Keeper of the Grail

grip.

“Hold him!” I hissed.

Robard gripped the Assassin more tightly by the shoulders, and I pushed again. The Assassin’s body was nearly rigid. He bellowed, wiggling and kicking his legs, but at last I felt the arrow exit through the skin on his back with a pop and the arrowhead came free. He threw back his head, letting loose one final cry, then passed out.

Robard looked up at me, his face a mass of confusion. At first, I didn’t notice because I was busy wiping the sweat from my forehead and trying to pull myself together.

“Tristan,” Robard whispered. “Look.”

I followed Robard’s gaze to the face of the Assassin. During all the thrashing and kicking about, the Assassin’s turban had been knocked loose and the veil had fallen away. Only it wasn’t his face. It was her face.

For before us, lying there in Robard’s arms, was not the hardened visage of a determined killer. Instead, there was the almost innocent face, framed by long, flowing and beautiful black hair, of a young girl.

The Assassin was a she.

23

Her hair was the color of obsidian. She looked young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. She had fallen unconscious again, and Robard held her stiffly at the shoulders, as if any movement on his part might cause her to break. Clearly he had no idea what to do with her. I was too stunned to move or speak. Perhaps this explained why her companions had run off. If they were all as young as she, they likely were not experienced fighters.

Finally Robard broke the silence. “Tristan! It’s a girl!” he said, his voice a whisper.

“I can see it is a girl, Robard.”

“I’ve never heard of a female Assassin,” he said.

“Nor have I.”

We were silent again, our eyes transfixed on the face of the girl before us. The sky was getting darker, but I could see her face was pale and not her natural color. She had sharp cheekbones, but a small rounded nose, and her thick hair smelled of sandalwood.

“Tristan,” Robard said quietly.

“Yes,” I answered, not looking up from the face of the girl.

“Perhaps you should finish with the arrow. She’s still bleeding,” he said.

Robard’s words snapped me out of my reverie. “Can you hold her up? I need to see her back now.”

Robard complied, moving to the other side of her prone body. I could see where the arrowhead had come through, slightly beneath her shoulder blade. The arrowhead was attached to the shaft with a length of leather twine. I cut through it with my knife, and the arrowhead popped off onto the ground.

With the point removed it was much simpler to pull the shaft free of her shoulder. Simpler perhaps, but not without pain. When I pulled it free of her body, she stiffened, letting out a pitiful moan. But it was out. I cut a section from the fabric of her tunic and fashioned a bandage, which Robard helped me secure tightly around her shoulder.

“We need to take her with us,” I said.

“What?” He was incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m completely serious. She is wounded and in our care. It wouldn’t be right to leave her. She could die here alone,” I said.

I could tell from the look on Robard’s face that he had no problem leaving the Assassin behind. He stared at me a moment. “You are a strange one, Tristan, squire of the Templars,” he said.

“Yes. Well. We need to make a litter to carry her,” I said, drawing my short sword and offering it hilt first to Robard. “Can you take my sword and cut two saplings, strong enough to hold her, about six feet in length?”

Robard made no move, merely staring at me a moment. Then he seemed to come to terms with something and nodded, taking my sword and exiting the camp.

The girl was still unconscious. I built a small fire, figuring it would be safe since we were well hidden from the road. Besides, anyone drawn to it meaning us harm would have to contend with an angry King’s Archer before relieving us of our possessions.

In the woods nearby I picked some waxroot. Back at the fire, I shaved the roots of the plant into small slivers, filled my cup with water and heated it on the fire. While it warmed, I gathered up everything from the campsite, including the Assassin’s daggers, and packed them away.

Eventually she began to stir, groaning in pain a few times. Her eyes opened, and with her good arm, she struggled to push herself into a sitting position. She began to wail, chanting something in Arabic, and I didn’t know what she was saying, but I heard fear in her voice.

Robard returned from the woods carrying the two saplings I’d asked for.

I held up my hands to her, palms empty. “Please,” I said. “Do not move. Quiet now. It will be all right.” I kept my voice calm and low.

She looked at me and fell silent as we appraised each other.

Slowly, I reached for the cup, lifting it in front of me. I held it out for her, but she did not take it. In fact her eyes grew narrow and suspicious.

“Please. Drink.” I held the cup near my lips, then reached out with it again. She sat there as silent as a stone.

“She won’t drink it unless you drink first,” Robard said. “She thinks you might be trying to poison her. I’ve heard Assassins often use poisons to kill an enemy.”

At the sound of Robard’s voice, she turned to look at him, studying him intently for a moment before returning her gaze to me. While she watched, I took a long sip of the waxroot tea, then held the cup out to her again.

Finally she sat up straight, reaching for the cup with her good arm. She took a small sip. The tea was bitter and she made a face at the taste, but I held up a sprig of the plant as she drank, hoping she would recognize it and realize what the tea was made from. She nodded and drank again.

We were silent while she drank her tea. When she finished, she handed me the cup and lay back down on the ground. I added more limbs to the fire, and in a few minutes she had fallen fast asleep again.

While she slept, I removed my tunic, turning it inside out so the sleeves were inside the garment. I pushed the saplings through the armholes. By tying the front of the tunic closed I created a very crude stretcher. It should hold the Assassin long enough for us to get away safely.

I sat it on the ground next to the sleeping girl, motioning for Robard to help me lift her onto the stretcher. Surprisingly he did so without complaint, and when we had her nestled safely there, we each picked up our end and carried her out of the campsite and into the woods.

We had delayed our departure long enough. Her companions could return at any moment with a larger force. We took off at a slow trot, heading east. For the first few minutes the girl whimpered in pain as she bounced along on the litter. After a while, though, her cries ceased and she fell unconscious again.

We didn’t speak or stop to rest. It was difficult to make good time. Robard had taken the front, and as he ran, I heard him mutter under his breath. Words and phrases like crazy plan and stubborn and what am I doing filtered back to me on occasion.

After running for nearly an hour, I estimated we had traveled three leagues. We stopped to rest. I had some figs and dates in my satchel, and Robard and I wolfed them down hungrily. We were breathing hard and sweat was streaming off our faces. For a moment I wondered if we were doing the right thing. Would Sir Thomas or Sir Basil do as I had done? In enemy territory where silence and stealth is of the utmost importance, would they crash loudly through the woods to carry a wounded enemy to safety? After thinking on it a moment I realized that yes, they would have.

Robard knelt a few paces away, scanning the trail ahead of us. I took the water skin to him and offered him a