Barry Sadler - Casca 13 - The Assassin

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PDB Name: Barry Sadler - Casca 13 - The A

Creator ID: REAd

PDB Type: TEXt

Version: 0

Unique ID Seed: 0

Creation Date: 16-8-1973

Modification Date: 16-8-1973

Last Backup Date: 1-1-1970

Modification Number: 0

Barry Sadler

The Assassin

CHAPTER ONE

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

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

The animal was lung-shot and dying.

Got to find shelter. Quick.

But everywhere Casca looked there was no shelter.

He was in the open with no place to hide.

The horse stumbled. Nearly fell. Regained its balance for a moment. Tried

to run. Then fell head over tail, its forelegs collapsing under a weight it no

longer had the strength to carry. Casca flew free from the saddle, scraping

off a broad patch of skin as he rolled into a clump of thorn bush. Rising to

his feet, he hefted his sword, though he knew it was not likely that it would

do him much good against the mounted archers. They could simply stay out of

range and fill him with arrows.

Bu Ali signaled his men to circle their doomed prey. The Mamelukes started to

notch war arrows onto their strings, but Bu Ali ordered them to use the

blunt-headed shafts instead. Mamud wanted this man alive, and that was the way

he would get him.

All five Mamelukes took turns firing their bows. All were accomplished

archers, and the target they shot at presented no challenge to their skills.

Casca tried to dodge and duck, but every time he avoided one shaft two more

hit him. Had the arrows been tipped with points the force of the compound

blows would have driven the missiles completely through his body. As it was,

he felt two ribs crack under their impact.

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Bu Ali took his own shot. The target was growing weary and was hurt. Drawing

the bow string back to his ear, Bu Ali sighted carefully, waiting until the

scar-faced one's attention was elsewhere. Then when his target turned to avoid

another shaft, he let fly.

The blunt-tipped missile flew straight to its target, striking the man square

on the skull, tearing open a flap of skin, and dropping him as if he had been

pole-axed.

That did it!

Bu Ali motioned for his men to get on with the job and secure their captive.

They dismounted, taking strips of rawhide with them to bind their prize.

Running to the prone figure, they started to turn him over on his back so

they could tie his hands.

Three men got to him first. And just as they began their task, Casca's hands

came up, each taking the throat of a Mameluke into its grasp. There was no

attempt at finesse or refinement. Casca squeezed with all his strength. His

thick, strong, warrior's fingers crushed throats and vertebrae. And he was

coming off the ground, going for the third Mameluke, when two more

blunt-tipped arrows hit him in the head, finishing off what Bu Ali had thought

was a knockout from his shaft.

Bu Ali shook his head in a combination of awe and anger. The man must have a

skull as thick as a camel's. His shot should have rendered the scar-faced one

unconscious for at least an hour. He watched his men cautiously approach, then

securely bind the downed Casca. Well, this time they had done it.

When he got back to Mamud the other barbarians in the rocks were kneeling at

the feet of their new master. With Casca gone they had realized the futility

of their struggle and given up.

Mamud himself was back where he belonged, on his horse where he could better

survey those he had taken prisoner. It was not with pleasure that he added up

his profit and loss for the afternoon's work. He had eleven prisoners; but he

had lost seven men and three war horses. Disgusting! If it hadn't been for

some successful raids earlier he doubted if he would have shown a profit at

all to compensate him for all his efforts and time.

Seeing the returning Bu Ali, Mamud spurred his horse over to meet his captain

and inspect the prisoner. In a fit of pique he lashed Casca's back with his

riding crop of rhinoceros hide, instantly regretting the act -- which spoiled

his image as the commander above human frailties. He excused his action by

explaining to himself that it had been a bad day.

"Put him in line with the others," he ordered Bu Ali. "But keep an eye on him.

He is a troublemaker, but I don't want him killed or crippled. I think that

this one, when properly trained, could bring enough gold for most of our

losses. Nizam al Mulk has need of strong fighters."

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This last he regretted saying almost as soon as the words were out of his

mouth -- he hadn't intended to be so familiar with his captain, to take this

underling into his confidence. By the Prophet! It was definitely not his best

day.

Camp was made on the spot. Fires were lit and meat set out to cook --

horsemeat from the Mameluke's own dead animals. The slaves were not to be

fed, nor would they be for three more days. And, until the third day, they

would receive only enough water to keep them going. By the third day of hunger

and thirst they would be much easier to handle. This also gave Mamud an

opportunity to size up his catch. Hunger and thirst would show him who

were the strong ones and who were the weak ones. Efficiency! That's what made

for a profit.

Mamud's tent was prepared for him, and he performed his evening

ablutions, regretting that he was down to the last of his rosewater with which

to freshen his face and hands.

He checked the sky.

It was time for the faithful to be called to prayer.

Placing his prayer rug to face toward Mecca, he and his men -- except those on

guard -- knelt and bowed their heads to the earth as Mamud cried out:

"Allah bismillah Mohammed. Allahu Akhbar!" Allah is God, the only God,

and Mohammed is His Prophet. "Inshallah." His will be done . . .

Once he was changed into fresh robes and sitting on civilized cushions where

he could at least have a decent view of the sunset, he permitted Bu Ali to

serve him his meal . . . a simple warrior's dish of stewed lamb with a touch

of sage rubbed into the tender flesh, set on a plate with curried rice and

cakes of wheat touched with just a breath of honey from Syria . . . . Ah!

His men dined on the fare he considered best-suited to their less sensitive

palates: curds and horsemeat washed down with water.

The taste of the cakes was sweet in his throat as he lay back on the cushions.

Back to Baghdad! It was with no sense of regret that he was at last going to

be able to leave these wild, inhospitable lands for the refined environment of

a civilized city. These rugged, barren lands were not even fit for the uncouth

Franks -- as were called all ignorant and ill-mannered men of the West,

whether they came from the Rhine or from Italy, whether they came as merchants

or as pilgrims to Jerusalem. Franks . . . They had no part in the future

destiny of a simple slave trader. Or did they?

Mamud's beard itched from the bite of sandfleas, and he took it as an omen --

one of the lesser blessings of the Most High to let all know that, no matter

what their station in life, the greatest of His creations could be hurt by the

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least . . . . Ah! Yes . . .

By Allah! It would be good to have a bath and a massage to rub away the miles

he had traveled on a saddle fit only for a Kurdish tribesman. It would take

weeks to rid his buttocks of the thick pad of calluses that had attached

themselves to his flesh.

Through the open flap of his tent he could see his Mamelukes guarding his

slaves. It was a good harvest of strong men who would bring fine prices. The

thought of the fine prices warmed Mamud's heart; but the reason for the high

prices bothered him.

Of late there had been an ever-increasing demand for men who were not of

Persian or Arabian descent to be used as bodyguards. It was all due to those

accursed fanatics of Hassan ibn Hassad, the Sheikh al Jebal. Hemp-eaters.

Assassins.

Assassins. One never knew when they would strike, and there was nothing that

could be done to scare them off. Indeed, when captured they went to their

deaths eagerly, joyfully. How can one deal with men who do not fear death?

What was the power the Old Man of the Mountain had over his followers that

they obeyed his every wish without consideration of their own lives?

Mamud warmed his tea from a brass pot and sipped, luxuriating in the small

comfort it gave him. At any rate, the Assassins were good for his business.

Newly captured slaves such as he sold, being not only foreigners but infidels

as well, were not likely to be followers of Hassan al Sabah, and so they made

good guards. And, since the Assassins of Hassan al Sabah might be one's own

body slave -- or even men of noble birth -- no wonder there was such a market

for men pure of the unclean contamination of the Assassins who had, to

Mamud's knowledge, never failed to make their kill, usually after warning the

victim in advance with a gold-handed dagger . . . .

Thinking of the scar-faced one he had lashed earlier, Mamud looked again

to his catch. It was as he turned his head that in the corner of his vision he

saw the flash of light in the now-darkened western sky.

A shooting star? An omen from Allah?

Thinking as he was at the moment of profit and the new slave, Mamud chose to

consider it an omen of good fortune. The scar-faced one was very strong. Mamud

would take him to Baghdad and offer him up to Nizam al Mulk. The Vizier was

known to be a connoisseur of fine fighting men. He would pay well for one such

as this.

Ah!

Calling to Bu Ali to make certain that all the slaves' bonds were secured and

the sentries alert, Mamud closed the flap of his tent and retired. He was at

peace with himself, even though there were still many leagues to travel before

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he could indulge himself once more in those refined pleasures which made life

worth living . . . .

* * *

Casca was not at peace with himself. He too had seen the shooting star, a thin

scratch of light ending beyond the distant mountains, so minor that neither

the guards nor the other slaves had noticed. But to Casca it was an omen, one

more thing to feed the uneasy feeling that had been building in him all day,

even before the fight in the rocks.

I never should have come back to Persia. Something damned unpleasant is

about to happen to me. I can feel it. I should have kept my ass away . . .

It was not just being a slave. He had been that before. It was not the pain of

his broken ribs . . . or anything like that.

No, it was something new.

He was staring at the line of mountains, black against the starlit sky.

Shit!

CHAPTER TWO

Hassan ibn Hassad, Hassan al Sabah, the Sheikh al Jebal, the Old Man of the

Mountain, the leader of the Assassins leaned over the battlements of Castle

Alamut in the region of Dayam, set high as an eagle's perch in the Elburz

Mountains, and surveyed the valley six thousand feet below. In the

darkening twilight he looked with approval at his domain. His eyes were sharp

and burning, set in deep sockets over a proud, hooked nose and thin, humorless

mouth. He had eagle features. He was the eagle of this Eagle's Nest.

It had taken long for him to find and secure just the right place from which

he could launch his program of terror upon the world. Now he had it. Here

he had total control. Control which Nizam never dreamed of, he thought with

satisfaction. Control such as few in the course of history had ever tasted.

Hassad stroked his beard, now turning gray with time but still tough and

strong, like his eyes, youthful. For they were as clear as those of a

twenty-year-old man and burned in their dark brown depths with an intensity

and fire that only one who knows he has a mission in life can possess. A

mission. And a passion.

Passion.

In Hassad's chest beat passions that the loveliest houri dwelling in Paradise

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could never sate. Their earthly counterparts were only receptacles for his

seed by which he would pass on his heritage to those who came after him.

But even the flesh of his own flesh was not immune to his wrath if they

angered him or failed in their duty to him and the Holy Mission. They would

then pay the same price that the lowliest-born infidel would. Tolerance and

forgiveness lead only to weakness. Hassad was not one who would ever be weak.

He could not. His was a great calling, passed on to him from centuries past,

and he would not fail.

His word was never broken.

That was one of the secrets of his power.

To all the world his word was always kept -- for good or ill. Those that he

marked for death always died. He was the Sheikh al Jebal and he was not to be

denied. When he cast a sentence of death on one who refused him his price, the

doomed one knew the shadow of the dark angel was over him and a gold-handled

dagger would end his term on earth. And now even the most powerful man in

Persia, the Vizier -- and in actuality the regent -- to the youthful Caliph of

Baghdad was to receive the gold-handled dagger.

It was with no regret that Hassad was now ready to order the death of his

once-good-friend and counselor, Nizam al Mulk, Vizier to the Caliph of

Baghdad. Nizam had been offered a chance to be one with Hassan, and thus

live. But he chose the way of personal aggrandizement and power, Hassan

said to his inner soul. He did not keep his word to me. He has not been

faithful to the oath spoken twenty years ago when we were both young men.

Hassad recalled the oath as though it had been yesterday, the oath

witnessed by the strange one, the friend of both, Omar. Oaths such as

that could not be broken with impunity, therefore Nizam had to die and by his

death bring the world to know the awesome power that a few men can hold when

they use their intelligence -- and the minds of others -- as their weapons.

For everything is an illusion except death.

Death, of course, was the one thing that both princes and paupers understood,

and he, Hassan ibn Hassad, was the Grand Master of Death. Only those who

served him were without fear of the Dark Angel, for he had already shown them

their reward and had briefly opened up the gates of Paradise to them.

Paradise. Before him lay the parable. Twilight had already darkened the bottom

of the valley, but up there it was the time of the sunset, and Hassan gloried

in the view before him. The red rays of the evening sun speared through a

layer of low-lying clouds that brought with them the rare promise of rain.

Hassan thought of himself as one who had prepared the soil of his fields for

planting and had sown the first row of seeds. In the rain of time, when the

earth had been properly enriched with the blood of his enemies, the seeds

would sprout and grow and reseed themselves until he -- and those few who knew

the real reason for the Brotherhood's existence -- would have prepared the way

for the coming of the Master.

He looked down into the black depths of his valley, the sun painting his

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