John Schettler - Nexus Point

“We are here, are we not? Massiaf still stands. Salah ad Din has gone away to unite the tribes. We frightened him away as well. We have proven that not even a Sultan may trifle with us lightly. It was my strong hand that decided the issue that day. If we had followed your counsel we would all be beggars in the streets now.” The Sami smiled, clearly pleased with his boast. After the assassination plot failed, Salah ad Din had come to the high mountains to lay siege to the stronghold of the Assassins in Syria, Massiaf. But the strength of that castle lay not in its walls, but in the devious hearts and ways of the men within.

“I counseled the Fedayeen that day,” said the Sami, “and told them what to do. A dagger was thrust into the earth beside the sleeping pillow of Salah ad Din himself! The Sultan was so angry that he redoubled the guard around his tent. He even gave orders that flour should be spread beyond the edge of his camp so that the passing of any man would be clearly seen. Yet we came, and we left our footprints in the flour just to spite him. It was said that the guards outside his tent were white with fear when they found the mark of the Fedayeen upon the ground the next day—in spite of every effort they could not guarantee the security of their master. And we left a message that he has taken to heart: that his life is ours to grant or take, and we will hold him to account for any injustice pressed upon us here.”

The Sami took a moment’s comfort from that recollection. It reminded him what could be accomplished by a few determined men of skill, his chosen Fedayeen . They had been well trained and prepared to carry out yet another mission, only this time it was not to give warning and frighten, it was to bring death to a mortal enemy of Islam—Reginald, Arnat, the Wolf of Kerak.

Then a madness seemed to fall upon the Sami, and he was possessed by a compelling curiosity. This stranger had come in through the Well of Souls and all his plans for the Wolf had slipped from his grasp.

Why had he allowed himself to be so distracted by this infidel? He had been set to leave on the very day after the man’s arrival, a troop of Fedayeen traveling in his wake like shadows following after darkness in the night. He knew the time and the place where he would find the Wolf, a lonely stretch of road near an inn on the way to Tiberias. He knew Arnat would come to that place, swaggering with boastful pride, yet and bawdy drunk with the swill of his mead.

The Sami could see the moment of truth in his mind’s eye as he gazed at the blazoning dawn. Five of the faithful Fedayeen would fall upon his enemy there, all dressed in the manner of Christian commoners, their bodies smeared with the offal and mire of their hovels so that even their smell might not betray them. The long thin knives would whisk out in the dark, the blades shaped and honed to slip through the laced iron of the finest chain mail and strike the vile flesh beneath—each blade tipped with poison to hasten the death of their victim. He saw it all, for it was written, if anything could be inscribed and sure. While nothing was certain, the chance presented itself for a great success. Yet it was not to be.

Instead he had dallied a day, then two days, while he bent his mind to the stranger in the chamber of greeting. By the third day only the fastest horses would have carried his band of Assassins to the appointed place in time. Why did he tarry? Why did he not strike at the man and simply be gone? When the Kadi finally summoned the stranger to council chambers for discernment, the moment was lost to him, and the Wolf would prowl unfettered yet again. He had failed in his charge, and it galled him.

Undoubtedly Arnat was seeking parley with the strong knights of Christendom even now. The Sami knew what the Wolf would argue at council. Bloody war and havoc were his creed. He would galvanize the host of the infidels with his black ire and whip them to a frenzy.

Salah ad Din was aging, and sick. He was not the proud warrior of old and could not ride the great stallions of Arabia or carry the heavy armor and shield as he might in his youth. Salah ad Din sought to gain by truce and the feeble prattle of words what he might have taken by force of arms years ago. Salah ad Din was weak. He overstayed his place in the Sultan’s tent. The Christian host was a rabid animal, and he would not know what to do.

The Sami paced, his quiet feet shifting to and fro about the tower; the bile of deep regret thick in his throat. It occurred to him that the coming of this stranger was perfectly timed, like a stone unsettling the waters of a still pond, his fall through the Well of Souls was rippling out in every direction, and disturbing the surely guided eddies of the hours and days the Sami had labored over so long. It was as if it was all planned, some dark machination of the Order. In one fell move they defile the Well and scatter his plans to naught. Now Sinan himself was drawing nigh. The Sami could feel his wrath, a palpable heat, coming with the rising sun beyond his window.

As the muezzin began the haunting call to prayer from the minaret below, the Sami knew at last what he must do. Surely Sinan would bring the stranger here, to this very place, the eyrie where no man could come unbidden and live. He would summon also the Kadi, to hear his accusation and testimony of lies. No matter.

If he could not slay the Wolf, there was yet one thing he could accomplish. He would be called to stand in this very chamber as well, to answer for his failed charge and the strife he had worked here in the castle. He would be called, and he would bring with him his sharpest knife, tainted with the vile poison of an asp. One sudden move, one flick of his wrist and the stranger would lie dead. If indeed he was an enemy, as the Sami knew, then he could not be allowed to draw close to Sinan. If banishment or even death was his own fate, the Sami held the stranger’s death dearer. The Sami would have his vengeance. As surely as the sun chased the gray dawn, this man, the infidel, would die.

Sinan was coming, like a quiet wind, stealing into the valley on the heels of the great troop of horsemen led down by Taki ad Din. He moved quickly, yet with stealth, on a swift white steed, and only two guardians at his side. Even as he came home to the mountains of the Assassins, word of his approach seemed to travel before him, as rumor, omen, the presentiment of some great change that was working itself to life. The Sami pressed his hands upon his ears to shut the voices out, yet they spoke still, a faint rumble in the distance that promised war.

All about him the world was pivoting on the hinge. Christian Lords poured out the might of all their castles upon the land. The black stone walls of Marghab spilled forth a host of men at arms, and from the walled city of Tortusa long lines of peasantry marched about clusters of mounted Turcoples. He knew that all the Christian Lords were moving now. Thickets of spearmen came from Tyre, their leather jerkins wet with oil; gallant sailors from the great harbors joined the inland throng, filling the dusty roads with song and revelry. Lean archers came down from Sidon and Acre, and Ascalon sent forth her hardy men at arms, some with sword and heavy shield, others bearing long lances, javelins and pikes.

These were but the rank and file, he knew, for the real strength of Outremer lay in the hard stone walls of their great castles, and the dour knights that stood watch there, prowling the lands on great mailed steeds. The white mantle of the Templars emblazoned with a cross and the dark robes of the Hospitalers brought fear and awe to any who looked upon them. While their numbers were few, the hard iron of their chain mail and their incredible strength and skill in combat made them nearly invincible when they charged in battle. All of Islam had endured the blight of their march for nearly a century now, but the issue would soon be decided.