Michael Spradlin - Keeper of the Grail

Then there was the pain involved. And the shouts of agony.

I knew, though, that the arrow must come out. To leave it there was not an option. Blood poisoning would set in and then…well. There was only certain death after that.

I pulled away the cloth around the shaft of the arrow and examined the wound. As the Assassin had leapt through the air, Robard had indeed made a very good shot. A few inches to the right and the arrow would have missed entirely, but the shaft had found the Assassin’s shoulder up high and close to the arm. This was good news, as it meant I might be able to push the arrow through the soft tissue without hitting bone or the shoulder blade. At least in theory.

A few minutes later, Robard returned with the full water skin and the small, sturdy stick I had asked for. He handed them to me without comment. Removing the stopper from the skin I poured fresh water over the wound. The Assassin did not stir.

I couldn’t hold up the Assassin and push the arrow through at the same time. I needed Robard’s assistance.

“Robard, could you help me here, please?” I asked.

Robard stood to the side of the boulders, scanning the forest. He looked at me and his eyes narrowed.

“Robard, I beg you. I’m aware of your feelings here, but this man is injured and it is our Christian duty to help him. I can’t do it alone. I need your help. Please.” I used some of the Cistercian guilt tactics I had learned from the brothers.

Robard was unmoved.

“Robard. Please. God is watching us,” I said. Such a powerful weapon guilt can be. That should sway him. I hoped.

Robard puffed out his cheeks, letting out a sigh full of indignation and annoyance. But slinging his bow over his shoulder he walked to where I knelt holding the Assassin about the shoulders.

“If you hold him up, I will see to the arrow,” I said.

Robard and I switched places. With my fingers I probed the tissue around the wound, and when I took the arrow firmly in my hand and began moving it about, the Assassin’s eyes flew open and he bellowed out in pain. With his good arm he grabbed at my hands, shouting at me in Arabic.

“Watch out!” shouted Robard. “He…”

“Hold!” I hissed, grabbing the Assassin’s arm. He stopped yelling momentarily.

I held up the stick so he could see it. I mimed putting the stick in my mouth and biting down on it. The Assassin looked down at his wound, then at me again, nodding. I held out the stick and he took it between his teeth.

Trying to still my shaking hand, I clutched the arrow firmly by the shaft. The Assassin took a deep breath and held it. I pushed gently on the arrow at first, hoping to work it through easily, but it was not to be.

I looked at the Assassin, who nodded again, closing his eyes. I tightened my grip on the arrow, pushing harder.

The Assassin screamed through his clenched lips, and his body straightened and tensed. I felt the arrow go in farther, but it was still stuck. I shifted my weight, pushing down still harder, and the Assassin shrieked in pain. Slowly the arrow began to move, but the Assassin was thrashing and kicking, and it was difficult to keep my grip.

“Hold him!” I hissed.

Robard gripped the Assassin more tightly by the shoulders, and I pushed again. The Assassin’s body was nearly rigid. He bellowed, wiggling and kicking his legs, but at last I felt the arrow exit through the skin on his back with a pop and the arrowhead came free. He threw back his head, letting loose one final cry, then passed out.

Robard looked up at me, his face a mass of confusion. At first, I didn’t notice because I was busy wiping the sweat from my forehead and trying to pull myself together.

“Tristan,” Robard whispered. “Look.”

I followed Robard’s gaze to the face of the Assassin. During all the thrashing and kicking about, the Assassin’s turban had been knocked loose and the veil had fallen away. Only it wasn’t his face. It was her face.

For before us, lying there in Robard’s arms, was not the hardened visage of a determined killer. Instead, there was the almost innocent face, framed by long, flowing and beautiful black hair, of a young girl.

The Assassin was a she.

Her hair was the color of obsidian. She looked young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. She had fallen unconscious again, and Robard held her stiffly at the shoulders, as if any movement on his part might cause her to break. Clearly he had no idea what to do with her. I was too stunned to move or speak. Perhaps this explained why her companions had run off. If they were all as young as she, they likely were not experienced fighters.

Finally Robard broke the silence. “Tristan! It’s a girl!” he said, his voice a whisper.

“I can see it is a girl, Robard.”

“I’ve never heard of a female Assassin,” he said.

“Nor have I.”

We were silent again, our eyes transfixed on the face of the girl before us. The sky was getting darker, but I could see her face was pale and not her natural color. She had sharp cheekbones, but a small rounded nose, and her thick hair smelled of sandalwood.

“Tristan,” Robard said quietly.

“Yes,” I answered, not looking up from the face of the girl.

“Perhaps you should finish with the arrow. She’s still bleeding,” he said.

Robard’s words snapped me out of my reverie. “Can you hold her up? I need to see her back now.”

Robard complied, moving to the other side of her prone body. I could see where the arrowhead had come through, slightly beneath her shoulder blade. The arrowhead was attached to the shaft with a length of leather twine. I cut through it with my knife, and the arrowhead popped off onto the ground.

With the point removed it was much simpler to pull the shaft free of her shoulder. Simpler perhaps, but not without pain. When I pulled it free of her body, she stiffened, letting out a pitiful moan. But it was out. I cut a section from the fabric of her tunic and fashioned a bandage, which Robard helped me secure tightly around her shoulder.

“We need to take her with us,” I said.

“What?” He was incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m completely serious. She is wounded and in our care. It wouldn’t be right to leave her. She could die here alone,” I said.

I could tell from the look on Robard’s face that he had no problem leaving the Assassin behind. He stared at me a moment. “You are a strange one, Tristan, squire of the Templars,” he said.

“Yes. Well. We need to make a litter to carry her,” I said, drawing my short sword and offering it hilt first to Robard. “Can you take my sword and cut two saplings, strong enough to hold her, about six feet in length?”

Robard made no move, merely staring at me a moment. Then he seemed to come to terms with something and nodded, taking my sword and exiting the camp.

The girl was still unconscious. I built a small fire, figuring it would be safe since we were well hidden from the road. Besides, anyone drawn to it meaning us harm would have to contend with an angry King’s Archer before relieving us of our possessions.

In the woods nearby I picked some waxroot. Back at the fire, I shaved the roots of the plant into small slivers, filled my cup with water and heated it on the fire. While it warmed, I gathered up everything from the campsite, including the Assassin’s daggers, and packed them away.

Eventually she began to stir, groaning in pain a few times. Her eyes opened, and with her good arm, she struggled to push herself into a sitting position. She began to wail, chanting something in Arabic, and I didn’t know what she was saying, but I heard fear in her voice.

Robard returned from the woods carrying the two saplings I’d asked for.