Peter’s face twisted in a dark grimace.
A hand patted his shoulder.
He turned with a ferocious expression.
The Desert Wolf, his face stone cold, said, “Peter, keep your eyes on the door.”
Ulf pressed his shoulder and nodded toward the task. The young man instinctively obeyed in silence.
“Remove his jacket and bandage his wound. You need to stop the blood,” Ulf said.
“You are wounded too!” She said.
“Just a scratch,” Ulf said as he smiled to Anna who hugged him.
Ivar returned from upstairs. “It’s clear, except this little soul,” he said. He was leading a scared, little boy, perhaps the same age as Anna.
“Anna, I need your help. Can you take care of this boy?” Ivar asked his princess.
She nodded.
“You are so brave, little girl,” the falconer said.
“I missed you, Uncle Ulf.” She had been smiling from the moment she had seen him. She hugged him again, she hugged Ivar, and then she went to the scared boy.
“What’s your name?”
Under the sniffles and some tears, the children started their friendship. While they were talking, they went and sat near Isabella.
Ulf nodded at Isabella, who now took care of the children and the wounded knight. Battle was coming and the rest of the party needed to figure out how to escape this mess.
Peter was at the door, watching the rain and how the enemies gathered, preparing to attack the building.
“It’s bad,” the young man said.
Ulf grinned.
“We can try to sneak out from a window on the eastern side to the river,” Ivar said as he turned his gaze toward Hamo and the children.
“But to swim in this rainstorm, in the dark ….”
“…it’s suicide.” Peter finished the sentence.
Ulf turned to the orphan.
“We have to go out. We must surprise them while they are sleepy. Come!”
Regardless of the enemy’s numbers, the Wolf always acted as a predator, as a hunter—never a lamb.
“After a few minutes, you have to follow us, we'll attract their attention so you can escape,” the Wolf said.
Ivar nodded.
Peter followed him. He looked at his friend in the arms of the lady and felt a pain inside.
Ulf opened the door and stepped outside, into the rain. Peter Longsword followed him and closed the door behind him. Was he mad?
The young man and Ulf stood, shoulder-to-shoulder, against the inner yard’s occupants. Next to him, Peter felt this man had the power of ten men, the courage of twenty soldiers, and the speed of an eagle.
The legendary warrior raised his eyes. His fist became white from holding the pommel of his sword. The blade was hungry, as was his soul. Someone had to pay for his loss and the prize would be a bloody one, Peter thought.
No one could stop Ulf from taking his revenge, he thought. Only death. But no one could evade death. Death was certain, and so was the pain.
Ulf’s face was hard as stone, and the determination drawn on it could make even Death avoid him tonight. He was holding his one-handed Danish axe, and his sword was on his left. Peter remembered about their talk for training and Ulf’s teacher. The importance to use his two hands, to be more prepared than the other men. Peter glanced at the Wolf, he looked prepared.
Ulf looked forward.
The enemy had nowhere to hide.
The orphan observed the expression and readiness of the experienced killer next to him. Peter’s own mood was darker. But he was also scared as he knew how many soldiers were in the fortress. The dark mood of desiring the death of his friend was burning his chest—he never thought such things before. But that thought made his fear disappear. Peter drew his sword—the sultan’s gift, the sword of his father, William Longsword—from its scabbard. Somehow, it felt like a natural extension of his hand. But the weapon was useless without its master as Ulf had told him before.
Peter looked forward, too.
“Protect your back, lad, and never hesitate. Remember, do not play with the prey; move fast, aim at their weak points: the neck, the limbs, the armpits. Every single strike must deliver pain, wounds, or kills. The screams of wounded and mutilated men bring fear and terror to the hearts of the others,” Ulf said.
The Wolf and his dog stepped forward.
Suddenly, everything turned slow around Peter. He felt as if he could evade the rain drops in the dark. Soldiers were gathering in the yard, organized by the assassin. They were arming themselves in the rain; some were putting on armor, while others did not; they looked like children searching for their toys. It was chaos. They were surprised by the fact that two men approached them.
Peter saw that the Mamluks did not seem concerned. The Wolf and his follower ran toward them, with a purpose to deliver their message.
***
“We must find a way out,” Ivar said, looking out through the door.
Hamo’s wound was bandaged, but his face was pale. He had lost a lot of blood. Still, his confidence was high around Isabella.
“Let’s follow them,” Hamo suggested.
“Are you crazy?” Isabella asked. “You are injured and we have two children with us.”
“He is right,” Ivar said. “We still have the element of surprise. And the rain and darkness will help cover our actions.”
“But how …?”
“You heard Ulf, we have to go,” Hamo stood and touched her left cheek. She saw the blood on his hand and stared at him silently.
“Aren’t we going after Uncle Ulf?” Anna asked. She held the boy’s hand, introducing him. “His name is Rave.”
“Yes, darling, just a moment,” Isabella said.
Hamo retrieved his knife from one of the dead knights and held his sword. “We must force our way out. The faster we move, the better our odds.” He bowed his head and kissed her. “I was so scared about you.”
“I’m fine,” she placed her hands around his neck. “But now I am scared for you.”
Hamo stepped aside, took a shield from the dead knight near him and grinned.
“Don’t worry, I’ll survive.”
The sultan’s daughter hugged her ostringer and gave him a smile.
“I knew you would follow us, with Uncle Ulf.”
“But now we must hurry, my little princess.” Ivar’s voice was gentle. “We must go through the rainstorm. It is cold and dark. Can you handle it?”
“Of course,” she said, smiling at him. It seemed as if captivity hadn’t left a mark on her vividness. “But can we take Rave with us?” She looked at the scared boy behind her. Somehow, she had managed to make him trust her.
The severe man with the aquiline nose smiled back.
“Of course, we will take him.” Ivar turned and asked the trembling boy, “You are not afraid of the dark, are you?” The boy was dressed in rags, his skin was dirty, and his brown eyes looked scared but curious. The boy nodded and huddled together with his new friend.
Ivar and Hamo looked at each other.
“I’m ready,” the lord from the Welsh Marches said.
“So, let’s go,” Ivar said and pushed the door open wide. “Whatever happens, you stay with me, Anna.”
The little girl nodded and took the hand of the man. They went outside and their feet slapped on the wet ground. The rain was singing its song savagely, kissing their faces. The night almost managed to hide what lay on the wet soil; the rain washed the blood away.
Two figures were standing twenty feet ahead, darkened from their deeds, and smiling like a pair of wet cats. Dead bodies were strewn all over the inner yard.
***
Peter and Ulf stood under the stone arch, blocking the entrance to the yard to cover the others while they found a way out. Peter first thought that Hamo, Ivar, and the rest would leave the way they had entered, but then realized that climbing wet stone walls was perhaps beyond the princesses. He smiled at his own
naivety. He hoped they would manage to survive.
They had succeeded in killing a dozen soldiers. It had been easy. But that was only the inner yard—there remained the courtyard and the Bedouins outside. They had only three strong men who could fight.
They needed a miracle, and they needed it fast.
Ulf ordered Ivar and Isabella to get up on the stone wall of the fortress with Hamo and the children. “Run between the embrasures and arrow loops. Watch your step. We are coming right after you.”
Another group of mail warriors with spears and swords approached from the courtyard. Behind them, another party was awakening. Al-Rida was trying to rouse the sleeping men to attack the entrance that Peter and Ulf guarded.
“Give me that spear, Longsword,” Ulf said, wiping the rain from his temple.
Peter passed it to him and watched the man cut some of its length with his axe, effectively turning it into a throwing javelin. The Wolf aimed and threw it. It was a hard shot in the rain but his throw was powered by his desire of killing all who stood against him.
Al-Rida’s eyes tracked the incoming threat. It was a hard blow dispatched toward the traitor. The spear point hit him from one side, close to the left shoulder, although the rain had managed to minimize the strength of the throw. The weapon glanced over the mail shirt hidden under his leather vest. Though the spear didn’t pierce it, the hit was hard enough to knock him down.
The man who had deceived them all fell in the mud. The Saracen stood; he was shaken but managed to mount a horse and vanish into the darkness.
The Mamluks lined up against the men guarding the inner yard while another group tried to cut off the path of the fugitives on the wall. A tall, middle-aged Mamluk captain with black hair on his helmetless head commanded his men. He led them and approached Ulf. He was only ten steps away.
“Surrender! Put down your weapons!”
Ulf didn’t say a thing. His arm moved in a blur and, before Peter could fully register the movement, the Wolf’s knife was sticking in the captain’s throat. The distance was close enough that the man didn’t have a chance to react. He fell on his knees, slowly, his hands trying to hold his throat, but the weapon had broken his trachea and his blood mixed with the rain. His face met the mud and death.
The other Mamluks hesitated. Who was so bold and dared to oppose so many of them and to kill their captain? Another officer stepped from the ranks.
“Who are you?”
Ulf didn’t answer him. He turned his back and spoke to the orphan.
“Remember, Peter, anyone who gets past me, kill him. Do not hesitate. This is not a game!”
“Who are you?” the Mamluk asked again. He looked younger than the previous officer.
Ivar led the children and Isabella toward the stone wall on the left and started to climb the wet stairs. Ulf turned to see where they were. “Ivar! Take the children and the woman out of here.” It was not a request. The falconer nodded as if he had received an order to buy supper.
“As you command, Diyaab al-Sahra!” Ivar said.
“Diyaab al-Sahra?” The Mamluk was confused. But not the rest of the squad—they hesitated. There were almost twenty of them, many of them younger soldiers. He was sure the soldiers had heard stories about the Desert Wolf from older soldiers which made them hesitate to engage the famous warrior. A legendary opponent stood before them. Fame was waiting to be won, as well as respect.
Peter felt again how everything turned slow around him. He thought he could see the raindrops falling, one by one. He could see through the moves. It was a strange feeling for him. He held his sword and a round Mamluk shield he had taken from the first wave they had attacked. He wasn’t accustomed to using a sword and shield yet. The morning lessons he had taken with Hamo had given him some confidence at the time, but he didn’t feel that way now. Still, the shield gave him some protection.
Peter witnessed what a reputation could do. It drove ambitious young soldiers forward, toward risk. It filled them with the desire to win the fight. Twelve Mamluks couldn’t resist the temptation and attacked the Wolf, trapped in the rain storm in their yard. They marched, practically ran toward him, trying to catch him off guard. The sound of their feet splashing the mud and the freshly-formed puddles added a strange element to the night of sounds.
Diyaab al-Sahra waited for them as raindrops dripped from his forehead. The orphan’s heart was beating in his chest. The Mamluks were approaching him with naked swords and war cries.
Peter saw their eyes were focused at Diyaab al-Sahra.
And the first Mamluk, a bulky man, thrust his weapon toward Ulf.
But it was not the sound of the clash of the weapons which echoed; it was the sound of fury and skill. Ulf was so fast. He stood, restless, then—when the enemy was just a few steps away—he suddenly lunged forward. The enemies were running in rows of four, but the first one was a chest ahead. The Wolf pointed toward him. He raised his hands, holding his weapons, and caught him with his axe. The blade met the neck of the first, crushing it with the combination of speed and ferocity. Ulf dragged him and pushed the doomed soul toward the next arrivals. It happened so fast, and the Wolf didn’t try to evade enemy’s attacks. He moved quickly, knowing exactly where to stand, to stab or to cut.
Like a hot knife through flesh, his blade twisted and splashed. Sounds of broken bones and screams cut the night. Ulf was merciless, delivering pain and wounds with every move. Some of the waves of Mamluks tried to surround him, but he was three steps from the arch which formed a narrow passage. One man almost succeeded in wedging himself next to the Wolf, but he kicked him toward Peter who was behind Ulf, leaving him to the mercy of the young man.
The orphan saw the fear in the Mamluk's eyes. The soldier was young as him. Peter knew what must be done, but he hesitated, thinking.
“Kill him!” The harsh shout erupted from the warrior in front of him. Ulf didn’t miss the attackers in front. Peter knew that if he didn’t act, they were doomed.
The orphan was a bit clumsy at first, but he put the sword deep into the chest of the Mamluk, looking into the dying man’s eyes as he did it. Even the darkness of the night and rain, he saw the fear drawn on his eyes and felt his pain.
The Desert Wolf was unstoppable, nobody got past him, and his weapons delivered death. He used his axe in combination with his sword very skillfully. One man fell with a crushed skull, another attacker hit the mud with a severed limb, a third was pierced directly between his armor and chin. Fountains of blood danced with the rain.
The northern warrior knew his trade. With every step and every move, another soul was released or mutilated. Ulf was darkened from the flying blood. The rain tried to wash his face and attire, but there was always more coming.
Ulf was like an overwhelming plague. If he caught you, you were finished. The hesitation between the Mamluk lines was growing as the lines were coming more slowly. Diyaab al-Sahra was doing his work and his follower, the black-haired young man, finished everyone who fell behind him. The fight was surreal, the rainstorm and lightning adding drama to this wet, bloody, dark clash. It looked as if Ulf were enjoying it.
Peter felt exhausted from the killing. The heaviness of his wet clothes and the tiredness of the fighting was drained his strengths. Although Ulf and he fought in the narrow part to the arch that allowed only a few people to face them, still the Mamluks were too many. They regrouped and another line of twenty men advanced.
Hamo came down from the wall, drew his sword, and joined the fight with fresh fury and savagery. He stood on the right side of Ulf as Peter was on his left. The lord from the Welsh Marches struck his shield over the head of a Mamluk who tried to stand from the mud and kicked him in the ribs after he fell.
“Why are you still here?” Ulf shouted.
“We are trapped,” Hamo said. Peter glanced up quickly to see Ivar and Isabella were left on the parapet wall with the children. A small group of four soldiers blocked their path and approached them.
But the
falconer was a skillful fighter, too. He used a spear to pierce the first attacker, then, without releasing the blade, he pushed the spear and the attacker aside, sending the four men toppling over the side of the stone wall. Another four Mamluks stood before them.
“Damn it!” Peter held his sword tight. Their only option was to fight to the end.
Ulf’s cold eyes turned to the next wave of warriors ready to attack. He met the first with a false move to the left and suddenly swung his axe to the right. There was a sound of the skull below the man’s eye being crushed and a splashing of blood and brain which hit the next attacker’s face. Then Ulf turned, using the back of his axe to hit the second man’s shield arm. A scream followed, and another piercing move—this time with his blade to the ribs of the third assailant. Ulf evaded the attacks of the enemies with confidence. He moved like a predator in his prime, using all his abilities to dispatch death and to deliver his message to the opponent.
Lightning lit up the sky; a few moments later the sound hit the ground and the last victim fell under the Northman’s axe.
Silence replaced the fight.
Even the dying cries had stopped. Peter caught his breath. There were still many Mamluks in the yard. The enemy was watching them. They were the three men who guarded the entrance to the inner yard—the Wolf, the orphan, and Hamo— sword brothers in the rain, Peter thought and grinned to no one particular. He looked at his companions. Their eyes held nothing but a fighting spirit, which made the Mamluk soldiers stop to regroup again. The rushing attacks hadn’t delivered anything significant except death for their fellows.
Peter wiped the water from his forehead. Hamo did the same. Ulf was like a rock; he didn’t show any sign of fatigue. He looked like a man who encouraged the enemy. Evil desire lit his face as if he enjoyed the killing. This scared the orphan. The Desert Wolf was merciless, brutal, fierce, fast—he butchered the enemies like cattle. He turned so fast, swinging his weapons in his hands in the rain, ruthless. The rain mixed with copious amounts of blood. This scared the young man more.
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 32
