocks.
The rear-guard rider was twisting backwards in his saddle looking at the path behind him when the Mason dropped on him from above, snapping his neck. Halfway along the column Salvatore dropped amongst the Saracens and killed the riders in front and behind him before they could raise their swords.
Clad in full armor, the two Templars were all but immune from the light Arab swords. They ground their way towards each other along the line of Saracens in grim, silent slaughter. Both used their heavy swords at the half, one hand on the pommel the other grasping the blade halfway along its length, thrusting forward in short stabs, only occasionally wielding their weapons above their heads in devastating downward cuts.
The armor which he and the Mason wore was designed for mounted men riding at the spearhead of a cavalry charge, it was not best suited for close quarter combat in enclosed spaces. The sound of his own breathing filled Salvatore’s ears, and his vision was limited to the narrow slit in the one-piece helmet. Several times he staggered under the blows of light Saracen cavalry swords, but none could pierce the steel.
He fought by numbers: three thrusts to his front followed by a half step forward. In this way the men at the front of the column were pushed back onto their fallen comrades, those to the rear forced onto the point of the Mason’s sword. Salvatore kept his thrusts short, never overextending himself, never exerting himself more than needed.
The ground under his feet became slippery as the blood pooled on the hard stone of the pass. The pile of corpses was now so deep that Salvatore was forced to climb over it to reach the few survivors at the front of the pass. Abandoning any attempt at disciplined swordplay, he now stood on the bodies and simply hacked down at anything still standing. When the last movement stopped he clambered, exhausted, over the corpses towards where the Mason was fighting the last the surviving Arab soldier.
Realizing that he was caught between the two knights, the Arab climbed onto the back of his horse and reached for the lip of the wall. The Mason struck his mount with the flat of his blade, making the horse rear and bringing the man spinning to the ground. For a few desperate moments the man scrambled between the stamping hooves of the horses ducking to avoid the swords of the Templars, but there was no escape in the tight confines of the Pilgrims Gate. He was the last to die.
The Mason and Salvatore stood, blood covering them from head to foot, surrounded by the bodies of the slain. They looked over the mayhem they had created and, seeing no human movement, removed their helmets.
Both were panting heavily. The Mason leaned on his sword, Salvatore stood with his back resting on the wall of the pass, his sword in one hand, his blood coated helmet in the other.
The Mason reached down and pulled a riding cloak from one of the dead men and began to clean the blade of his sword.
Salvatore reached for the dagger at his belt and walked among the horses. He cut the saddles from the living, setting them loose. He watched as the horses walked calmly out of the pass, leaving bloody hoof prints in their wake, then turned back to put those too wounded to survive out of their misery.
The Mason inspected the bodies of the dead men.
“No bedding or packs,” he said. “Their army is no more than a day behind.”
Salvatore looked at the Mason, then said, “Do you want to go back to the farm?”
The Mason finished cleaning his sword and dropped the sodden rag to the ground.
“His neighbors will bury him,” he said as he inspected the blade edge of his sword.
Front
Two million cubic meters of warm, dry air burst out from the belly of the storm. It raced upwards through the surrounding cold air, gaining speed as it rose.
At thirty thousand feet, Sparke’s and Tilly’s aircraft was starting to bounce; the food service had been suspended. Smiling and nodding, the captain reached the far end of the coach section and turned back to the cockpit.
A little rough air was no reason to worry. Pilots who received positive comments on the passenger feedback forms could be rewarded with extra leave days. Being seen as a reassuring presence by the customers was a good way to harvest good feedback. As soon as he was back in his seat, he would give them a comforting announcement on progress with just a little humor, then he would mention his name again, just to be personable.
He reached the cockpit, picked up the intercom to order the security door opened for him and the aircraft slammed into the mile-deep pocket of rushing hot air.
The nose of the aircraft was thrust upwards, instantly throwing it from level flight to a steep climb angle. By the time the pilot reached his seat he was hand-hauling himself up a slope. The co-pilot, one of the airline’s new generation, threw off the autopilot and increased power.
The first alarm went off in the cockpit. The new flight angle meant that the plane was not moving as quickly as before and the sudden loss of airspeed started a low buzzin
g alert. To increase airspeed, the co-pilot again increased power.
The captain pulled on his headset and scanned the dashboard in front of him. Apart from loss of speed there seemed nothing to concern him.
“Attention, unidentified aircraft bearing zero eight two four,” said the voice in his earphones. “Aircraft bearing zero eight two four, identify yourself.”
The pilot clicked on his transmit, saying, “This is Flight 771 bearing zero eight two four. We are a scheduled passenger aircraft en-route to Amman.”
“Be aware that you are heading into restricted airspace. Alter your flightpath immediately.”
It took a moment for the pilot to realize he was talking to a military air controller.
“This is Flight 771, we are avoiding rough weather to our south, we will alter course in,” he looked at the screen to his left, “twelve minutes to course one five three.”
There was a silence allowing the pilot to focus on the dozens of digital read-outs in front of him.
“Aircraft bearing zero eight two four, alter your course immediately, you are flying into a restricted military area.”
The pilot cursed all military air controllers silently. “This is Flight 771, we will alter course and will not enter any restricted area. Do you read?”
Again there was a silence from the other end. The pilot was as aware as any that the airspace in the eastern Mediterranean was one of the world’s hotspots. He sympathized with the unnamed ground controller.
“Aircraft bearing zero eight two four. Alter course immediately.”
Friends
People made no attempt to disguise their disgust. The quayside was crammed with porters, camel drivers, sailors and armed men, but the new arrivals had no need to jostle for space.
The boatload of knights and men at arms walked slowly down the gangplank, oblivious to the response of the crowd. Many wore linen face masks, some wore gloves, despite the heat. All wore the green cross on their tunics, the mark of the Order of Lazarus, known to many as the Leper’s Legion.
The Templar Scroll: Book six in the series Page 9
