Nevertheless, there were many more of the pirates than the small group of men in front of them, and if some fell to the spears or arrows that just meant more loot for the survivors. They pressed on, howling and cursing.
The delay was exceedingly annoying for their leader Abul-Zinad. He shouted encouragement from behind a small bodyguard who protected him from the arrows with their shields. He glanced behind him down the road and could see there were fires in the port. That meant Waqqas had kept his side of the bargain and was in control of the entire village and the port itself. Soon the wealth of the castle would be his, if only he could get past this damned barrier. They fought unlike any villagers he had previously encountered in his coastal raids, and an uncomfortable feeling began to take hold. That dog Zenos had not mentioned that the resistance would be so well disciplined and hard to overpower.
Just then the men of the shield wall began to retreat towards the castle, giving ground slowly but holding their defensive formation. “Perhaps they have had enough?” he wondered hopefully. He wanted that orderly retreat to become a rout and began to exhort his panting men, who had paused to rest. “Get up there and kill them! Look, they retreat! They give way! Allah akbar!” he shouted, and pushed his guards out of the way. It was time to lead.
Max and his men were tired. They had been pushing and shoving, stabbing and clubbing the pirates for over an hour. There was a small pile of torn and bleeding bodies in front of them and scattered about at a further distance to attest to the skill of Rostam’s bowmen and their stubborn resistance. But they needed a break, which didn’t seem to be forthcoming. Thirsty and bloody men wished they were anywhere else but this place. Then Max bellowed another order.
“Back another fifty paces. Hurry! Form up at the base of the castle!” He shouted at the men. The Franks wasted no time in obeying this welcome order.
“Rostam, keep those arrows flying. We need to delay them,” Max tried to shout, but it came out as more of a croak. He was not even sure the boy heard him. Sweat was pouring off his face, and he was drenched with perspiration underneath his armor.
“I’m much too old to be doing this any more,” he muttered to himself. “I wonder why they are so determined?” he said aloud to Palladius. “Pirates usually go for easy targets, but these savages seem dead set on getting past us.”
Palladius nodded agreement. He, too, was dry-mouthed and perspiring hard. “I agree it is unusual. They should have left by now. There isn’t much profit to be had here.”
Max glanced up at the castle walls as they moved towards their new position. One figure waved to him. It was Dar’an, and he lifted a dark looking device high and pointed to it.
“Ah,” murmured Max with satisfaction. “Now it will get interesting. Form up, men.” he called, as the pirates began racing towards them again. “Here they come. Rostam, where are our arrows?”
Rostam and his companions loosed their missiles into the screaming ranks of the advancing pirates at short range. Many of the enemy stumbled back and fell dead or wounded, no longer interested in the fight, but a dense mob of them with spears aimed ahead in a kind of arrow formation came charging straight towards the center of Max’s new wall.
Max knew a moment of real concern as he watched the screaming, turbaned crowd of fierce fighters charging towards them. These men seemed to be determined to break through and this time they might succeed, after which he could not contemplate the consequences. Rostam called over that his arrows were running short, and the men were hot and tired. Grimly Max lowered his own spear and braced for impact.
The front of the horde was a scant twenty yards away when a short, dark tube with a tendril of smoke trailing from it tumbled through the air and landed in their midst. The object actually struck a man on the shoulder and laid him out before it exploded with a flash and a loud bang. The men of the shield wall ducked instinctively and fragments of the bomb rattled off their shields and helmets. One man cried out in pain and surprise as a splinter struck his exposed ankle.
“Keep down!” Max shouted, as he cowered from the blast. A moment or two later, he peered over his shield. A small cloud of evil looking yellow smoke obscured his view. He was just in time to see something else fall from above. Dar’an had tossed a Greek Fire hand bomb, and it landed directly in the midst of the wailing, keening pack of wounded and dying men. Max gasped. It had come terrifyingly close to him and his men. Now dismembered men, some still alive and on fire, were strewn all over the road. The stench of burning flesh added itself to the already rancid stink of blood, voided bowels and fear.
A few survivors, dazed and bleeding, were staggering about. Those who had been at the back realized that the fight for the castle was over and began to make their escape.
At that moment Max made a fateful decision.
He was influenced by the sight of the still burning villages, having no knowledge of the success that Henry and Guy had enjoyed; he thought that they were in peril and that the pirates were still at large, plundering, looting and committing other unspeakable crimes. He needed to bring his men to the fight down in the valley, and the castle appeared to be secure.
“Mount up!” he shouted. “We must finish this and go to the aid of Henry and Guy. They need our help!”
Rostam and his archers, unburdened by heavy shields and armor, mounted swiftly and charged past him, racing down the slope, chasing after the pirates who fled for their lives. Some fell to the vengeful riders, while others took to the woods and trees, hoping to find refuge and eventually make their way back to their ships.
____________
Chapter 19
Assassins and Punishment
The battle grows more hard and harder yet,
Franks and pagans, with marvelous onset,
Each other strike and each himself defends.
So many shafts bloodstained and shattered,
So many flags and ensigns tattered;
–The Song of Roland
Even as the fighting was taking place on the east side of the castle, the gates located at the south side of the castle had been opened to admit the frightened villagers, who trooped into the bailey in ragged groups.
“Hurry through, we have to shut the gates!” the excited and nervous guards shouted. The men were sorted as they arrived and told to report to the battlements. But, unnoticed by the guards, another group had joined the villagers. Those few villagers who noticed the strangers and who tried to raise an alarm were slain, swiftly and silently, before they could cry out, their slumping bodies passing unnoticed in the press, as many of the villagers had collapsed in exhaustion. Now a small group of hooded men were within the bailey of the castle, mingling with the crowd that was milling about, waiting to gain entrance to the main part of the castle.
It was Junayd who noticed that something was wrong. He had been watching the crowd of refugees gathering below with half an eye. The activity on the other side of the castle to the east was taking up most of his attention, but then he noticed a small cluster of villagers making their way towards the opened gate that allowed entry to the main courtyard. Something about them bothered him. They were like…. Suddenly, he had it. Their purposeful movement through the crowd of wailing and calling villagers reminded him of the way Reza has trained the companions to move through a crowd. His instincts began to clamor.
“Shut that gate!” he shouted down to the men below. The gate men stared up at him, bewildered. “Shut it! Now!” he screamed, and then groaned as he saw one of the sentries falling aside as an assassin buried his knife in his stomach. Junayd had his bow with him. With the speed that Reza’s hardest training had instilled, he loosed an arrow which struck the lead assassin in the chest, causing him to fall back; but it was not enough to stop another from leaping forward, and then two more. Before anyone else could react, the three dark-clad men had escaped into the main courtyard of the castle. Two of the other sentries had the presence of mind to slam the gate shut in the faces of the men who tried to follow. T
he outer gates were shut and the towers manned, so there was no escape for them, but now there were some well armed and determined assassins inside the main courtyard of the castle, and they were hard to pick out among the milling villagers.
Frantically, Junayd called out again and again to Dar’an who was focussed on the fight at the base of the outer walls. Then an alert sentry called Dar’an's attention to the frantic Junayd, so he raced back along the battlements towards his friend. “What is it?” he called.
“Assassins! They are inside the castle!” Junayd shouted, pointing down into the bailey. “Some are still there before the gate!”
“Gregory!” Dar’an yelled. “Guard the people in the bailey! There are assassins among them!”
“Where are they?” he demanded, as he un-slung his bow.
They are there somewhere in the crowd.” Junayd told him, then he pointed. Three figures were slipping through the chattering villagers clustered in the main yard, heading towards the main hall.
“We must protect the women in the keep. That is where they will go! I’m sure they have come to kill our Lords,” Dar’an called out as he began to run.
Gregory mustered his men and they lined the battlements overlooking the bailey, trying to spot the intruders, who now tried very hard to make themselves invisible. It was not an easy task, for they stood out by being able bodied men, and armed. The men on the parapet pointed them out to one another, marking them.
“Gregory, use the other companions to stop them opening the gates and escaping. Now!” Dar’an yelled.
“Where have they come from?” Junayd demanded, as he and Dar’an raced towards the keep.
“I don’t know, but they look very dangerous. We have to get to the women and Reza before they do,” Dar’an gasped. His stomach was churning with fear as they ran, dodging stray children and women who dotted the courtyard.
“Get out of the way!” Junayd yelled at one mother and her child, who insisted on blocking the way, demanding attention. Other men-at-arms, seeing the two making for the keep with such urgency, began to follow them. Dar’an beckoned them to keep pace and to keep people away from the main hallway entrance.
They were too late. The three assassins ran swiftly up the steps to the keep, where they paused briefly to see where their pursuers might be. Dar’an and Junayd were ready, and their bows twanged together. One man fell with a choking cry to roll down the steps. Unfortunately, the other had just moved behind him, so Junayd’s arrow flew wide to chip the stone of the tower.
He cursed as the two other assassins disappeared into the main hall. Dar’an didn’t even pause. “Leave him to the men-at-arms,” he called, and gestured to the dying man. Three men-at-arms gathered around the fallen man. One kicked his sword out of the way and the others pointed their spears at the wounded man.
Dar’an and Junayd raced towards the archway that led to the stairs, which in turn led up to the living quarters of Talon and the families. They came across two servants lying in pools of blood, while others huddled in a terrified group off to the side. One mutely pointed to the steps. There, waiting for them, was one of the assassins. Seeing the bows drawn, he moved until he was just out of sight in the gloom of the tower steps. Anyone trying to use a bow in these close quarters would be severely handicapped, and Dar’an knew it.
He handed his bow to Junayd. “I’ll go first. See to it that you follow close.”
Junayd tossed the two bows onto one of the tables nearby and drew his own sword. “I am here,” he whispered.
“Where have you come from?” Dar’an called out in Arabic. Their opponent was darker skinned than a Latin.
“The Master sent us.”
Dar’an was incredulous, ‘The Master? The Master from Persia?”
The man snorted. “Of course not! My master. The School Teacher, El Rashid Ed Din. Are you so ignorant?” He sounded disgusted.
Dar’an and Junayd were barely listening. The third man was getting ahead while this idiot gave them a history lesson. Dar’an had an idea. He reached for a jug that was on the table near their bows, among which were other small bowls of salt. “I shall toss this at him, and then the two of us go for him. It’s vinegar,” he whispered, when Junayd gave him an incredulous look.
“Very well. We have no time, but he has.”
Dar’an put his sword, his Japanese sword, into his left hand and dived for the entrance. When he was one pace away from the steps he hurled the jug at the wall above his head to the left. The jug smashed, splattering vinegar and shards in all directions. It distracted the assassin just enough to allow Dar’an to dash up the few steps that separated them. Dar’an ducked and went onto his knees as a vicious swipe of a sword went past. The assassin cursed as his sword struck sparks off the stone wall, but Dar’an’s sword swept in low and severed his attacker’s foot at the ankle.
With a shriek of agony the man tumbled forward, to be spitted on Junayd’s sword. Junayd brutally hauled his sword from the dying youth, who rolled further down the stones groaning in agony, then he sprinted up the remaining steps after his companion to the floor above. It was eerily silent.
Dar’an cast about him wildly, trying to divine where the assassin might have gone. Huddled in a blood-soaked bundle on the floor of the corridor leading to the infirmary was one of the children’s nurses. His heart sank. Then both men heard a sound coming from the chamber that Reza occupied. Junayd slipped a long knife out of his belt, flicked it over so that he carried it by its blade, and crept forward, following Dar’an, who peered cautiously through the entrance of the half-open doorway.
Reza was lying on the bed propped up on pillows, but on the other side of the bed was Rav’an, holding his sword in the position of on guard. Crouched just behind her, Jannat was holding a chamber pot in her hands and watching the third assassin through narrowed eyes. He stood near to the end of Reza’s bed. No one seemed to be hurt so far, but that was not going to last.
“You will not come one step closer,” Jannat hissed, raising the pot.
The assassin laughed. “You know why we are here?” he demanded, with a smirk of derision at Jannat.
“To kill me…” Reza croaked.
“No, but it’s good for us that you are here. It is a bonus. We are here to disable your people and open the gates.”
“To the pirates?” Rav’an demanded.
“And others.” The youth began to make his move. He was watching Rav’an, who was holding the weapon. Reza was clearly incapacitated, and the silly girl with the pot was of no consequence. However, he was to be surprised. When he thrust his sword contemptuously in Rav'an's direction he was taken aback by her reaction. With only a very small flick of her wrists she parried and then lunged, just as she had been taught by both Reza and Talon.
The assassin danced out of the way of the deadly blade with a surprised look on his face, which was when Jannat gave a scream and hurled the chamber pot as hard as she could at his head. He had no time to react. The pot left an arcing trail of mess that splattered everywhere when it shattered right on his forehead. The assassin’s eyes crossed, but it didn’t knock him over. He staggered back, grunting with anger and pain and shaking his head, which sprayed more mess about. Then he made the mistake of putting his hand up to the cut on his forehead. It masked his view of Rav’an for a crucial moment.
At that same instant, Dar’an dived into the room with a great shout, and right behind him came Junayd, who, with a shout of his own, flung his knife with all his might at the assassin. Their shouts disconcerted the assassin just long enough. The knife flew true and buried itself in his shoulder, which made the youth howl with surprise and pain, but it didn’t stop him lunging for Reza.
Dar’an just managed to parry the blade, but it was Rav’an who whirled and slashed hard at the man’s exposed neck. That blade, which had been made by one of the finest Japanese swordsmiths in the world, slashed through the cloth wrapped around the assassin’s throat and cut deeply. The man dropped to the floor, wh
ere he floundered about for a couple of long moments before he went still.
There was complete silence while everyone in the room took in what had just occurred. Then, with a cry of relief, Jannat scrambled to her feet and ran to Rav’an, who was pale, shaking, and looked sick.
Dar’an delicately removed the sword from her trembling fingers and wiped it clean with great care before slipping it into its scabbard. He replaced the sword reverently against the wall next to Reza’s bed. He knew Reza could not bear to be parted from it.
Reza was his usual self. He wrinkled his nose. “God, what a mess!” he exclaimed, sounding indignant, and looked accusingly at his faithful followers.
“What took you two so long?” he croaked. Dar’an and Junayd merely shook their heads and grinned at him. “We were somewhat delayed, Master,” Dar’an murmured. At that moment Theodora appeared in the doorway, having heard the commotion.
“What…?” She gasped at the sight of the dead man lying in a pool of blood at the foot of the bed.
“We had a visitor,” Reza explained, “and I am covered with shit and piss!” He wore a look of disgust on his face. “Where did he come from?” He directed this question at his men.
“The other one said they came from Rashid Ed Din,” Junayd informed him
Reza looked alarmed. “The School Teacher? What others?”
“Three of them managed to get into the courtyard. They are dead now, but we have others to deal with, Lord.” Dar’an said.
Storms of Retribution Page 30
