The Spymaster's Protection (46 page)

For all their fighting, it didn’t look to Lucien as if they
had truly gained much ground. They had diminished the size of Saladin’s army,
but that was all it seemed they’d done. It was no wonder the poor bastards who
had started to run had finally cracked. And, by God, that damnable thistle
brush was still being burned! Higher up the slope, where he had been earlier,
with Raymond’s division, he hadn’t noticed it so much, but near the king, on
the flat side of the hill, it was suffocating. The temperature was rising,
tormenting men already parched and weak. Soon the sun would be at its zenith.
It was beginning to look like the end to Lucien.

Trying to remain as optimistic as he could, he formed up for
another charge, this time from the center. War
cries
were shouted all around him as the cavalry attacked the enemy lines once again.
The screams of dying horses rent the air as wave after wave of arrows were sent
volleying towards them. The sky became dark with their numbers, but for the
most part, they failed to penetrate the heavy armor of the chivalry.
Nevertheless, they decimated the horses and the foot soldiers.

Defending with his steel shield and carving a swath with his
mighty broadsword, Lucien fought his way as deep into the infidel line as he
could, cutting down men as he went. The fury of the charge sent the blood
racing through his veins, lending him extraordinary strength and renewed vigor.

All around him, it was pandemonium. A panorama of death and
destruction. The desert rang with the clash of swords and the shouts of men.
Baring his teeth, he braced himself against blows that, for the most part,
simply slid off his well-protected body. His primary objective was to stay
seated. Men who fell were quickly cut down by the sweeping arc of scimitars.
Others who fell from their horses often found themselves pinned and crushed to
death beneath mounts that were mercilessly gored.

Lucien clashed swords and shields with enemy after enemy,
maneuvering his horse and his weapons with battle-hardened skill born of too
many years and too many fights.

It seemed as if he fought for hours, non-stop, with no end in
sight. Wave after wave of infidels came at them. When he was given a moment of
respite to look around, he found he had only progressed a few feet. The
remainder of the king’s army was not much better off.

Dear God! They were now fighting at a standstill; moving
nowhere, for the most part! How long could they keep this up? Like those around
him, he soon grew exhausted. Sweat drenched his clothes inside his mail and
poured down his face inside his helm. It did nothing to cool or refresh him. He
wanted to reach for his water skin, but dared not.

To his left, he saw Count Raymond rally a group of mounted
knights for another go at Taqi al Din’s forces on the hilltop. There was no way
Lucien could break free to answer his friend’s call to charge once again up
that damnable hill. He was literally surrounded by mounted Saracen aggressors,
as was the bulk of the Christian army.

When his concentration was not completely needed on his
enemies, he caught glimpses of the count as he made an admirable dash up the
slope. He rode with nearly two score cavalry this time, no infantry following
behind. The speed they managed to gather was very impressive for men and horses
that had fought for hours.

Desperation and rage drove them toward Saladin’s nephew’s line
of mounted troops. Praying that they would finally make it, Lucien withdrew
from the melee to watch his friend’s gallant charge. Other men did the same,
including the king, himself, who was fighting with a group of knights that
included Reynald de Châtillon and Armand Chaumont. They were positioned on a plateau
to the right, near the three tents that had been erected for the wounded.

On the left, beneath one of the Horns of Hattin, Raymond and
his knights gave a furious war cry just as they charged into the infidel line.
To everyone’s shock, instead of attempting to hold, Taqi al Din simply opened
his ranks and let Raymond and his mounted regiment hurtle through. Just as
quickly, the infidel cavalry closed ranks again. Once beyond the saddle of the
Horns, the Christian cavalry was prevented from rejoining their brethren below.
They had just been effectively eliminated from the battlefield!

The spirit seemed to go collectively out of the men left
behind. A multitude of infantry troops ran up a long rise, over which the blue
waters of Lake Tiberius could be glimpsed. Lucien groaned, for he knew the
certain outcome of such a move. Saladin’s troops cut them brutally down with a
volley of arrows that again nearly blackened the sky. Within minutes, it
seemed, nearly all were dead, heaped upon the hillside, one upon the other.
Like those around him, Lucien looked on in horror.

The king rode down from his position, and to his credit,
rallied spirits by joining in the center of the battle, though he was virtually
impregnable because of the ring of men who formed a circle around him to
protect him. But his presence spurred the exhausted, demoralized troops into
streaming up the hill again, toward the wide swath of land between the Horns of
Hattin.

The cavalry, center and rear, banded together around the three
tents, of which the king’s red tent was the center one, at the foot of the
Horns. King Guy and the bishops tried to get what was left of the infantry to
come back down and join them, but they were bound and determined charge after
their dead brethren and make another attempt to break through enemy lines as
Raymond of Tripoli and his men had done.

Lucien supposed many of them did not know that Raymond had
been let through.

King Guy shifted his cavalry to the southern Horn, which gave
them more room to continue their mounted charges against Saladin’s forces. It
was then that Taqi al Din began sending his own charges down the hill.

In the middle of one charge, the Holy Cross, the scared symbol
the Christians took into battle, was captured from the two bishops who rode with
it. Both clerics were quickly killed and the holy relic fell into Taqi al Din’s
hands. Its loss had a tragic effect on morale.

The Muslim army took advantage of it and attacked ferociously
from all sides. The infidel infantry battered the unhorsed Christian knights,
and after a bitter struggle, those who were not killed or thrown down the
slopes surrendered. Then Saladin ordered Taqi al Din to charge the remaining
mounted Latin knights as they made their last stand on the southern Horn.

The Franks managed to make two final counter charges. Lucien
rallied himself and his horse as his unit came dangerously close to engulfing
the great
Commander of the Faithful
.

They were swiftly driven back, though, as the capture of
Saladin was thwarted. After that mad assault, swarming tides of enemy soldiers
converged on them, defeating every effort the Christians made to break through
to the summit. Wave after wave of screaming, blade-swinging Saracens moved
across their skirmish lines, into their ranks, followed mercilessly by volleys
of arrows, taking their horses out from under them until most of the knights,
including Lucien, were forced to fight on foot.

Embattled, dehydrated, and sweating profusely under the scorching
mid-afternoon sun, Lucien withdrew the sword on his back to wield a blade in
each hand, one pointed left, one pointed right. He was besieged from all sides
as he battled attackers that formed a circle around him.

After a while everything seemed to move in slow motion as the
sounds of men engaged in similar desperate conflicts receded to a deafening
clang of metal upon metal. In great sweeping arcs of his swords, Lucien cleared
a path around him, leaving bodies littered at his feet. Amazed that he still
had the strength to stand, he side-stepped the dead until he found himself back
to back with his comrade and friend, Brother Conrad.

Blood dripped off their weapons in a spray of red as they cut
down the enemy together, moving with a macabre grace that was born of the
deepest of survival instincts and countless encounters with the enemy. He and
Conrad had fought side by side for years, and Lucien was glad to have him here
now, at the end.

Their superior strength, skill, and training kept them
standing and fighting while others all around them collapsed and fell. The
bloodlust raged, fed by the sweet sickly stench of battle gore and the
adrenaline of killing. In some part of Lucien’s brain, he knew the battle was
lost. To his side, in the distance, he saw the king’s red beacon of a tent
collapse as Saracens rode in and severed the ropes that held it aloft.

Beyond that, he was aware of a group of men, led by Lord
Balian and Reginald of Sidon, escaping from the rearguard. But the Templar
standard had not fallen. The black and white Beauseant still fluttered in the
wind. The knights of both military orders continued to fight, nearly all on
foot now. To the bitter, bloody end, as always. It was inbred in every man who
had ever fought as a Templar.

He and Conrad found no shortage of infidels willing to die
under their blades as they stood almost dead center in the middle of the battle
field. Sweat poured off Lucien, blurring his vision, but he was fighting on
instinct now; the point in any prolonged battle where you fought until you
dropped of sheer exhaustion.

Inside his chain mail, his skin was on fire. His legs had gone
numb long ago. He had stopped stepping from side to side as a result. Both arms
began to quiver, quaking with the exhaustion that was now quickly rising to
defeat him. His muscles twitched and burned and strained with every swing of
his fine Damascene steel blades. It would not be long now, he knew. He could
feel it in Conrad, too.

The enemy was relentless in their repeated assaults. A never
ending succession of blade-wielding Saracens came at them. Their swords began
to wound, not kill. From his peripheral vision, Lucien saw a great bear of a
man come in with another starburst. Swinging it with an arm the size of a tree
trunk, the Saracen aimed for their heads. The blow hit them both on their
shoulders and took he and Conrad down to their knees. Lucien caught himself
with his hands, then rolled to protect his friend, who had completely
collapsed.

Raising his gauntleted arms to block the next blow, he saw an
uplifted sword silhouetted against the blindingly bright yellow sun. A shadow
fell over him just as he braced himself for the killing strike. It was Gökböri,
the Blue Wolf. He looked enormous against the glaring sun at his back.

“Cease your fighting, Lucien de Aubric. The battle is lost.
Your king has surrendered.”

Lucien rose to a more upright position, shaded his eyes as he
looked around, and saw that it was true. The exhausted Christians, what was
left of the knights and fighting monks, had thrown themselves onto the ground.
Except for the decimated infantry, there were not nearly as many killed as
Lucien had feared. Many were beginning to rise and being taken captive by the
enemy.

The Blue Wolf gave him one last look, then turned and walked
away.

CHAPTER
23

As soon as the Saracen commander walked away, Muslim soldiers
came to drag Lucien and Conrad away. Along with the rank and file of both
military orders and their officers, they were herded up the hill to Saladin’s
encampment. When they reached it, they were immediately stripped of their
weapons, armor, and surcoats, then each had his hands tied with leather strips
behind his back.

Overhead the sun was beginning its slow descent to the western
horizon, but there were still hours of the relentless heat and sweltering
temperatures left in the interminable day. Lucien had already noticed that the
secular knights, including the king and his entourage, were being detained in a
different area of the camp. None of them seemed to be receiving the rough
treatment the military orders were. Most of them were being placed under an
awning. Lucien assumed they were deemed important enough to be ransomed.

The foot soldiers, sergeants, and squires were being weeded
out of the divisions, as well, being shoved, pushed, and drug to the far side
of the camp to an open area that was surrounded by Saracen guards. There was no
shade or water for any of them. The few Turcopoles who had survived the battle
were placed in with the Templars and Hospitallers. From past battles, Lucien
knew their fate. The Saracens held a particular hatred for the native troops
that served Christian masters. They were always the first to be killed on the
field, and any remaining alive were always executed immediately afterwards.

The most brutal treatment, though, was definitely being
reserved for the battered bloodied knights of the military orders. Stripped
down to their undergarments, they were shoved, drug, and kicked into a long
ragged line that stretched from one end of the camp to the very edge of the
plateau it was erected upon. Each one was then roughly shoved to his knees.
With hands bound behind their backs, they were left to languish in the
merciless heat of the sun for what seemed like hours. The only relief was the
removal of their heavy body armor.

Positioned near the bluff, Lucien knelt among his ex-Templar
comrades, almost directly across from the sultan’s yellow striped silk
pavilion. Down the line, men groaned from their untended wounds, weak from
thirst and exhaustion. Several collapsed onto their faces, keeling over and
bleeding out into the dirt from their battle injuries.

Beside him, Brother Conrad put words to Lucien’s thoughts.
“What I would not give for just a sip of water.” Sucking in a pained breath, he
turned his head slowly to Lucien. “Are you wounded badly, brother?”

“Nay, just the normal assortment of sword cuts and bruises.
How badly are you hurt, brother?”

“I took an arrow in the side, but it did not go deep. I have a
pretty good gash on one thigh, though, from one of those bloody spiked
starbursts the bastards are so fond of.”