Barry Sadler - The Assassin

By the beard of the Prophet! I'll have their asses for taking so damn long!

Mamud ibn Said, slaver, had run out of patience with his Mamelukes, the hand-picked slave soldiers of the Faoud Pasha. They had ridden far on this raid into Circassia, and up until now everything had gone smoothly.

But at the moment a scruffy little handful of Circassian warriors, positioned in a nest of large, smooth granite boulders, had them pinned down. A simple little raid for slaves had developed into a full-scale fight.

Why?

Mamud intended to find out.

Only his eyes showed from the carefully-placed fold of his turban, set so it protected his mouth and nostrils from the dust stirred up by his horsemen. They were dark brown, almost black eyes, and they flickered now with the fire of his impatience, a sure sign there was going to be hell to pay for his Mamelukes.

He kicked his horse in the flanks and rode to where he could get a better view of what was going on. True, some delay was to be expected when one wanted captives, not kills. But this was taking entirely too long. His men outnumbered the men in the rocks five-to-one. And they were better armed. Better trained. The rocks should have been overrun and the captives hooked up into the slave coffle and on the trail for the markets at Baghdad on the banks of the Tigris over an hour ago.

It did not occur to Mamud to expect treachery from his Mamelukes. True, this raid was against their fellow countrymen, the Circassians. But that made no difference. What was the saying: Set a thief to catch a thief? Then set a Circassian to catch a Circassian. Once they were properly broken in and trained, Circassians made excellent and loyal slaves, few of whom would take their freedom if offered it. Not if it meant they had to return to their old lifestyle, which was not much above that of the animals they preyed on. No, something other than treachery was holding up this operation. Mamud had ridden far with his "bought ones" on this raid, and he did not intend for things to get screwed up now. A slave raid was too profitable for that. There was always a market for fighting men to fill the ranks of the Emirs, Pashas, and Sultans who followed in the way of the Prophet Mohammed Blessed be His Name!

So why the delay?

Suddenly Mamud got his answer.

Damn!

A light lance with a reed shaft and brass head suddenly whistled so close to his own face that his eyes blinked from the breeze it made in passing.

Always the professional, danger or no danger, Mamud noted the details of the weapon that had just missed killing him. In appearance it was much the same as the jirads of his own men, though not as well-made, naturally.

More important, the man who had thrown it obviously knew what the hell he was doing. So Mamud tried to spot him in the rocks.

There he was, in the process of heaving another of his shafts. This time his target was a Mameluke light archer astride a bay gelding. Mamud had to grant the barbarian spearman grudging admiration for the throw. It was nearly a hundred cubits, yet the lance hit with such force that it pinned the Mameluke archer's right leg to the side of the horse, killing the animal.

Mamud thought sardonically, Indeed, a fine, strong cast. Also expensive. After all, a trained warhorse cost almost as much as a Mameluke.

Damn!

Instantly Mamud regretted his wool-gathering thoughts.

One of the defenders in the rocks had handed the spearman another javelin, and this time the target was Mamud himself.

The throw was so fast, the aim so accurate, that Mamud had to throw his body toward the back of his horse and lie in a less-than-dignified position to avoid the streaking dart, which passed through empty air where only a split second before his chest had been.

"This has to stop!" he bellowed.

Crying out to one of his squad leaders, Mamud pointed to the spearman. "Get me that man! The one with the scar on his face. I want him alive. Do you hear? He owes me much, and I will not be cheated of my dues. Take him, and the rest will lose heart."

The Mameluke notched an arrow capped with a blunt, rounded tip designed to stun rather than to kill. He pulled back on the bow, sighted on the scar-faced man, and fired.

Casca rolled off the boulder to avoid the stun arrow, cursing himself under his breath for ever returning to within even a hundred leagues of the borders of Persia. These lands had never brought him anything but trouble.

He landed in an open space between two smaller boulders, but as he did, two horsemen attempted to run him down. Scrambling crab fashion, Casca barely avoided the iron-shod hooves.

Damn!

He whipped around to catch the rear horseman by his long, green-bordered tunic. He jerked the Mameluke out of the saddle and beat his face in against the nearest granite rock.

The lead horseman had trouble turning his animal. Just as Casca whirled toward him, a rock twice the size of a large man's fist flew from one of the defending Circassians and hit the Mameluke squarely between the shoulder blades. Casca could hear clearly the brittle crunch of a spine breaking. A five-pound rock, thrown downhill at a distance of less than twenty feet, is a deadly instrument.

Time to get out of here! To Hades with the Circassians! There wasn't much more he could do now than try to save his own ass.

Casca grabbed the light, curved scimitar of the Mameluke whose face he had just crushed and leaped on the back of the dead man's horse.

Dodging a flight of barbed shafts from the Mamelukes who apparently had momentarily forgotten they were to capture him, not kill him, Casca slapped the horse across the rump with the flat of the scimitar and tried to break for open ground. There he could at least get a running start, hoping the slave hunters would content themselves with the men still in the boulders, thinking them to be easier and more profitable game than the one fleeing man who had done such damage in his escape.

After all, six Mamelukes did lie dead or severely wounded thanks to "the scar-faced one with the gray-blue eyes and square body." Most of the Mamelukes would have been well-content to have seen the last of him.

Not Mamud.

Casca tried to run him down.

It was a close thing. Mamud had to hit the ground, rolling quickly to get protection behind a sun-baked boulder to avoid the hooves of the scarred one's horse.

Indignity upon indignity!

Mamud fumed. Not only had the barbarian killed many of his men not only had he, Mamud, been nearly punctured by the scarred one's lance but as he got to his feet and brushed himself off he discovered that there was now a large hole in his robe that would be difficult to mend.

That was the last straw!

Mamud's robes had been fashioned from the rare and costly silk of Chin. A gift of honor from Nizam al Mulk, Grand Vizier of Baghdad and advisor to the new Caliph, Malik Shah.

Intolerable!

"Get me that man!" Mamud cried to his captain, his voice roaring like a whirlwind. "Get me that man, or you will take his place on the block!"

Bu Ali, the captain, had no desire to lose his favored position and return to the status of a field slave or, even worse, to be sent to the copper mines of Khorramshahr. He took five men with him and raced after the would-be escapee.

Across the plains they galloped, spreading out to keep the scar-faced one from being able to turn to the north and reach the ranges of the Caucasus Mountains.

Casca urged his mount on. The men behind him were gaining. He couldn't seem to get any more speed out of the horse. Instead, it was slowing down. Red flecks of foam blew back to stain Casca's legs. Bloody bubbles blew from the flared nostrils.

Damn!

Looking down, first to the right side of his mount, then to the left, Casca knew he wasn't going to make it. The feathered end of an arrow protruded from over the horse's left shoulder.