Chapter 288: Broken Wings
Laila shouted loudly while quickly removing her disguise, instantly transforming from a ragged monk into a beautiful woman.
With her long hair cascading like white clouds, when she rushed into the Christian knights’ view with her bare arms and legs, the knights did indeed pause for a brief moment due to her appearance and attire—their first thought was that they were being asked for help by a noble lady who had been mistreated.
But immediately after, they noticed Laila’s unusually long hair and couldn’t help but fall into a wave of fear and panic.
Caesar had already moved out from the crowd by then, granting them the saint’s blessing. The knights were both moved and found it somewhat amusing; they too had received God’s blessing, and even if a devil came, they could send it back to hell!
Only Caesar knew that the woman with snow-white skin and hair was no ordinary person; she was an assassin. He didn’t know why she was so boldly appearing before the Crusaders, but it could also be a method of assassination.
“Abigail, son of the Duke of Antioch, is attacking Sultan Saladin’s sister’s convoy!”
Laila shouted loudly. She used the Christians’ language, immediately causing panic among the people—of course, there could be many possibilities, such as this being a lie intended to lure them into a trap, but damn it! Everyone here believed that Abigail was indeed capable of doing such a thing.
“Have they declared their identity? Those Saracens and that madam!” Caesar asked loudly.
“Not yet, I think they will, but even if they do—do you think they will stop?”
Caesar turned to the people beside him. The ones out on patrol with him today were Gian of Magigo, William Marshall, and about ten young knights who had followed him from Cyprus all the way here. He thought for a moment and pointed to the youngest knight among them. “You, return to Damascus immediately and tell the King about this.”
Then he turned to Laila: “Where?”
He had at least twenty knights here. Unless they were facing an army of a thousand, Caesar could guarantee bringing them safely back to Damascus.
When he ordered that knight to return to Damascus, Laila had already turned her horse around. When he asked for the location, she spurred her horse forward, galloping ahead like an arrow released from a bow.
The Christian knights followed closely behind.
When they arrived, night had fallen, the bright moon was rising, and under that holy radiance was shrouded a crime.
Emina was indeed regretting it. Before she left Saladin’s camp, Saladin had said that besides those hundred slave soldiers, he would assign twenty scholars who had received the Prophet’s revelation to go with her, but Emina had refused.
They needed to return to Homs on this journey, and Homs’s Governor, her husband, was bound to be Saladin’s enemy. If those twenty scholars reached Homs, they would either be detained or executed.
She already knew the dire situation her brother was in; she couldn’t provide him aid and would even stand against him in the future, so she couldn’t take away his only strength at this time.
The only ones traveling with Emina were the scholars who had followed her from Homs to Cairo; they were originally subordinates of the Governor of Homs, and now being able to return to Homs was exactly their wish, but their number was less than twelve.
Most unfortunately, of the two guides, one was bitten on the ankle by a venomous snake shortly after departure and died on the spot without treatment, not even waiting for the scholars to treat him.
And the second was struck in the chest by a stray arrow when they encountered a group of bandits and lost his life in an instant.
After that, they could only proceed by relying on the landscapes and paths remembered by the scholars. They had originally wanted to avoid Damascus, but after passing several villages, they found themselves helplessly heading toward Damascus. There was no other way; they wanted to find guides, but guides were not so easy to find.
Finally, they decided to take a risk. After all, being near Damascus meant the surrounding roads and villages were familiar to them.
But things always develop in the direction people least want to see. They encountered a Crusader force, and not only that, it belonged to Antioch.
The character of Bohemond, Duke of Antioch, went without saying, but worse still, it wasn’t the Duke of Antioch who came, but his son. Abigail’s notorious reputation had long spread to Syria and Egypt. The Saracens mocked the Duke of Antioch for having such a cowardly and incompetent son while lamenting that if all Christians were like that, reclaiming the Holy City would be just around the corner.
But Emina was not so naive. Her brother was Sultan Saladin of Egypt, her husband was the Governor of Homs; she had met countless people, and they treated her differently than her husband and brother, sometimes like completely different people.
She certainly knew that some people, especially those in high positions but mediocre in talent, could be more terrifying than wise scholars or brave warriors—their confidence couldn’t be built in recognized domains, so they turned to dark and despicable paths.
This was also why, when the caravan was under siege, she didn’t immediately reveal her identity; it might not be a protective amulet but a death sentence.
But the enemy’s force numbered over a hundred, including more than twenty knights who had received the Prophet’s revelation（ Saracens also acknowledged Christian saints, calling them prophets, but only twenty-five）. The servants had been killed off, the scholars were covered in wounds, and the others were barely holding on. Emina finally couldn’t wait any longer.
Though she knew things might get worse… Emina spurred her horse forward and raised one hand majestically.
Abigail lazily cast his gaze upon her. A witch, he thought to himself; he called all women past their prime that way, even his own mother.
And the woman’s words immediately piqued another kind of interest in him.
“You have signed a treaty with Saladin and the Governor of Damascus, Razis. You agreed not to turn swords against each other, nor to plunder or kill civilians in the city or passing caravans, and to maintain peace among the three together,” Emina said slowly in the Christians’ language. “So, please stop, gentlemen, by the oath our Sultan swore before Allah and your King swore before God.
I demand you stop immediately, lest you profane your deities and bring shame to your King.”
The knights beside Abigail immediately glanced at him. In this force, Abigail was of course the highest status, and they all had to obey his orders, but speaking of the so-called treaty and the King of Ayyarasa Road—Abigail felt only anger and dissatisfaction surging in his heart, and he cared nothing for some heathen Sultan’s words. “Get out of the way, woman!” he shouted sharply. “Wait obediently for the merchants to appraise you!”
He revealed a malicious expression. It was clear this woman had lived a pampered life before and must have been very beautiful in her youth; even now, past her prime, she still had some charm, but she probably wouldn’t fetch much price. Her guards, however, were all young and strong; perhaps he could make a small fortune.
“I am Emina, sister of Saladin. My husband is the Governor of Homs!”
Emina had no choice but to declare her identity. Her words indeed stunned and made the Knights of Antioch hesitate; they stopped their hands.
The scholars and warriors who were nearly exhausted immediately retreated to Emina’s front. They wanted to protect her, but Emina pressed their shoulders, stepped forward no longer under their protection, but instead shielded them behind her. “I surrender here as your captive. Please have your King treat me with the etiquette due to a Sultan’s sister and a Governor’s wife.”
Emina’s demand was not excessive. With the treaty already signed, even Sultan Saladin captured should receive treatment as a king.
Of course, if captured during wartime, then like that unfortunate noble lady Elena, she would suffer humiliation, torture, and beating, and afterward might become some Saracen’s female slave or be thrown into the market for sale.
But if a treaty had been signed between the two sides, then whether Christian women or Saracen women, they should receive preferential treatment, and in some cases, even enemies would immediately release them and their attendant forces, even sending troops to escort them out of their territory.
But Emina’s gamble had clearly been placed wrongly.
Her declaration lit up Abigail’s eyes, like a mischievous child discovering a new and interesting toy. He slightly raised his hand, and under the incredulous gazes of everyone, he raised the crossbow already loaded with a bolt and shot through a scholar’s throat. The man immediately widened his eyes and fell to the ground dead unwillingly.
And almost simultaneously, Abigail spurred his horse forward, grabbed Emina, and dragged her out of the Saracens’ guard circle.
The Saracens roared in fury and lunged forward, but the equally helpless Knights of Antioch had already blocked between them and Abigail.
“She is Saladin’s sister,” an elderly knight said in a low voice.
“Hey,” Abigail called out joyfully, “just because she is Saladin’s sister, I’ve never enjoyed a Saracen woman of such high status. Don’t mind me; this is a rare glory!” He laughed heartily, spurred his horse toward a place thick with wild grass, and threw Emina heavily to the ground.
Then he dismounted, straddled Emina, and viciously slapped her several times, tore off her headscarf and threw it away. He tilted his head, borrowing the moonlight to see if the familiar fear and despair appeared on Emina’s face.
Unfortunately, he saw nothing. This despicable little man spat in anger and reached to lift his chainmail.
At that moment, Abigail’s horse suddenly neighed uneasily, reared up its front hooves as if to trample a human. Abigail panicked and dodged. Emina, unable to move due to severe pain, helplessly watched as her left arm and right chest were trampled, the pain nearly causing her to faint, but what immediately invigorated her was a rainbow light.
It was the Saracens’ scimitars!
“Laila!” Caesar called. Laila’s speed was much faster than theirs; only Caesar and his Castor could keep up with her. Upon seeing that nauseating scene, Laila had already soared high like a white bird, and two gleaming scimitars flew up with her.
Abigail, rolling wretchedly in the wild grass, widened his eyes. He saw his mount literally split into pieces, and cold blades pouring down like moonlight. He fearfully raised both arms.
“Save me! Save me!” he shouted, anyone would do! Even Caesar!
He did indeed see the holy light belonging to Caesar. Like Count Raymond of Tripoli once, he now desired that holy light and its master as much as he had hated them before. His prayer seemed answered, or perhaps Abigail’s saint had rarely protected him once; he was struck, but the scimitar was obviously slowed for an instant, and then Caesar’s protection arrived.
But in Abigail’s eyes, the barrier Caesar cast was so fragile and vulnerable—his eyes couldn’t capture Laila’s attack at all, nor see that she struck not one blow but hundreds. Caesar’s blessing was not endless—before he could show a joyful smile, he saw his right arm fly high.
In an instant, everything slowed in his eyes. He could even clearly see the severed hand futilely clawing in the air, and he madly flailed his shoulder as if to grab the broken limb with the now-nonexistent right hand.
Laila gritted her teeth; she didn’t know how many strikes she had made, only that each one landed on an indestructible wall. When the wall finally shattered, facing her was no longer Abigail, but Caesar.
Caesar raised his head, astonishment flashing in his eyes but not much disbelief. With a clang, Laila’s scimitar broke on Caesar’s small shield, but she casually swung and drew another dagger—this female assassin’s hands could both wield blades equally, with no difference in lethality or agility.
The Knights of Antioch had already pulled Abigail out of the two’s combat range, and the subsequently arriving Crusader knights, Caesar’s attendants, hurriedly pulled the fallen Emina aside. Their battle was truly terrifying; it was the first time they saw Caesar engaged in such a fierce fight with a Saracen—and a woman at that.
“Come on!”
Laila shouted loudly, scimitar cleaving, dagger stabbing, each strike carrying chilling gleam.
“Kill her! Kill her!” Abigail wailed shrilly. “She cut off my hand! Caesar, kill her, kill this Saracen woman, kill this witch! This devil!”
