Templar Steel

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘There is no need to stay,’ shouted Gerald, ‘there is enough time to save everyone. Get down the cliff.’

  ‘No,’ shouted Robert, ‘and if you delay any longer you will die alongside me.’ He turned around and faced the knight. ‘Be gone, my lord, and tell my father I died with God’s name on my lips.’

  ‘I gave you an order,’ roared Gerald but it was of no use. As he watched, Sir Robert and the other two knights turned to face the enemy and after making the sign of the cross upon their chests, ran towards the Saracen infantry.

  Seconds later, they smashed into the Saracen horde, cutting the enemy down with every swipe of their swords but despite their bravery, the three men were soon overwhelmed and disappeared from sight, paying the ultimate price for loyalty and honour.

  Knowing there was no more he could do, Sir Gerald lowered himself over the edge.

  Hundreds of Saracens raced across the plateau, but it was too late, most of Gerald’s men were already headed into the tangled brush on the steep slopes below and were soon lost to sight amongst the undergrowth.

  As he fell, Gerald grasped for purchase at a sapling, but it came away by the roots and he fell the last few feet to the dusty slopes before rolling uncontrollably down the hill to smash against an olive tree, his body motionless amongst others who had not survived the fall.

  ----

  Up above the Saracen foot soldiers gathered at the edge of the plateau, waiting for the order to pursue but it did not come. Shirkuh ad-Dun forced himself to the fore and peered down at the scattered bodies below.

  ‘Shall we follow?’ asked one of his men.

  ‘We will risk no more time pursuing cowards,’ said Shirkuh ad-Dun ‘for if this is the mettle of the men who deem to defend Jerusalem then there is nothing for us to fear.’

  ‘Some may survive.’

  ‘If they do, so be it. The story they carry to their king will be how they were forced to flee like frightened children. It will sow fear in the Christian’s hearts.’

  He turned away and walked back across the battlefield. More than two dozen of his own men had fallen but the Christian casualties were far higher and many still lay moaning in the dust.

  ‘See to our wounded,’ he said, ‘and bury the dead.’

  ‘What about the Christians?’ asked one of his men.

  ‘Take those who will survive as slaves but slit the throats of any who are already on the road to death.’

  The crowd of warriors stood aside as two foot soldiers dragged a beaten man across to cast him at the feet of the general.

  ‘This one still lives,’ said the warrior, ‘and will fetch a good ransom.’

  Shirkuh placed his boot beneath the chin of the man and lifted his head so he could look into the prisoner’s eyes.

  ‘’You are a knight,’ said Shirkuh. ‘And fought well. What is your name?’

  ‘I will not allow my family name to be sullied by allowing it to be spoken by your stinking mouth,’ spat Robert.

  ‘Careful, sir knight,’ said Shirkuh, ‘you may be worth a ransom, but your next words could be your last.’ He turned to the two men holding the prisoner. ‘Stand him up.’

  Once on his feet, Robert straightened up as best as he could and stared into the Saracen’s eyes.

  ‘There is no need for you to die, Christian,’ said Shirkuh, ‘the day is done and you are my prisoner.’

  ‘The day is not done,’ gasped Sir Robert, his left hand clutching at a wound in his side. ‘Return my sword and I will fight every man here or are you all cowards?’

  Shirkuh smirked.

  ‘I have heard such things many times from young men with more bravery than sense,’ he said. ‘To die needlessly is not a good thing, Christian. Cease your foolish words and accept your fate is now in my hands.’ He turned to the two men. ‘Take him away.’

  ‘What are you afraid of, Saracen?’ shouted Sir Robert over his shoulder, ‘is it because you don’t want your men to see the strength of Almighty God over your false Prophet?’

  ‘Wait,’ demanded Shirkuh, holding up his hand, and the two captors stopped in their tracks turning their prisoner to face him.

  The Saracen leader walked over to stand less than half a pace from the young knight, his breath heavy in Robert’s face.

  ‘I have met many of your knights, Christian,’ he said quietly, staring into Robert’s eyes, ‘both in battle and in parley. Most have been honourable, a few were braggarts, a minority were insolent. You, unfortunately, are amongst the latter.’

  ‘Then fight me like a man,’ gasped Sir Robert.

  ‘You know you cannot win, ‘said Shirkuh, ‘so your false bravery is nothing more than a way to seek an honourable death. Such things are earned not gifted, and to resort to such desperate means to achieve something that is not yours by right is proof you deserve no such thing.’

  Without warning his hand drew a curved knife from his belt and dragged it across Robert’s throat, opening it up like a second mouth.

  The two men holding the knight released his hands and he fell to his knees, his eyes wide with fear, hands clutching uselessly at his wound.

  ‘Honour is for the honourable,’ said Shirkuh as the young man started to choke on his own blood, ‘remember this as you die little better than a common slave.’

  ----

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Brigand Camp

  November 13th

  AD 1177

  Cronin slept fitfully. His wrists and ankles were still tied and though he had tried for hours to loosen his bonds, they remained as tight as ever. Finally, he had fallen asleep, his dreams filled with the many horrors he had seen on battlefields across England and France and he jumped in his sleep many times, haunted by memories no man should bear. Suddenly a hand covered his mouth and his eyes flew open in fear as he saw the flash of a knife within inches of his throat.

  ‘Shhh,’ hissed Hassan, and lowered the blade to cut through the binds around Cronin’s wrists. ‘They are asleep,’ continued the boy, cutting the rope around the sergeant’s feet, ‘and you have little time. Take your horse and get as far away as you can. Do not stop or rest until you are safe amongst friends for they will surely follow.’

  ‘Why are you setting me free?’ whispered Cronin. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I made a mistake,’ said Hassan, ‘and thought I could benefit by betraying your trust. I was wrong and if I allow you to die there will be no forgiveness by God for my deeds.’

  ‘Did they pay you?’ asked Cronin rubbing his wrists to regain circulation.

  ‘No, my lord, they threatened to kill my mother and sister if I did not do as they say.’

  ‘But I thought your family were dead?’

  ‘I lied,’ said Hassan, ‘another sin on my list of many.’

  ‘Where are your family?’

  ‘Held in the hills not far from here. Once you have gone. I will head there with all haste and try to set them free.’

  ‘Are they guarded?’

  ‘I know not but I must try. As soon as these men know I have betrayed them they will come after you, so I have some time but after that, they will kill my family. Now go while you still can.’

  Cronin looked over at the sleeping men. He wanted to flee with every bone in his body but knew there was something he had to do.

  ‘Hassan,’ he said, ‘the satchel with the documents from the pope, where is it?’

  ‘Forget such things, my lord,’ said Hassan, looking nervously over his shoulder, ‘they are nothing and will cost you your life.’

  ‘I was entrusted with God’s work,’ said Cronin, ‘and cannot leave without trying to retrieve that which is lost.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ hissed Hassan grabbing the sergeant’s arm, ‘the satchel has gone along with all the scrolls within. They used them to fuel the fire and now only a trinket remains.’

  ‘What trinket?’

  ‘A silver necklace with a cross of gold and gemstones. They want me to sell it in the
backstreets of Acre and give them the proceeds.’

  ‘I was not told of any such necklace,’ said Cronin.

  ‘Nevertheless, Mustapha has it secured in his purse for safekeeping.’

  ‘Then I should retrieve it.’

  ‘You are not listening to me,’ gasped Hassan. ‘These men are skilled in the ways of murder and will cut you down without thinking should they wake. You must get away from here while you can. Do not die for a bauble.’

  Cronin thought for a few moments before getting gingerly to his feet.

  ‘Your horse and sword are waiting on the far side of those trees,’ continued Hassan, pointing into the darkness. ‘Head westward until you reach the coast road then ask any farmer the directions to the nearest fortress. With God’s help, you should make it by nightfall tomorrow.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I will stay here and wake them just before dawn. I will say you escaped in the night and offer to track you down but will lead them astray until noon. After that, I will follow your trail to prove my worth.’

  ‘And if they don’t believe you?’

  ‘Then I will be dead before the sun appears over the olive trees. Be gone, master Cronin, dawn is fast approaching.’

  The sergeant paused a moment. He knew that Hassan was risking his life to set him free but as it was the boy’s fault he had been taken prisoner in the first place, it was a concern not of his making.

  ‘I hope you find your family, Hassan,’ he said eventually, ‘and I will pray for your soul. ‘But this matter is not over.’ Without another word, he disappeared into the night, determined to be as far away as he could by dawn.

  ----

  Hassan sat against the tree waiting for the sun to rise. He was tempted to run but knew the men would simply kill his family in retribution. Eventually, as the first orange hues appeared over the eastern mountains, he could wait no longer. Gingerly he lifted a rock and after hesitating for almost a minute, smashed it as hard as he dared against the side of his head.

  The pain was overwhelming, and he fell sideways to the ground, his hand pressed against the wound as he gasped in pain. He was still conscious but as the blood seeped through his fingers, he knew that it was bad and just hoped he had done no lasting damage.

  With his head throbbing, he lay still, afraid to move and though he had every intention of waking the two men with claims of being attacked, he gradually slipped into unconsciousness.

  ----

  An hour or so later, Hassan was dragged back to reality with a kick to the ribs and Mustapha’s angry voice echoing around the camp.

  ‘Wake up,’ shouted the old Arab, ‘you have let the prisoner escape.’

  Hassan groaned and tried to sit up. The pain in his head had spread down his neck and as Mustapha continued to berate him, he leaned forward and threw up into the sand.

  ‘Mustapha,’ snapped Mehedi, ‘enough. Can’t you see he has been injured?’

  ‘If he had stayed awake,’ snarled Mustapha, ‘then perhaps the Frank would not have caught him unawares.’

  ‘You do not know that for certain,’ said Mehedi, ‘let him explain.’

  ‘I was not asleep,’ groaned Hassan, taking some comfort in the fact that at least that part was not a lie.

  ‘So, he just escaped his bonds and caught you unawares,’ sneered Mustapha, ‘why do I find that hard to believe?’

  Mehedi crouched down and moved Hassan’s blood sodden hair aside to examine the wound. It was as long as two knuckles and surrounded by an angry bruise.

  ‘The boy is lucky to be alive,’ he said, ‘I have seen stronger men die from less.’

  ‘Just get him on his feet,’ said Mustapha, ‘we’ll need him to help us track the Christian.’

  ‘I need to stitch the wound,’ said Mehedi.’

  ‘Make haste,’ growled Mustapha, ‘and I’ll get the horses ready. When I am done, we ride, whether he is bleeding or not.’ He walked away as Mehedi turned back to the boy.

  ‘He is not happy, Hassan, and you should take care not to anger him further. I have seen him slit a man’s throat for a simple insult. Can you stand?’

  Hassan nodded and Mehedi helped him walk over to the stream.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Mehedi, ‘and I will get the thread. That wound is as wide as the gorge itself.’

  For the next ten minutes or so, Mehedi did what he could for the boy and by the time Mustapha rode back into the camp leading the other two horses, they were ready to ride.

  ‘Do not think I am happy with this situation, boy,’ he said, ‘your incompetence may have just cost me a purse of silver. Find the Christian and I might allow you to live but if he escapes, then you will be bound upon an ant hill, along with your family. Now ride out, I want him caught by nightfall.’

  ----

  For several hours, Hassan led the two bandits westward, following the trail left by Cronin’s horse. At first, he pretended his head was fuzzy from the injury and tried to lead them away from the true path but as the ground became more open, he knew he could delay no longer. Mustapha was already suspicious, and he had ridden his luck as long as he could.

  ‘Enough,’ called Mustapha, as they reached a stream just before midday, ‘we will rest the horses here and refill the water skins.’

  Hassan slipped from his saddle and knelt at the side of the stream to scoop water over his head, cooling his whole body down from the effects of the afternoon sun. He tilted his head back and breathed deeply. At some point, he would have to flee the two bandits and ride as hard as he could to where he knew his mother and sister were being held captive but so far, the opportunity had failed to materialise. He took another drink but as he got to his feet, his eyes widened in shock as a noose settled on his shoulders and he was jerked backwards to fall upon the floor, his fingers clutching desperately at his throat as he was dragged along the floor by the older Arab.

  ‘What are you doing?’ gasped Mehedi.

  ‘I am doing what I should have done back in the camp,’ growled Mustapha throwing one end of the rope over a branch of an olive tree, ‘killing someone who is a traitor to his own people.’ He pulled on the rope, hauling Hassan to his feet before tying the loose end around the pommel on his horse.

  ‘Stop,’ shouted Mehedi, as Hassan struggled to breath. ‘He has done nothing to deserve this.’

  Mustapha spun around and stared at his comrade.

  ‘You must be blind as well as stupid,’ growled the older man, ‘did you really believe his lies about what happened?’

  ‘Why would I doubt him? You saw the injury on his head, he was attacked.’

  ‘You believe what you will but before you defend him, explain how it can be that a man with his hands and feet tightly bound, somehow managed to crawl freely amongst us, steal a knife and then proceed to cut his binds without making as much as a sound. Then, use a rock to hit his guard yet leave his two captors alive? If you believe that, Mehedi then you are a bigger fool than I took you for.’

  ‘Do not call me a fool,’ said Mehedi, ‘I have told you before.’

  ‘Or what?’ shouted Mustapha, spinning around and drawing his sword. He strode forward and placed the point of his blade against his comrade’s throat. ‘Don’t forget it was I who found you dying in the desert, Mehedi, you were as weak as a kitten hidden away amongst the ruins waiting to die. If it wasn’t for me you would be dead or at the least, toiling as a slave for the Christians.’

  ‘I know I am indebted to you,’ said Mehedi, ‘but that does not mean I should not speak out when I think you are wrong.’

  ‘Why am I wrong? Even you can now see the Christian was helped by this traitor. Why should I let him live?’

  ‘We need him to track the prisoner,’ said Mehedi.

  ‘He was useful when the ground was hard,’ said Mustapha, ‘but out here, even my old eyes can pick up the trail. Your life is mine, Mehedi, and my actions, right or wrong demands loyalty. Declare it or draw your blade, there is no other way.’ He too
k a few paces back and lowered his sword to his side, waiting for Mehedi to make a move.

  Mehedi stared into the older man’s eyes. What he said was true, he owed him his life and, in their culture, that was a debt he would carry to the grave.

  ‘Well?’ said Mustapha, ‘what is it to be.’

  ‘I cede to your leadership,’ said Mehedi eventually, ‘and acknowledge the debt between us.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mustapha eventually and sheathed his sword. ‘Now prove it.’

  ‘How?’ asked Mehedi.

  ‘Mount the horse and ride it over to the stream.’

  Mehedi looked at the horse and then over to Hassan, still struggling to breathe as he stood on the tips of his toes to ease the pressure around his neck. To ride the horse away meant the boy would be drawn slowly up amongst the branches to choke to death. It was a horrible way to die.

  ‘I will gladly kill him if that is your wish,’ said Mehedi, ‘but let it be by my blade. That way it will be a quick kill.’

  ‘Mount the horse, Mehedi,’ said Mustapha menacingly, ‘or our alliance ends here with one of us dead.’

  Mehedi looked at the struggling boy once again and swallowed hard. He had killed men before but for some reason, his heart railed against seeing this boy die a slow and horrible death.

  ‘Well,’ said Mustapha, ‘what are you waiting for?’

  Knowing he had little other option, Mehedi walked over and mounted the horse.

  ‘Please,’ gasped Hassan from beneath the tree, ‘don’t do this.’

  ‘You should have thought about the consequences before you decided to betray your own countrymen,’ said Mustapha. ‘Now you will die the death you deserve knowing that your family will suffer the same fate in a few days.’

  ‘No,’ gasped Hassan, ‘the crime is mine alone. Please let them live.’

  ‘Too late,’ said Mustapha and turned to his comrade. ‘Ride.’

  Mehedi took a deep breath and after a moment’s pause, urged the horse forward, drawing Hassan’s struggling body up amongst the branches of the Olive tree.

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