The Saracen: Land of the Infidel Part 69

An echoing roar came back from the ranks of the right wing. Half standing in his copper stirrups, guiding his mare with the pressure of his legs, Baibars sent her into a headlong gallop. Daoud struck his spurs into his own horse's flanks and raced after him. He squinted into the wind that blew his beard back against his neck.

The dark blur of struggling Tartars and Mamelukes grew rapidly larger.

Qutuz's banner was nowhere to be seen, but the beast-tail Tartar standard rose up in the west, and Kalawun's black banner was waving far to the north.

They were coming on the Tartar hors.e.m.e.n from the flank and rear. Daoud was close enough to see faces turn and Tartars wheel their ponies to meet the attack.

Daoud drew his bow out again, picked a big Tartar with a drooping black mustache, and loosed an arrow at him. The Tartar fell back over his gray pony's rump, and the pony slowed, trotted out of the Tartar formation, and stood nibbling on the tall dead gra.s.s while its dead master lay nearby.

Three Tartars peeled off from their formation and charged at Daoud. His arrows took two of them, and an arrow from one of his men struck down the third.

Elated, he whispered a prayer of thanks to G.o.d. Baibars's yellow standard changed direction. Following it, Daoud pulled his horse around and raced away from the Tartars. He stood in the stirrups, bow and an arrow in hand with a steel-tipped armor-piercing arrow nocked. Resting his right knee against his heavy wood and leather saddle, he turned until he was looking over his horse's rear and took careful aim. To steady his aim, he fired the arrow just after his horse's four feet struck the ground. He saw a Tartar thrown off his pony by the force of the arrow, and he laughed aloud.

He saw files of Tartars pulling away from the main formation, which was pursuing Qutuz and Kalawun. Baibars's attack was pulling the Tartars apart.

Love for Baibars surged within him. The Tartars were said to be masters of warfare, but Baibars could out-general even them.

Following the yellow standard, Daoud rode back and forth over the field.

He lost all sense of the progress of the battle. For brief moments he took his eyes off the enemy warriors to glance up at the sun, a pale disk visible through a haze of smoke and dust, to see in which direction he was riding.

Many times he shot his last arrow, got down from his horse and, standing in the gra.s.s with hors.e.m.e.n galloping all around him, refilled his quiver from those of fallen Mamelukes and from the bodies of Tartars.

Mounted or on foot, he felt as if no arrow or sword could touch him. He seemed, when he had ridden out to battle, to have left fear somewhere behind.

He recognized Mamelukes from other ortas riding beside him, and his hopes leapt at the sight of them. They must have come back to join the battle from the shattered left wing and center.

Following the yellow standard, he saw that the Tartars were now always on his left. For the most part, he kept his eyes on them and stayed close to the other Mamelukes. The plain was almost featureless, but glancing to his right from time to time, he noticed certain twisted trees and black boulders he was sure he had pa.s.sed before.

The sun was halfway between the zenith and the western horizon when the yellow standard halted. The Mamelukes turned to face the Tartars, whose standard rose from their midst. Looking to either side, Daoud saw curving lines of mounted Mamelukes stretching until they disappeared around the edges of the packed Tartar ma.s.s.

What had happened? Baibars's refusal to abandon the field and the greater numbers of the Mamelukes must have tipped the scales. Daoud's heart pounded with joy as he realized that they had ground down the numbers of the Tartars and surrounded the survivors.

Baibars, down the Mameluke line, called out, "Finish them. One by one.

Hand to hand."

He still held high the banner of the orta. He raised his curved saif and pointed it at the Tartars.

He turned toward Daoud for a moment, and Daoud saw the exaltation in his face. Baibars's face was coated with gray dust. His gold khalat was streaked with blood, and none of it, Daoud was sure, was his. An angel must be riding on his shoulder.

With another wave of his saif Baibars charged into the ma.s.s of Tartars.

Howling in an ecstasy of fury, the rest of the Mamelukes rushed after him.

Daoud reached over his shoulder and pulled his curving, double-edged saif from its leather-covered scabbard. He tried to ride near Baibars, but a wall of Tartars rose up between them. While he fought for his own life, Daoud could only pray that G.o.d would protect Baibars.

And then he was no longer fighting many Tartars, but just one. They had chosen each other out of the struggling mult.i.tudes, like partners in a dance.

Daoud saw his man as vividly as if he had been staring at him for hours.

Red ribbons fluttered from the sides of his fur-trimmed iron helmet. The ends of his black mustache hung down on either side of his mouth like whiplashes. His cheeks and chin bore the ridges of thick scars he seemed to have cut into his flesh. His nose had been crushed in some past battle, and it was a shapeless lump between his jutting cheekbones. His eyes were hard and expressionless.

Daoud rode at the Tartar eagerly, rejoicing that for now the battle was between himself and this one man. For him now this Tartar was all Tartars.

The scarred brown face was utterly concentrated on a single purpose, to kill Daoud. The Tartar reminded Daoud of a tale told by a storyteller in a bazaar at El Kahira of invincible bronze warriors, statues brought to life by a magician.

Daoud's Yemenite stallion leapt at the Tartar as Daoud brought his saif down.

The Tartar raised his round leather-covered shield and easily caught the blow of Daoud's sword while swinging his own scimitar around at Daoud's chest. The blade struck Daoud's ribs on the left side. The cunningly woven rings of Damascene steel under Daoud's tunic stopped the edge of the blade, but the blow sent a shock of pain through his body.

Daoud struck downward again with his saif and chopped a deep gash in the Tartar's shield. The force of the blow hurt Daoud's arm. His tall Yemenite and the Tartar's piebald pony pranced in a cloud of dust as their riders slashed at each other. The Tartar's brown tunic hung in ribbons.

Daoud saw a spot of sunlight reflected from his silver locket flash in the Tartar's eyes. The Tartar glanced at Daoud's chest, his eyes caught by the light. In that instant Daoud thrust straight at his enemy's throat.

He thought he had no chance of hitting the right spot, but the point of his saif went in just below the Tartar's chin and above his high leather collar. Blood poured after the sword's point as Daoud jerked it out.

_Praise G.o.d!_ Daoud thought with delight as he saw that he had won. And he thought with thankfulness of Blossoming Reed, for her gift of the locket.

For the first time, an instant away from death, an expression of feeling crossed the Tartar's face. His lips parted and the corners of his mouth pulled down in a grimace of pain and disgust.

Daoud had to parry one more blow of the scimitar before the Tartar slumped over in the saddle and slid to the ground, disappearing in the dust kicked up by the hooves of a dozen milling horses. In his last moment the Tartar had still been trying to kill him.

"We have destroyed them!" a voice cried near him. It was Mahmoud, naqeeb of Daoud's old training troop. He now wore the plain gold belt buckle of an emir of drums, in command of forty mounted warriors. His beard was whiter now, but he rode easily and held his scimitar with a young man's strength.

Mamelukes rode forward on all sides of Daoud, their saifs stabbing the air.

The victory whoops of his fellow Mamelukes were, for Daoud, a draft of elixir from paradise filling him with new strength.

"Great Baibars, honor to his name, has defeated those who never knew defeat!" Mahmoud exulted.

As the last word left his lips, a Tartar arrow, long as a javelin, thudded into his chest. He gasped, and his pain-filled eyes met Daoud's.

He dropped his scimitar and his hand reached out to grasp Daoud's arm.

"A good moment," he grated. "Praise G.o.d!" He slumped in the saddle, the flowing white beard fluttering in the east wind.

Grief shot through Daoud like the Tartar arrow that had pierced his old naqeeb.

Daoud knew what Mahmoud's last words meant. It was the best of moments to die. A moment of triumph.

_But a moment of grief for me, Mahmoud, because I have seen you die._

Daoud rode forward over dead Tartars to the place where the enemy had planted their standard, on a small hill. Bunched together, the last few Tartars fought on foot.

A fierce joy swept Daoud. Victory! He had believed that G.o.d would not allow Islam's last defenders to be defeated, but the wonder of a triumph over the invincible Tartars was so overwhelming that he almost fell from his saddle.

In the midst of the Tartars one man dashed this way and that, shouting orders to the few dozen men as if they were still thousands. He wore a gold tablet stamped with symbols on a chain around his neck, the badge of a high-ranking Tartar officer. Scouts had reported that this Tartar army was commanded by one called Ket Bogha. This must be he.

Ket Bogha shot arrows into the tightening circle of Mamelukes until he had no more arrows left. He threw javelins. Then he stood with his sword held before him, not the usual Tartar saber, but a two-handed sword that he swung ferociously at anyone who approached.

With a single swipe of his sword Ket Bogha cut off the foreleg of a horse that rode at him. The horse toppled screaming to the ground, and the rider barely managed to jump free and run away as Ket Bogha slashed at him.

The battle ended for Ket Bogha as six naqeebs clubbed the Tartar general to the ground with the b.u.t.t ends of their lances.