Chapter 289: Broken Wings
Laila also heard Abigail’s curses and threats. She showed no sign of fear; instead, she let out a sharp and contemptuous laugh that everyone present heard, especially Abigail. He was so provoked that he lost control and fell into uncontrollable madness—one of the monks nearby had already repeatedly called out to God and Lord to calm him down—he was bleeding, they were continuously praying and treating Abigail, but Abigail refused to cooperate at all. He thrashed his body violently, his white teeth bared over his lips, almost like a beast that had lost all reason, ready to bite anyone he saw.
And the stump that had previously shown signs of healing began bleeding profusely again due to his thrashing. The Knights of Antioch holding him down could only raise a hand and deliver a hand chop, and Abigail finally passed out completely.
The monks breathed a sigh of relief; they could finally try to stop Abigail’s bleeding. But their expressions soon turned grave. One monk muttered a curse under his breath, unclear whether he was cursing the assassin or Abigail.
Abigail’s arm was beyond saving.
There were monks capable of reattaching severed limbs and regenerating flesh, but unfortunately, they were only found on Ayyarasa Road, in Constantinople, or in Rome, or perhaps in the court of Francia—definitely not here.
After all this turmoil, it was already good enough that they could now save Abigail’s life.
However, at this moment, even among the knights of Antioch, few could keep their attention on Abigail. They were used to foot duels, jousting, or group melees, but they had never encountered a fight like the one between Caesar and Laila, which resembled a dance.
After all, in a Christian castle, women’s training would not include martial arts, let alone wielding weapons in a real, bloody battle against a knight.
Laila was not a petite woman; her height was almost level with that of an ordinary commoner man. But whether leaping and running or wielding weapons, she moved with such lightness—like the wind, or a bird, or both.
But in the cold wind mixed with ice and snow, the bird’s beak was coated with deadly poison. Her dagger and scimitar could even breach Caesar’s guard and leave blood marks on him. At any other time, those knights would surely shout “devil” and rush to help Caesar kill this assassin.
But now they were as if entranced, completely immersed in appreciating the fight. If Laila was the wind or a bird, then Caesar was like a collapsing cliff or a surging flood. Laila’s blade winds might pierce the surface defense but could not penetrate deeply, while Caesar’s attacks forced Laila to dodge with all her might. She knew well that if she was struck even once, it would mean broken tendons and shattered bones immediately.
And her strength was waning, just as Sinan had warned her. Though she had been fortunate to receive revelation from the Prophet—yes, that was precisely why Sinan had spent a fortune to redeem her. By doctrine and tradition, she should have been put to death, but Sinan did not.
He raised and taught her like the most loving father and the most benevolent teacher. Laila thus held him in deep respect and affection, serving him diligently without complaint, never harboring even the slightest rebellious thought.
She and Sinan had kept this secret for a long time. In the Assassins’ Eagle’s Nest, though some questioned Laila’s strength and agility, since Sinan had become their leader, most people kept silent unless they intended to challenge the elder’s authority.
But this Christian knight fighting her must have realized it. She looked into those emerald green eyes. Even if he did not shout “devil” or “witch,” they should be filled with disgust and rejection—she had seen such malice in the eyes of several people before. Unfortunately, by the time they realized it, they had already become souls under her blade.
But when she looked there, she saw only a clear, brilliant color, perhaps due to the night, or perhaps the moonlight—and in that moment, she suddenly made an incomprehensible move. She first threw her dagger, and as Caesar dodged, her scimitar flew toward the Knights of Antioch watching the fight—or rather, toward Abigail, who was being urgently treated by the monks.
The scimitar whistled through the air. The lead knight immediately raised his shield; his reaction was not slow, but he could only watch as the shield shattered before him—and before he could shout, Caesar had positioned himself in front of Abigail.
Laila did not hesitate; she merged into the darkness and vanished instantly. Even as the knights mounted and searched immediately, they found no trace of the female Assassin assassin. After searching to no avail, and with enemies lurking everywhere in the wilderness at night, they did not dare linger too long, especially since Abigail’s condition was worsening.
William Marshall rode over on horseback and patted Caesar’s shoulder. “I will testify for you, Caesar.”
Caesar at first did not quite understand William Marshall’s meaning—but he soon did. The Duke of Antioch would surely fly into a rage over his only son being harmed, and it was hard to say what a father who witnessed his child suffer such torment, even lifelong disability, might do. He might make many unreasonable demands and harsh accusations, such as why Caesar had not captured that Assassin assassin.
The most troubling part was that the assassin seemed acquainted with Caesar; it was she who came to warn and guide him, allowing Caesar to stop Abigail’s evil deed.
But from another perspective, there was little in Caesar’s actions worth criticizing.
Among Saracen insults, there was one calling someone “the husband of a whore.” Any Saracen man thus cursed would leap up, draw his scimitar, and fight the insulter to the death.
And similarly, in that insult, “husband” could be replaced by any male relative—father, brother, or uncles and elder cousins. When Abigail committed his evil act, he gave no thought to the cost his father, even the King of Ayyarasa Road, or the entire Crusaders might pay for his behavior.
Even though Crusaders and Saracens were mortal enemies, in a century-long war, those who could hold their ground would not be foolish enough to make enemies on all sides. They would always ally with one side against the other, and when needing to play along, hatred and faith were no big issues.
Emina’s status was indeed important and sensitive; she was both the sister of the Sultan of Egypt and the wife of Governor Holmes. If Abigail had truly violated her, the Crusaders would face two raging lions—not to mention Damascus, even Antioch would be in crisis.
Moreover, they had all seen that without Caesar, that female Assassin assassin would not have taken just one arm, but half of Abigail’s body.
Even if the Assassin assassin escaped in the end, it was because the Knights of Antioch were too incompetent—Caesar was not a true saint.
It was just that, connecting to some rumors in Damascus City, some people would surely fan the flames.
“Wait.” William called out to him in time. “Count of Edessa, are you sure they are already your captives?”
The crowd then remembered that Emina had indeed offered to surrender to Abigail of Antioch earlier, but he refused.
The many events that followed made people temporarily forget this crucial matter. Indeed, here the highest in status was the Knight of Bethlehem-Count of Edessa; he should accept these Saracens’ surrender and declare them his captives to avoid complications.
“I have already sent someone to notify Your Majesty.”
“What if the first to arrive is not the King?” William Marshall reminded in a low voice. “If it is Duke of Antioch Bohemond who comes, that would be trouble.”
Caesar hesitated no longer. He turned to Emina, who had taken a scimitar from an attendant beside her and hung it at her waist.
Her clothes had previously been disheveled, her face bruised and swollen, but now she was neatly groomed and clean. Her gaze remained firm; apart from occasional spasms of pain lingering on her face, she showed almost no sign of the terrible ordeal she had endured.
She walked steadily before Caesar, removed the scimitar from her waist, and presented it to him with both hands. “I surrender to you, Lord.
My scholar attendants, soldiers, and I are now your captives. By Allah’s will, we are at your disposal.”
“I accept your surrender; you are now my captives,” Caesar said, then hung the scimitar at his own waist.
William Marshall’s concerns were not unfounded. The first they encountered were indeed Duke of Antioch Bohemond and Count Raymond of Tripoli. Upon seeing Abigail carried on a knight’s back, they were shocked, especially at the sight of his empty side—Bohemond even felt dizzy, luckily Raymond grabbed his arm, preventing him from falling off his horse.
Though he did not love this son and was disappointed in his incompetence, losing an arm—his right arm at that—meant Abigail was not so lucky; like most people, he was not adept with his left hand. This made him a cripple unable to even lift a long sword.
They had once mocked Baldwin in the same way, and now fate played the same trick on them.
“There might still be a chance; Patriarch Heraclius is in Damascus,” Raymond comforted softly, but Bohemond just waved his hand; his gaze sharpened and grew cold again.
The leader of the Knights of Antioch took a deep breath and stepped forward to report.
Bohemond looked at those Saracens. He was not like Abigail—a childish, malicious, emotional young man. But it was certain he would seize this woman and then throttle her brothers and husband until they coughed up enough interest.
But such thoughts ultimately remained mere delusions.
Baldwin arrived almost in the dust of their horses’ hooves. Upon seeing Caesar, he shouted, “Are these your captives?!”
“My captives!” Caesar shouted back equally loudly. “There are witnesses to testify for me.”
Even Raymond could not help casting a pitying glance at Bohemond.
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When Saladin received the Christians’ letters, he was both shocked and afraid. After the envoy left, he strode out of the tent, looked up at the sky, prostrated toward that most holy direction, and prayed devoutly. He pressed his lips to the hot sand, murmuring thanks to Allah and the Prophet—he should have planned for the worst, rather than rashly ignoring destiny’s malevolence.
Fortunately, though Emina unfortunately encountered Abigail, the most vile Christian knight, she also encountered Caesar.
“Let me go,” Kamal volunteered. “Razis is my friend, and there are still many people I know in Damascus.”
Saladin hesitated only a moment before nodding and agreeing to Kamal’s request.
Accompanying the envoy was also a letter from Emina to Saladin.
Saladin held it, turning it over and over, reading it several times. Though Emina was still in Christian hands, Baldwin and Caesar were the most pious and pure children he had ever seen. In their hands, Emina would not be humiliated or detained, and there might even be a chance for her to return to Saladin or her husband and children.
As for the conditions proposed by the Christians, Saladin did not care; those petty schemers might hold most of Egypt’s wealth accumulated over nearly a century—what worried him was only his sister Emina and Kamal, about to head to Damascus.
Seeing him lost in thought and silent, Kamal teased, “Is your conscience aching?”
Damascus was no gift, and these were the results of Saladin’s careful deliberations and schemes, especially for that child—it was hardly a mere trial, but a true test.
But it was Caesar who saved Saladin’s sister and his honor from that shameless Christian knight.
“You are wrong.” Saladin’s reply was as Kamal expected, making the minister smile. The Sultan lightly tapped his palm with the letter. “Now I am glad we made that decision. If we had not interfered in Damascus affairs, what would the situation be now?”
Emina would still return to Homs, and at this time, Damascus would either still be in stalemate with the Crusaders or already fallen. In either case, the Christians would show no tolerance to Damascus or the Saracens; Emina and her group being humiliated, imprisoned, or killed would be imminent—they might never even learn what happened to Emina and the others—sand can bury many things.
“So, Caesar appearing there truly is Allah’s will.”
Kamal said leisurely.
