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  MAMLUK

  J. K. Swift

  Mamluk

  Hospitaller Saga Book 2

  Published by UE Publishing Co.

  Vancouver, BC, Canada

  Copyright© 2018 by J. K. Swift

  All rights reserved.

  Kindle Edition

  Cover design by Chris Ryan, collecula

  www.collecula.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission from the author.

  www.jkswift.com

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  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  Only the port city of Acre remains in the hands of the Crusaders. The boys in Brother Foulques de Villaret’s Army of Children are approaching manhood, but their training is far from complete. Foulques needs more time. The Hospitallers, Templars, and Teutonics all need more time. Before preparations can be made, the Mamluks are at the gates of Acre. And in their midst, is a man Foulques knows only too well: a terrifying Mamluk warrior named Badru Hashim, the Northman.

  Mamluk is the second book in J. K. Swift’s Hospitaller Saga. It tells the story of the siege of Acre, a long, bloody struggle for the last Christian-controlled city during the waning days of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Book Description

  The Khanjar

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  THE KHANJAR

  Question: What weapon should a soldier carry with him at all times?

  Answer: The khanjar should never be left behind, neither in war nor in peace. It has many advantages and can be used with all other weapons. It is useful with lances and with arrows, with swords and maces, and with javelins, and with all these together. So learn all there is to know about it.

  —From the Mamluk military treatise: Complete Instructions in the Practices of the Military Art (Nihayat al-Su’l wa’l Umniyaya fi Ta’lim A’mal al-Furusiyya)

  Translation by David Nicolle

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sultan Qalawun sat on the raised dais inside his temporary command pavilion, a blood-red tent erected on the high ground of the surrounding desert. His ranking emir were assembled around him, their armor dull, caked with the dust and blood of war. Only their faces and hands were clean, for they had all used the cauldron of water outside the tent to wash away the filth of battle before presenting themselves to their sultan. Even the lamellar cuirass of his eighteen-year-old son bore the glorious smears of war. Qalawun wondered how many Mongols the young man had killed. The wild look in his eyes spoke of at least one, but Qalawun doubted it was many more than that. It was all right, though. The boy had not yet caught time’s eye. He would have ample opportunities to prove himself.

  Ah, youth, Qalawun thought.

  He flexed the aged muscles in his sword arm and glanced down at the golden mail covering it. Matching greaves protected his thighs and a conical helmet sat on a nearby table. Nothing was solid gold of course, for that would have been far too heavy to wear and beyond useless as armor. Although this delicate, gold-plated mail was probably not much better. It had been some time since he had worn a true set of armor.

  He looked around at the tent full of hardened warriors. The few that met his gaze did so with only respect and adoration in their eyes. And why not? He had defeated the Mongol hordes not once, but twice now. Twenty years ago, on the plains of Ain Jalut he had fought under the command of Sultan Baybairs himself. While the rest of the world cowered at the relentless onslaught of the barbarians from the steppes, the Mamluks had stood their ground and sent the Mongol wave crashing back upon itself. Being the barbarians that they were, they proved themselves incapable of learning from that first encounter and Qalawun used the same strategy, the same formations, to break them once again.

  Qalawun nodded to his most trusted emir and vice-sultan, Turuntay, who was a thick, heavily bearded man. Like Qalawun himself, Turuntay had been a Kipchak Turk before the sultan’s men took him from his village when he was still young enough to forget who he was.

  “Bring him in,” Turuntay said.

  Two warriors dragged a man into the tent on his knees with his hands tied behind his back. He fell onto his side when they deposited him roughly on the carpeted ground.

  “Kneel,” Turuntay shouted. “You are in the presence of Sultan al-Malik al-Mansur Saif ad-Din Qalawun al-Alfis-Salihi, defender of the words of Allah, His holy territories, and all His people.”

  The Mongol’s eyes flicked open but he made no attempt to sit up.

  “Get him up,” Turuntay said to the men on either side of the captive. They yanked him upright to his knees and steadied him there with their fists wrapped in his ragged shirt. The Mongol straightened as best he could and stared directly at Qalawun with his almond-shaped eyes. His clean-shaven face was swollen around the mouth and cut in several places, but other than that he seemed unharmed.

  Qalawun leaned forward. “You are the Mongol general,” he said.

  It was not a question. Qalawun’s vizier stepped forward and began to interpret the sultan’s words to the barbarian in his own tongue, but the man spit at him.

  “I do not need an old man to tell me the words of a dog,” he said in strongly accented, yet perfectly intelligible, Turkic. One of the warriors holding him had his scimitar half pulled from its scabbard before Qalawun stopped him with a shake of his head.

  “You speak our words,” Qalawun said.

  The Mongol’s lips curled back. “You think they are so special, your words? So difficult to learn? They are nothing. You think you won something today, but the will of heaven cannot be stopped. The bloodline of Jhingis Khan cannot be stopped. His grandson will return, and you will never speak your words again unless the Great Khan wills it so.”

  Qalawun leaned forward in his high-backed chair. “Your talk bores me, Mongol, for I have heard it all before. Twenty years ago at Ain Jalut. Then, as now, your barbarian kin fell to Mamluk swords and arrows by the thousands. It took longer for us to clean your blood off our weapons than it did to slaughter your horde.”

  Qalawun turned to the emir on his left. “Kitbugha. Let him feel the hand of a Mamluk.”

  Kitbugha stepped forward and backhanded the Mongol across his face, snapping the general’s head to the side and eliciting a groan of pain.

  “Kitbugha was in your Khan’s army at Ain Jalut. I took him prisoner at that battl
e. I do not know why I did not kill him, for I killed so many that day, one more would have made no difference. But Allah stilled my blade and put pity in my heart. I allowed Kitbugha to serve me. I saw to his education, and in time, I made him into a man. A Mamluk.”

  Qalawun nodded to Kitbugha and he stepped back into place beside the sultan. Then Qalawun stood and leisurely took the Mongol general’s face in one hand. He dug his thumb under one cheekbone and his fingers under the other and applied pressure on the nerves there to turn the man’s head to look at him. The palm of his hand covered the Mongol’s mouth, in case he tried to spit at him.

  “If Jhingis Khan himself were still alive, and he led his horde against us, it is his head I would hold in my hand right now.”

  The Mongol squirmed against the perceived blasphemy until Qalawun squeezed his fingers and the man’s eyes watered.

  “The Mongols will always be inferior to my Mamluk warriors. That is truly heaven’s will. And do you know why? Your soldiers are herdsmen and bandits who, for a few short years, play at war. They ride their ponies at their enemy, loose their arrows, and run away before they can be caught. That is the way of the steppe warrior. And it has worked until now because you have never come up against other skilled horse archers. You see, the Mamluks have their roots in the steppes as well.”

  Qalawun released his grip and eased himself back into his chair. The Mongol’s mouth opened and closed to ease the pain in his jaw.

  “Do you know what ‘Mamluk’ means?” Qalawun asked.

  “Dog,” the Mongol said. “Dogs with only one god.”

  “In a way you are right. Most of us did not accept the teachings of Allah until we were men, like Kitbugha, here. Mamluk means ‘owned.’ Most of us were bought at a young age. We were selected for our physical attributes and then trained in the warrior arts since we were children. My own name means ‘one thousand dinars’ for that is what my master paid for me. We are slaves. Warrior slaves whose entire lives are devoted to war. We know nothing else. If it helps, you may blame your losses of today, and twenty years ago, on the poor quality of your armor and swords, the inferior bows with which you launch your poorly crafted arrows, or even the superior strength and speed of our larger Arabian stallions over your steppe ponies. But these are excuses.”

  Qalawun stood once again. He reached out his hand and slowly wound his fingers in the Mongol’s long hair. He made a fist, pulling the man’s head back. The barbarian’s nostrils flared and his chest heaved, but his dark eyes stared into Qalawun’s own with a seething hatred.

  “We Mamluks are not Egyptians. We are not Arabs, nor are we all Turks, though we often choose to speak that language. We come from all manner of countries and backgrounds, but many of us are horsemen from the steppes. We are cultured, educated, disciplined versions of yourselves. Everything you aspire to be. Today, barbarians of the steppes have been defeated by men of the steppes. As it happened those many years ago at Ain Jalut. As it will happen again.”

  A small, jeweled dagger appeared in Qalawun’s hand. He drew it across the Mongol’s throat and the man’s eyes went wide.

  “How could it ever be otherwise?”

  The Mongol opened his mouth to say something, but blood had already filled his throat and was beginning to flow out of the fine slit in his neck and spread downward. In a few short moments, the rags on his chest turned redder than the finest silk. The Mongol was dragged from the room before he was truly dead, lest he spoil the sultan’s carpets any more than he already had.

  Qalawun scanned the room. His emir, on the whole, seemed pleased with his handling of the enemy general. His son, Khalil, however, wore more of a scowl than usual. Qalawun turned his back to the boy and made his way to his chair.

  “Next I would have the knights of the cross brought before me,” Qalawun said to no one in particular. The warrior nearest the door threw aside the ornate silk curtains and disappeared outside. Seconds later he returned with an escort of guards and seven prisoners. Joined at the neck with a line of chain, their hands tied behind their backs, these men were obviously not Mongols. Their pale skin marked them as Franks, but the way their hair was cut short on top and the unkempt style of their beards suggested they were much more than simple soldiers. Five had been stripped of their armor and wore only light breeches and sweat-stained undershirts of gray cotton. But for whatever reason, two of the men still wore their red battle tunics over mail hauberks. Splayed across each man’s chest was a white cross. They were Hospitallers and Qalawun knew full well how they liked to claim this white cross was meant to symbolize peace, or a moment of stillness upon the blood-red battlefield of war. It was Qalawun’s turn to scowl. He had fought the Holy Christian Orders all his life. These were not men of peace.

  With a curt nod of his head, the Hospitallers were knocked to their knees with the pommels of swords.

  “Who amongst you has the authority to speak with me?” Qalawun said in fluent French.

  All the Hospitallers lowered their eyes, save one of the men still wearing his red tunic.

  “I am Brother Dumont, a captain of the Knights of Saint John of Jerusalem, currently stationed at Margat,” the man said.

  “You command these men?” Qalawun asked.

  “Our commander fell in the battle,” Dumont said. “But yes, I believe I am the highest ranking one of my brethren who yet lives.”

  “You realize that by siding with the Mongols you have violated the peace treaty we have had with your grand master these past years?”

  We were ordered here by our prior. That is all I know.”

  “Is that so? All of you come from the fortress of Margat then?”

  Dumont nodded.

  “And I suppose the grand master of your order in Acre knows nothing of this treachery?”

  “I am not privy to the knowledge of my order’s leaders.”

  “No, of course not,” Qalawun said. “Your God’s Holy Orders are as secretive as its priests, no?” He leaned back into his chair and let the silence in the tent build.

  “What will you do with us?” Dumont asked.

  “A fair question, Captain. The truth is I cannot decide. Perhaps my son will have some ideas. Khalil?”

  Qalawun’s son stepped forward. “Yes, Father?” He did not speak French, so he had no idea what the Hospitaller and Qalawun had been discussing.

  “What would you do with the Hospitaller prisoners if you were in my position?”

  “Father?”

  “I ask for your opinion, my son. What do you think we should do with the prisoners?”

  Khalil’s eyes narrowed. “They are sworn enemies of Islam. They must be executed of course.”

  Captain Dumont shifted on his knees and Qalawun suspected he might understand enough Turkic to grasp the plight of his situation.

  “Yes, of course,” Qalawun said. “And how would you execute them?”

  The boy did not hesitate. “They must be tied to posts in Cairo’s square and lashed every day until they die, so the people understand what we protect them from.”

  Qalawun fought to keep his eyebrows from arching at the response. He nodded and said, “I see.” He turned to the vizier. “Clear my pavilion. I should like to confer with my son.”

  Less than a minute later Qalawun and Khalil were alone.

  “Do you know why I asked for your advice just now Khalil?”

  “To see me shamed in front of your emir,” Khalil said.

  Qalawun closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “No, Khalil. Despite what you may think, that was not my intention.”

  Khalil threw up his hands. “And what else am I to think? I know you had no intention of ever following my advice.”

  Qalawun felt his blood rise and the heat radiate up into his face. “Have you ever seen a man whipped to death?”

  Khalil shrugged. “I am not sure. Perhaps when I was a young boy.”

  Qalawun shook his head. “A skilled master of the leather can keep a man alive for weeks. In fact,
it is more likely the man would starve to death than die from the whip.”

  “All the better. The longer the Christians lived the better the spectacle for our people,” Khalil said.

  Qalawun stood and took a step toward his son. “Spectacle? A man suffering the leather cries out for only one or two days. Any more and the pain closes down his body. He loses consciousness. What good would it do for our citizens to see us whip a silent, bloody piece of meat day in and day out, while the carrion eaters circle overhead?”

  Khalil stared straight ahead, his gold-flecked brown eyes seething with emotion, but whether he felt anger toward himself, or at his father, Qalawun could not tell.

  “I sought to give you an opportunity today to impress the emir,” Qalawun said.

  Khalil turned to look at his father. The boy’s eyes softened, somewhat. “Why would I need to impress any one of them? My sultan is not amongst them.”

  Qalawun forced one of his rare smiles. “Without the emir, there can be no sultan.” He stepped forward and put his hand on Khalil’s shoulder. “They are all Mamluk. You are not.”

  “So you have always told me,” Khalil said.

  “I tell you so you are prepared. When I am gone, the only way you will take my place as sultan will be if the emir allow you to do so. For that to happen you must earn their respect.”

  Under his hand, Qalawun felt the tension in Khalil’s body shift.

  “What do we do with the Hospitallers?” Khalil asked.

  Qalawun removed his hand from the boy’s shoulder and nodded. “You are right. They must be punished. And not only the knights of Margat who sided with our enemies. Their entire order must suffer.”

  Khalil’s face lit up. “Yes, Father.”

  “But not today. Our army is tired, our resources depleted.”

  “Then when?” Khalil asked.

  “Not as soon as you would like, Khalil. But by Allah’s might, they will suffer. I make this promise to you, not as your father, but as your sultan.”

  “And the prisoners?”