They said that they came from Provence, that they had come with their count to Ashkelon along with many others, that they were out on their first day of patrol in the Holy Land, and that they had been fortunate to find Saracens whom they intended to send immediately to Hell. They had namely taken the cross, all three, and therefore it was their duty according to God.
“According to the Holy Father in Rome, in any case,” Arn corrected them sarcastically. “But we Templar knights are the Holy Father’s army; we obey only him. So the closest you are now to your pope is the commander of Gaza, and I am that man. Enough of this. I bid you welcome to the Holy Land, may God stand by you. But now I orderyou to return to Ashkelon without delay, or wherever you may wish to go. But you must leave Gaza’s territory, where you now find yourselves.”
The three knights showed absolutely no sign of obeying. They insisted that they had a holy duty to kill Saracens, that they had taken the cross, that they were intending to begin their holy mission right here and now, and other such nonsense. They clearly had no idea what a Templar knight was, and they didn’t seem to realize that the black border along the mail protecting Khamsiin’s hindquarters meant that they were talking to a high brother. They were like madmen.
Arn tried to explain that they could not carry out this imagined holy mission to kill women, children, and old people, since there was a Templar knight in their way. They had to accept that they were at a serious disadvantage.
This they did not understand at all; on the contrary, they thought that they were three against one and that it might be enjoyable to fight off a Saracen-lover before they completed their blessed mission to slaughter the village.
Arn patiently begged them to reconsider. Since they were only three, it would be foolish to attack a Templar knight. If they returned to Ashkelon and asked those who had been in the Holy Land longer, they would surely be told the same.
But they wouldn’t listen to reason. Arn gave up and rode rapidly down the hill to position Khamsiin directly in front of the camp. There he demonstratively drew his sword, raised it to the sun three times, lowered it and kissed it, and then began his obligatory prayers.
Old Ibrahim laboriously trudged through the sand to reach him from one direction while Harald came on horseback from another. Arn explained first in Arabic and then in Norse what in the worst case might happen if the three crazy men up on the hill refused to be sensible. Ibrahim hurried off at once, while Harald stationed his horse next to Arn’s and cockily drew his sword.
“You have to move back, you’ll just be in the way,” said Arn in a low voice without looking at Harald.
“Never shall I abandon a kinsman who finds himself at a disadvantage. You can’t make me do so, jarl that you are!” Harald protested vehemently.
“You will be killed at once and I don’t want that to happen,” said Arn without taking his eyes off the three Frankish knights. They had now knelt down to pray before their attack; the fools were apparently serious. But Harald didn’t make the slightest attempt to move away.
“I’m telling you once and for all that you must obey my order,” said Arn in a louder voice. “They’re going to attack with lances, and you’ll be killed at once if you’re nearby. You mustmove your horse away now. If there is a fight on foot, then you may assist me. If you can find a bow and arrows in any of the tents, use them. But you may not ride against Franks!”
“But you don’t have a lance!” Harald objected in despair.
“No, but I have Khamsiin, and I can fight like the Saracens, which these three have probably never encountered. So go now and at least look for a bow and arrows so that you can be of some use!”
Arn had given this last order in a very stern tone. Harald obeyed and trotted toward the tents just as old Ibrahim came back, out of breath and stumbling in the sand, holding a bundle in his hands. When he reached Arn he had to catch his breath for a moment. The three Franks up on the hill were now putting on their helmets with plumes in beautiful colors.
“God is truly great,” the old man puffed as he began to unwrap his bundle. “But His ways are inscrutable to men. From time immemorial we of the Banu Anaza have taken care of this sword. It was the sword that the holy Ali ibn Abi Talib lost when he was martyred outside Kufa. It has been our duty to pass this sword down from father to son until our saviour came, he who would save the faithful. It is you who are that man, Al Ghouti! The one who fights with a soul so pure and for a cause so holy as you now intend to do can never lose with this sword in hand. It was written that you should have it!”
Beseeching him and with trembling hands the old man held out an ancient and clearly dull sword toward Arn. Despite the gravity of the moment, he couldn’t help but laugh.
“I doubt that I am the right man, my dear friend Ibrahim,” he said. “And believe me, my sword is just as holy as yours. It is also, if you’ll pardon me saying so, somewhat sharper.”
The old man would not yield; he continued to offer the sword, trembling all the more with the effort.
Then a shadow slipped into Arn’s thoughts. The Rule forbade any Templar knight from killing or even wounding a Christian. His own sword was blessed before God in the church at Varnhem; it could never be raised in sin for then he, as he himself had sworn, would be smitten to the ground.
He reached down his shield arm and grabbed the old sword, weighed it tentatively in his hand, and ran his finger along its blunt edge. The three Franks now lowered their lances and began galloping in tight formation toward Arn. He had to decide at once.
“Look here, Ibrahim!” he said, handing him his own sword. “Stick this sword in the sand before your tent, and pray before the cross you see there. I shall use your sword and we shall see how great God is!”
In the next instant he spurred Khamsiin, who had already begun to quiver with eagerness, and dashed straight ahead toward the lances of the three Franks. Ibrahim ran back to his tent, stumbling in the sand, to do with Arn’s sword as he had been asked.
Harald had not found any bow, no matter how much he searched, and now he stood as if paralyzed, watching what was happening. His jarl was dashing with sword in hand straight for three attacking knights with lances lowered.
In the following moments he came to fully appreciate his jarl’s words, which he had thought contemptuous, when Arn said that no Norwegian was any good on a horse.
Anyone at all, even Harald, could now see that Arn Magnusson’s horse was much faster than those of the others. Up to the last second it looked as though Arn was really intending to fall like a fool with his head down into the three lances rushing toward him. But just beyond their reach he turned sharply to the right so that Khamsiin bolted almost horizontally in the turn and the three knights missed. When they pulled up and looked around as best they could through the narrow slits in their helmets, Arn had already circled and struck the first man with a blow across the neck. The Frankish knight collapsed at once, dropped his lance and shield and fell slowly, sliding lifelessly off his horse. By then the second knight had Arn upon him. He tried to defend himself with his shield as the third knight, who now had his comrade in the way, had to maneuver around to take a new angle of attack.
Arn hacked his nearest foe’s horse straight across the small of its back so that the steed collapsed paralyzed when its hind legs failed. When the knight then lost his balance he was struck by Arn’s sword straight across his face through the helmet’s eye slit. He too fell.
Now only two men were left on their horses out there, Arn and the third Frank. It looked as though Arn then wanted to negotiate with the man and convince him to surrender. Instead the knight once again lowered his lance and went on the attack. Instantly his head was tossed through the air, still in its helmet, and fell with a dull thud to the ground followed by the body, spurting blood. Arn seemed very surprised and reined in his horse. He ran his fingers over the edge of the sword, testing it, shook his head, and then walked Khamsiin over to the second of the three Frankish knights, who was not dead. He got down from Khamsiin and went over to help the fallen man to his feet. The bewildered knight took Arn’s hand and stood up. Arn helped him wriggle out of his helmet. The man’s face was bloody but he did not seem seriously injured.