The Templar Salvation (2010)

by Raymond Khoury

  Conrad nodded to Maysoon. He’d seen all he needed.

  They crawled back to safety, and Conrad explained his plan to her. They had a lot of preparing to do, and there wasn’t much time to do it. Conrad wanted to hit the Turks just before first light, when the men would be most weary.

  By the first hints of dawn, they were ready.

  After hiding their horses well out of view from the campsite, Conrad and Maysoon made their way back through the trees and the bushes, carrying the bundles of dried branches and rope that they’d crafted, snaking their way to their staging point overlooking the Turks’ mounts. They crouched low and watched. The man guarding the horses was still where they’d left him. He was also still awake. Not ideal, but not a disaster. Conrad had plans for him anyway. Plans that involved sneaking up on him and stuffing his forearm against the man’s mouth while slitting his throat with Maysoon’s dagger.

  Plans that went through without a hitch.

  He gave Maysoon a low “all-clear” whistle, and she joined him by the horses.

  They worked quickly and quietly, tying one bundle securely to each horse.

  Conrad glanced in the direction of the wagon. It was about forty yards away, though Maysoon would have to take a longer, arced trajectory to reach it while steering clear of her father and his men.

  Conrad nodded to her. She reached into a leather pouch she had strapped over her shoulder and pulled out the tools she now needed: a fire-steel, a C-shaped piece of hard steel with a straight, sharp midsection; a long, narrow striking stone that had a prominent groove down its center; a small, egg-sized ball of dry grass; and a patch of char cloth made of dried touchwood fungus that had been soaked and boiled in urine.

  She crouched low, turning her back to the cluster of sleeping men at the center of the campsite, and spread her tunic wide to shield her hands from any wisp of wind. She then started beating the fire-steel against the flat piece of flint, using short, choppy strokes, holding the touchwood tightly cantilevered over the edge of the striking stone. It didn’t take long for a spark to fly up onto the char cloth, and a small patch of red ember lit up within it. With an expert touch, Maysoon then tilted the char into the nest of dry grass and started blowing on it, softly. A moment later, flames licked out of the tinder. She then slid it under a mound of kindling that, almost instantly, caught fire.

  The dry grass and branches crackled in the night.

  They now had to move fast.

  “Go,” he whispered. “I’ll be close behind.”

  “You’d better be,” she whispered back. She planted a quick, hard kiss on his lips, then slipped away.

  He waited until she was about halfway to the wagon, then he eased across to the horses and untied them, quietly, one after another, all but the one that he and Maysoon hadn’t lumbered with a special treat. He waited until he saw Maysoon’s silhouette climb onto the wagon’s bench, then he pulled a cluster of branches out of the kindling and, darting from one horse to the next, he lit up the bundles he and Maysoon had tied to their saddles. One after another, they burst into flame, causing the horses to panic and rear up while whinnying fiercely, with Conrad slapping their rumps and yelling manically to set them off even more.

  The night burst to life.

  The horses charged off through the trees, galloping furiously, dragging the bundles of flaming branches close behind them like fiery Christmas tree baubles, with flames licking at their tails and their buttocks. Two other bursts of activity snagged Conrad’s attention. Through the trees, he glimpsed the wagon lurch forward and thunder away from the campsite, with Maysoon at the reins and cracking a whip, while over by the central bonfire, the Turks were on their feet and scurrying around in apparent confusion.

  Manic shouts and panicked neighs echoed around him as the balls of flame disappeared into the forest. It was time for him to get out of there. He sprinted back to the horse he’d left tethered to its tree, the one he would ride out of there. He was ten feet from it when a man sprang into his way, blocking him. It was one of the trader’s hired hands. The man drew a big scimitar. Conrad didn’t even flinch. Without slowing down, he feigned a left and ducked right instead, avoiding the wild swing of the man’s blade and plunging Maysoon’s dagger deep into his rib cage. He only stopped long enough to yank it out of him and grab the man’s scimitar, then he bolted for the horse, leapt onto it, and spurred it through the trees, hot on the trail of Maysoon and the wagon.

  MAYSOON CHARGED THROUGH THE VALLEY without looking back, her sole focus being wrangling more speed out of the two horses that were pulling her and her heavily laden wagon.

  Every bone in her body was rattling, every vein throbbing, as the open wagon bounced across the rugged trail. She needed to put as much distance as possible between herself and her father’s outfit. They’d be coming after her, of that she had no doubt, even though there was no reason for them to know who she really was. They’d have a hard time getting their horses back, but at some point, they would. The flaming balls of branches the horses were dragging would die out, and they would stop running. They might even seek out their owners themselves. She needed to give herself as big a buffer as possible and kept on whipping her horses. She knew Conrad would be faster than her. He’d eventually catch up with her. Once he did—assuming he did—they’d veer off onto a southerly heading, toward Christian land, while taking the time to cover their tracks.

  So far, so good.

  Until a pair of fleshy hands grabbed her from behind and pulled her off her seat.

  In the dim predawn light and with the frenetic, jarring pace of the wagon, it took a moment for Maysoon to register who her aggressor was, then her long hair blew off her face and a heart-stopping realization struck them both.

  It was her father.

  He’d been asleep in the back of the wagon bed, behind the trunks. And right now, he looked even more startled than she was.

  “You harlot,” he rasped as he tightened his grip around her neck, pressing her down against the trunks. “You traitorous harlot. You steal from you own father?”

  He wasn’t really giving her much of a chance to answer him. She could barely breathe. She tried pushing his arms off, but he just swatted her hands away and gave her a brutal slap, before digging his fingers back into her neck and choking her again.

  “You try to steal from your father?” he blurted again, in a mad rage. “From me?”

  Maysoon was gasping for breath. The horses were still charging ahead at full stretch, following the natural bends in the valley, and the old wagon was careening out of control, jerking and shaking violently under her as its thin, wooden wheels bounced and flew over the rough terrain. She felt her eyelids droop, felt herself blacking out, felt the world closing in around her and the darkness swallowing her up. Then one of the wheels must have hit a big rock, as the whole wagon bounced violently and swerved left and right, careening out of control before somehow straightening up and resuming its frantic charge. The jolt had knocked the trader off her, tossing him to one side, his hands coming off her neck and freeing up her windpipe. She heaved in some deep, desperate gulps and pushed herself away from him, then spun around to face him, her back turned to the horses.

  Mehmet righted himself, keeping one hand on the back of the bench for balance. “I don’t know how you thought you would get away with this,” he barked as he reached under his sash with his other hand and pulled out a curved dagger. He held it up to her, its blade horizontal and level with her eyes. “But I’ll make sure you never think that way again.”

  He lunged at her, swinging wildly, his face mangled under a furious scowl. Maysoon darted back with each stroke, ducking and bending and just managing to avoid the blade’s path. Then he suckered her with another swing and followed it with a punch that caught her on the ear and sent her crashing back down onto the canvas.

  THE TRADER SCURRIED ON TOP of her again, pinning her down on top of the canvas that covered the trunks. He had one hand clasped around her throat,
choking the life out of her, while the other hand held the dagger right up against her cheek.

  “Shame. Such a pretty girl,” he grunted as he tightened his grip on her neck—and just then, he saw her eyes flare back to life and widen in shock as they took in something behind him. He’d been so caught up in the moment that it was only then that he became aware of the loud clatter of a horse that was galloping right alongside the wagon. He twisted around in a curious daze, and the sight that greeted him threw every muscle of his into a panicked lock: Conrad, alive and unscathed, on horseback, staring right at him. He held the reins in his mouth, biting down on them through clenched teeth, which only added to the demonic glint in his eyes. Mehmet flicked a glance left to see why that was, but his brain had already anticipated what they would find: a scimitar, swooping down in a big arc, its blade slicing through the bulbous flesh of his neck.

  The trader’s face twisted with shock as he dropped the dagger and grabbed at his neck. Blood was gushing out of him, his heart still pumping away with abandon, flooding his hands. He held them up to his face and stared at them in disbelief for a moment, then something jarred the wagon again, a ditch or another obstacle that the wheels plowed into at full tilt.

  The wagon bounced wildly, bending and pitching heavily to one side, and in his weakened state, the trader lost his balance and flew over the side.

  MAYSOON SHRIEKED AS THE WAGON bucked off the ground and came back down with a heavy thud. She couldn’t see what it had hit, but whatever it was, it must have done some serious damage, as the wagon’s ride had changed dramatically. Something must have happened to its axles or to its wheels, as it was now wobbling and juddering all over the place.

  Conrad was still at full gallop, only he’d veered away slightly to avoid the runaway wagon and was now several feet off, though still alongside it. She saw him eyeing its wheels, then he looked up and caught her eye.

  “The hub’s come off,” he shouted. “The wheel’s cracked, it’s going to come off any second now. Can you grab the reins?” He was gesturing frantically with his bare forearm, indicating the horses. “You need to stop thoses horses.”

  Maysoon nodded and clambered over the trunks and onto the bench. She looked for the reins, then saw them dragging on the ground, under the drop tongue, between the two horses.

  She turned to Conrad and waved negatively. “I can’t get to them,” she yelled back.

  Before she could say another word, the wagon dropped from under her as one of the wheels, the front left one, came off. She hung on as the wagon lurched to one side then veered violently. Crossbars snapped and pins popped as the rickety conveyance flipped up and toppled over, flinging Maysoon over its edge. She hung on as it overturned, then she found herself flying off as it crashed onto its side and plowed through the parched ground before the drop tongue sheared off under the tug of the horses. The wagon lurched to a stop as the horses charged away, relishing their release.

  Maysoon hit the ground hard, rolling over several times before finally coming to rest on her back. Through groggy eyes, she saw Conrad appear beside her, leap off his horse, and hurry to her side.

  “Maysoon,” he yelled as he slid to his knees beside her. “Are you all right?”

  She wasn’t sure. She stayed down for a moment, heavy-headed, her body racked by aches and bruises, her breathing ragged, then tried sitting up, but her hand gave way under her and she toppled back.

  “My wrist,” she groaned. “I think it’s broken.”

  Conrad helped her sit up and held her hand gently. Trying to move it shot a bolt of pain up her arm. It was badly sprained or broken, but either way, it was out of action.

  She held it up to him with a bittersweet smile. “Now we’re two halves,” she said.

  He took her hand, kissed it softly, then leaned in and gave her a long, intense kiss.

  He helped her to her feet. The valley was quiet and still. There was no breeze, no movement anywhere. The sun was just creeping over the edge of a steep, bare slope to their right. It would soon get much warmer.

  The wagon lay a few yards away, on its side, broken up, a trail of wooden debris behind it. The trunks had fallen out and were scattered around it. They walked over to survey the damage. Two of the trunks were intact, but the third had split open during its fall and its contents were spewed around it.

  The horses were nowhere in sight.

  “We need to get those horses back,” she said.

  “They’re long gone,” Conrad replied, downcast. “No reason for them to come back.”

  Maysoon was about to answer when she spotted something behind him, about a hundred yards away. A human-shaped lump. She frowned and nodded it to Conrad. He turned and saw it too.

  They walked toward it together. It was the trader’s corpse, twisted around and covered in dust. They reached it and stood there, with Maysoon just staring at her dead father in silence. After a long moment, she heaved out a long sigh and said, “It’s my turn to ask you to help me bury someone.”

  Conrad put his arm around her. “Of course.”

  He used his scimitar to dig into the parched soil. Maysoon helped him with her one good hand. He didn’t say anything at first. She seemed to need to be left to her thoughts.

  After a while, he said, “Earlier, when I asked you about why you were doing this. You said if I knew you better, I’d understand. What did you mean?”

  She was still for a moment. “My father, my brother … things weren’t always like this. When I was a child, in Konya, we had a good life. My parents were good Sufis. My mother especially. She filled our home with caring and love. And I think my father was different back then too. I still have memories of them, together. But after she fell ill and died … everything changed. We left Konya. We traveled around. My father became more bitter and nastier by the day. My brother fell under the spell of the Ghazis. He’s been wanting to join them, you know. The idea of spreading the faith by the might of the blade holds great appeal to him. And my father was a clever man. He could see the way the wind was turning. He knew they’d end up conquering all these lands, and he wanted to make sure he was on the winners’ side.”

  “And you disagreed with them?”

  “You don’t know about Rumi. You don’t know what it means to be a Sufi. And for them to turn their backs on something so noble, so sublime … I couldn’t just sit back and watch them turn into these monsters.”

  Conrad nodded. “They didn’t take that well, did they?”

  She shook her head, her face flooded with sadness. “No. Not at all.”

  “Why didn’t you leave? Run away, maybe go back to Konya?”

  “You don’t think I tried?”

  He remembered the bruises and nodded, then reached out and gave her face a gentle carress. “I’m sorry it had to come to this.”

  She shut her eyes and leaned into his hand, enjoying it for a moment. Then she kissed it and pushed it gently away. “Come on. We have work to do.”

  It wasn’t the deepest of graves, but it would have to do. And Maysoon was right. They still had a lot to do.

  They had to deal with the trunks and their contents.

  They couldn’t take them with them. All they had was one horse, the one Conrad had ridden in on. They couldn’t just leave them there either. And whatever they were going to do, they had to do it fast. At some point, her brother and his outfit would recover their horses. They’d ride up the valley and find them.

  Time was running out.

  Then Conrad saw something. In the steep hill that rose up from the valley, now more noticeable under the high sun.

  Its face was pockmarked with black holes.

  Caves.

  Hundreds of them.

  They would have to do.

  It took hours, but they managed it. Conrad cut up several six-foot-square sections of the canvas cover, then used them as makeshift wraps to ferry loads of the trunks’ contents that were light enough for him to carry. Maysoon helped him divide the contents
up into manageable loads. He chose one of the upper caves, one that was big enough to crawl through comfortably and tucked out of view, and slung the packs over his shoulder and hauled them up to it, one by one. It took almost nine trips, but by the end of it, the entire contents of the chests were safely nestled in the cave, wrapped in a protective layer of canvas, out of view.

  Conrad wasn’t comfortable about leaving the wagon behind. If and when Maysoon’s brother and his men came across it, they might suspect that the consignment it held was still around somewhere. On the other hand, the Turks had no way of knowing who had attacked them, or how many they were. It had been dark, and no one had seen him or Maysoon close enough to be able to identify them. Provided the trunks were gone, Conrad felt there was a strong chance that the Turks would think whoever had attacked them had brought along enough horses to carry them off.

  As long as he got rid of the trunks.

  Which he did, using his scimitar to pry the lids off the two that weren’t broken, then lugging all three of them up in pieces, to a different cave. Once he’d done that, he used some dried bushes to sweep away his tracks from both caves.

  They could finally make a move.

  “Will you remember how to get us back here?” he asked her.

  Maysoon surveyed the valley, taking note of any landmarks that would help her identify it again. Her eyes settled on the distant mound that was her father’s grave. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t forget this place. Not soon enough.”

  He helped her onto his horse, then climbed up behind her.

  “Which way?” he asked.

  They needed to find food, shelter, and horses, camels, or mules, any kind of transport that would allow them to recover the trove and complete their intended journey. A journey that, given the deaths of Hector and Miguel, now seemed questionable.