Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (16 page)

“Owein!”

Will whipped around and saw Elwen bending over Owein. He pulled the falchion free and ran. Elwen was holding Owein’s head in her hands, screaming his name over and over. The dagger was protruding from Owein’s chest, buried up to the hilt, and a bubble of blood had burst on his lips, staining them like wine. His eyes were open. Will stared at his master, then looked down at the falchion in his hand. There was a wide smear of blood on the short blade. He felt bile rise in his throat as Elwen’s screams rang in his ears. He dropped the sword and sank to his knees beside her. Grabbing her shoulders, he tried to pull her back to quiet her. Her hands were covered in blood.

“Come away!”

She carried on screaming.

“Elwen!”
he shouted, dragging her back.

Her hands slipped from Owein’s cheeks. His head rolled back.
“No!”
she shrieked, pounding Will with her fists.
“No!”

Will took hold of her wrists and drew her to him, enfolding her tightly in his arms, almost crushing her. Over her shoulder, Will stared at Owein’s face: his slack mouth, his unseeing eyes.

K
utuz sat on his throne, watching the east flush pink with the sun’s arrival. It would be a good morning for hares, possibly even boar. The camp was stirring. Men rolled up their blankets, broke their fast and tended to their horses. The five governors and six Mu’izziyya he had summoned for the hunt were waiting at the entrance to the pavilion. Of Baybars, there was no sign.

Kutuz rose from the throne, stepped down from the platform and across the grass to where his pages had spread his prayer mat. He turned toward Mecca as the first rays of sun flamed in the sky. And all the men of his army did the same. The song of their words drifted across the plain.

“Bismillah arrahman arraheem. Alhamdulillah, rabb al ’alamin. Arrahman arraheem. Malik yawm addeen.”

When he had finished, Kutuz, kneeling on the ground, touched his forehead to the grass, breathing in the damp, green smell. He sat back and saw three figures heading toward him. Kutuz frowned as he saw Omar and Kalawun at Baybars’s side.

“Amir,” he called, standing.

Baybars bowed. “My lord.”

“The invitation was for you alone, Baybars,” said Kutuz with a quizzical smile at Omar and Kalawun.

Baybars appeared surprised. “My apologies, Lord Sultan. I didn’t realize the hunt was to be a private affair.” He turned to Omar and Kalawun. “Leave us.”

“Wait!” called Kutuz, holding up his hand. “There’s no need. Your officers are welcome to join us, Amir.” He smiled. “I’m sure there will be enough quarry for us all.” He gestured to his pages. “Saddle two more horses.” Kutuz moved over to his white mare. “Let us ride!” he called to the party. Just before he mounted, the sultan took his light hunting spear from one of the Mu’izziyya and leaned in close. “Tell the others,” he muttered, “there will be three deaths today.”

As the hunting party rode out of the camp and headed north, the land turned golden in the morning sun. Their horses leapt over narrow streams and sliced a path through the cotton fields, which had been thinned by the recent harvests. The farmers, who were out gathering the last crops of autumn, looked up and watched as they passed.

Kutuz eased himself into the rhythm of his horse, gripping the flanks of the mare with his knees and feeling the breeze dry the sweat on his skin. They had been away for four months, but it felt much longer. When they had left Egypt, the Nile floods were just beginning: the river rising up to engulf the Delta and swelling the streams and canals. The waters had since receded leaving a land that was flat and green in every direction. He had returned home triumphant and by tomorrow night all Cairo would ring with his name.

The party approached the glittering waters of Lake Manzala, passing reedy lagoons and gnarled copses of trees, sending storks and wildfowl flying up as they crashed through the undergrowth. Down on the shores where the grass was short and spongy, buffalo were grazing. Two of the men shouted as they spotted the first hares vaulting over the grass toward the waters, agile bodies rising and falling, brown against the green. Kutuz took up the cry and the men gave chase, thin spears raised. Three of the governors cantered ahead to round up the hares, and soon the air was filled with whoops and cries as one by one the animals were killed. Kutuz let fly his spear, the tip piercing the last of the hares, which flopped to the ground and lay still.

Baybars wheeled his horse around beside Omar and Kalawun as the sultan dismounted and the Mu’izziyya spread out to gather their catch. Baybars slid from his horse. “Are you ready?” he asked them, his gaze on Kutuz.

“Yes, Amir,” replied Omar, jumping down and closing his hand around the hilt of his saber.

Kalawun nodded.

Aqtai wandered idly to the platters of food that had been laid out on the board. The tent was hot and stuffy and he fanned himself with his hand as he picked up a piece of meat and popped it into his mouth, sucking the grease from his fingers. His white silk robe clung in limp folds to his fleshy body, and there were two damp circles under his arms. He sighed and closed his eyes as a welcome breeze filtered in behind him, then cried out as he felt something sharp dig into his back. His cry was muffled by a hand that clamped tightly over his mouth.

Aqtai blinked in terror as he heard a voice hiss in his ear.
“Be silent!”
The point in his back dug deeper and he nodded frantically. As the hand was removed, slowly, from his mouth, he turned to see Khadir grinning at him. The soothsayer was pointing a gold-handled dagger at him.

“What are you doing?” Aqtai motioned to the tent opening with a shaking finger and tried to puff himself up. “Get out!” He was dismayed to hear the words come out as more of a squeak than a command.

Khadir twisted the dagger between his fingers, the ruby embedded in the hilt capturing the light in its crimson depths. “My master sent me.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “He has a message.”

“What message?”

Khadir darted toward him and brought the blade to a stop inches from Aqtai’s stomach. Aqtai stepped back and knocked into the board behind him, upsetting a jar of wine. “Please,” he begged, “don’t kill me!”

“When my master returns from the hunt, he asks that you meet him in the royal pavilion.”

“What does Amir Baybars want with me?” stammered Aqtai, his eyes locked on the dagger.

“Amir Baybars has gone.” Khadir giggled. “It isn’t him you will be meeting.” He traced the dagger lightly up Aqtai’s stomach, the tip nicking the fine silk threads. He stopped it at Aqtai’s chest. “You will meet
Sultan
Baybars.”

“What do you—?” Aqtai stopped, his eyes widening.

“You will greet him at the royal pavilion and bid him sit upon the throne as Sultan of Egypt and ruler of the Mamluk army.”

“No!”
Aqtai’s voice rose. “I’d see Baybars hang first!” He bolted to the left, the dagger tip scratching a red line through his skin, and made a dive for the entrance.

Khadir was before him in an instant, shoving him to the ground with a strength that startled him. Khadir stood over the sultan’s chief of staff and drew back his soiled robe, revealing the dead body of the hare he had caught that morning, which was tied by the ears from his waist with a cord.

Khadir yanked the animal from the cord and held it up over Aqtai, who was sprawled on the rug, panting. “I give a name to this creature. The name of Aqtai.” Khadir lifted the dagger and sliced opened the hare’s mouth. “Aqtai shall speak only what we tell him to speak.” He hacked off one of the hare’s ears. “Aqtai shall tolerate no ill word spoken of Baybars.” He plucked out one of the creature’s eyes and dropped down, straddling Aqtai’s stomach. “And Aqtai shall see only the power of the new sultan.” He laid the hare across Aqtai’s heaving chest. “And if Aqtai fails in this…” Khadir took the dagger and made a long cut through the hare’s stomach. Blood and purple-blue entrails spilled out over his hands, soaking Aqtai’s robe. “He will die.”

Baybars moved across the grass, which was littered with hares. The party had dispersed to collect their fallen spears and Omar and Kalawun had fanned out behind the sultan. Baybars headed for Kutuz, who was picking up a hare he had killed.

Kutuz lifted the animal up by the ears. “We’ll feast well tonight!” he said, motioning to their catch. He looked around as Baybars approached. “A good hunt, wasn’t it, Amir?”

“Yes,” replied Baybars, “a good hunt.”

Kutuz looked past Baybars to the two Mu’izziyya who were behind the commander. He nodded to them. Baybars, all his attention on Kutuz, didn’t notice the guards drawing their sabers at his back. But Omar did.

“My Lord Sultan!” Omar called, drawing his own blade.

Kutuz turned to him, looking away from Baybars. His smile faded as he saw the sword in Omar’s hands.

Omar lifted the blade and glanced at the men. “Let us pay homage to our lord!” he cried, dropping to his knees before Kutuz.

The governors looked at one another, then followed Omar’s example so as not to appear discourteous, as did Kalawun. The Mu’izziyya and Baybars, who was frowning at Omar, remained standing. But after a moment, they too drew their swords in a gesture of fealty and knelt on the grass. Omar’s eyes flicked to Baybars who was on the ground, behind the sultan. He smiled faintly.

Kutuz looked down on them all, surprised.

“My lord,” said Omar softly. “May I swear my loyalty to you?”

Kutuz laughed and offered his hand. “You may.”

Omar took hold of his hand, firmly, and kissed it.

Kutuz heard a shout, then felt a fierce pain in his back. He staggered to his knees and, looking down, saw a sword tip protruding from his stomach. The sword was withdrawn and blood gushed hotly down his thighs as a terrible pain engulfed him. Around him he heard the ring of steel on steel and, dimly, through the haze of his vision, he saw Omar rise and rush forward, with Kalawun, to attack his guards. He tried to stand but his body wouldn’t obey his command and merely sagged forward uselessly. He coughed weakly and placed his palm on the damp grass, beside one of the hares. He saw a pair of boots walk into his line of sight and he lifted his head, which felt as if it were made of stone. Baybars was standing above him. The saber in his hand was streaked with blood. Baybars kicked his arm from under him and Kutuz toppled sideways and rolled onto his back. He felt the wet chill of the earth seeping into him and heard a voice that sounded as if it came from far away.

“I am no longer your slave.”

Baybars walked away. Four of the Mu’izziyya were dead, the other two had surrendered. He moved over to Kalawun, who was pointing his blade toward the two governors who still held their swords in their hands. “Drop your weapons,” Baybars barked at them.

One of the governors protested. “You cannot do this!”

“I just did.”

The two men, powerless, let fall their swords. Kalawun picked up the weapons and nodded to the governor who had informed him of Kutuz’s plans.

Baybars headed down to the edge of the lake. Dropping his saber to the sand, he waded into the shallows to wash the blood from his hands. He rose, shielding his eyes against the sun’s glare, and looked out across the waters as a flock of flamingos soared over the lake in a pink cloud. Baybars laughed. This was his. The lake, the plain, the birds; they all belonged to him. He dredged his hand through the clear water. It was his. For the first time in years, perhaps ever, there was nothing that bound him: not the bonds of slavery, not the strings of fealty. He thought himself free.

The depleted party rode into the camp, Omar and Kalawun at the head beside Baybars. They had brought back the sultan’s white mare and the horses of the dead guards, but despite the protests of the surviving guards and one of the governors, Baybars had left Kutuz’s body, unburied, on the grass beside the lake. The soldiers in the camp stopped what they were doing as the party passed them, their gazes on the riderless mounts. Baybars pulled his horse to a stop before the royal pavilion and jumped down as several governors came hurrying toward him. Ignoring their calls, he strode into the opened pavilion. Aqtai was standing on the platform beside the throne, pale faced and shaking. Khadir was at his side. Baybars nodded to the soothsayer and stepped up onto the platform to face the men who were crowding around the pavilion. More joined them as soldiers came running, roused by the calls of their comrades.

Baybars’s deep voice echoed across the camp. “Sultan Kutuz is dead!”

Aqtai stepped forward at a look from Khadir. “Amir Baybars,” he called, his voice quivering. “The throne is yours.”

The murmurs of the crowd, which had begun with the announcement, now rose to a chorus of shocked cries and exultant cheers. Baybars sat on the throne, his hands on the two golden lions at its arms.

Aqtai fell to his knees before him. “To you I pledge my allegiance, Baybars Bundukdari, Sultan of Egypt!”

The soldiers and officers of the Bahri were the first to copy Aqtai’s example, followed by the other regiments and the men of the free companies. The white-cloaked warriors of the Mu’izziyya stared at one another, stunned, as they realized that they had also been replaced: The Bahri would once again be the Royal Guard. But, one by one, they too bowed down before their new leader.

Kalawun and Omar rose and moved to stand at either side of the throne and Kalawun raised his sword. “Hail to Baybars al-Malik al-Zahir!”

The Mamluk army stood as one to take up his call and Baybars’s name was lifted to the sky.

“Hail to Baybars al-Malik al-Zahir!” Hail to Baybars, Victorious King.

Baybars rose from the throne and walked to the edge of the platform. He lifted his hands for silence. “Kutuz planned to stand here before you tonight to make a speech celebrating our great victory against the Mongols.” A few cheers continued. “But I’ll not speak of our triumphs. I shall speak of our failures.” The cheers died away. “For we have failed.” Baybars’s voice echoed in their silence. “Too long have we languished under the dominion of rulers without the will to lead us on the path to victory. Too long have we idled in the safety of our strongholds, while in Palestine our people live with no choice other than to fight and die. Too long have we allowed the West to creep like a shadow across our lands. For almost two hundred years it has sent its soldiers with their crosses and swords, to defile and destroy us. Will we be slaves to their presence forever?”

“No!” came the scattered cries.

“Will we stand by and do nothing?”

The refusals grew louder, as more men added their voices.

“I’ll not stand by!” roared Baybars. He drew his saber as the voices were drowned by thunderous applause. “The time of waiting and watching has passed.” His words cracked across them. “Will you stand with me against the Franks?”

The Mamluk army answered him as one.

Baybars thrust his saber to the sky. “I invoke the Jihad!”