From Hattin to Dark

The battle of Hattin was a brutal end to King Guy's serge into Saracen territory. The Crusaders had foolishly marched into the trap of an angry serpent. Salah al-Din struck without mercy. The battle was a display of Saracen strength both militarily and strategically. The pompous and murderous ways of Reynaud de Chatillon and King Guy were stomped out like a camp fire in a sandstorm. In the wake, the butchered meat of Crusader corpses was scattered to the vultures. Not a soul was left standing save the King and Reynaud.

As the dust settled, Fazia Habib knelt as if someone had knocked the wind out of her. She had heard of the power of the Saracen army but had never witnessed it first hand. It had left her nearly dazed with excitement and a strange sort of fascinated horror. For a day, Fazia had followed the Crusaders watching them falter in their steps – weak and weary from being away from water. She knew they would be slaughtered but this was more than she could ever have imagined. She had not looked to Allah for years, but today she thanked him.

So as not to be detected by Saracen scouts and outlooks, Fazia had hidden carefully in the hills that overlooked the valley in which the battle took place. She watched closely the combat tactics – the way the Crusaders had been encircled by the Saracen cavalry. The Crusaders were easily overwhelmed and confused. She watched the Saracen fighters – she could tell the warriors from the mere slaves or lower echelon. The latter group fought hard but without much skill and lacked adequate armour. In a regular battle – one where the opposing sides were evenly matched - those without armour were the first to be killed. They were, in many ways, expendable.

Fazia also kept her eye on Nasir. He was easy to spot – on his horse beside his master, Salah al-Din. He sat, decked proudly in fine armour and shouting orders as given by his master. Fazia noted the irony of his strength and subservience. His unflinching loyalty to Salah al-Din made him appear strong – almost untouchable like God's right-hand man. She knew then, as she had discovered so many years ago, why she could not let this man out of her mind. Why he, of all the men she had ever encountered, was the only one she had ever allowed to touch her.

As the stench of death began to waft and creep into every corner and crevice of the surrounding hills, Fazia took her leave. The Saracens were returning to camp and she was eager to see the fate of King Guy and the monster, Reynaud. She gracefully climbed the rocks to higher ground where her white stallion awaited her. Behind her the circling vultures blackened the skies and their cries reached a sickening pitch as they celebrated the meal they were about to receive.

--

The Saracen camp was magnificent in its size and organization. But it was not glamorous. Travel-worn burlap tents bore a shabby appearance and provided little shelter to their inhabitants. Many of the soldiers appeared to be without tents, their blankets surrounding camp fires. In contrast, the huge, white Sultan's tent stood out like the last patch of mountain snow in spring. It was well guarded and there appeared to be a lot of activity around it.

Fazia continued to watch from a wide perimeter around the camp. She was determined not to miss any actions taken by Salah al-Din toward his prisoners. Finally she found a location that enabled a view of the tent and just as she did so, she witnessed the quick and grisly death of Reynaud. Salah al-Din had not wasted any time. With agility and strength usually attributed to someone younger, the Sultan struck the already faltering figure with his sword. Reynaud's body fell, as would the body of any other man. Despite his monstrous behaviour, he was still human and still capable of dying.

Fazia was transfixed by the scene. She was so engrossed, in fact, that she was unaware that she was being approached. Suddenly she was being pulled from her horse by a powerful, unseen assailant. No matter how much she struggled, she could not free herself from the grasp.

"Not this time, Sharmoota! There's no escape for you now." An unfamiliar male voice hissed in her ear.

"Reveal yourself, you coward!" Fazia screamed and tried desperately to turn to see who it was that was holding her, but it was of no use. She was practically immobilized by his hold. Without warning, he struck her from behind leaving her dazed. While she was subdued he gagged her and a rough burlap bag was placed over her head. Her entire body was tied with a thick, unyielding rope. She was then roughly tossed over the back of a horse and secured to it. As the horse began to gallop, Fazia gasped, barely able to breathe, while her stomach took the pounding of the horse's hind quarters. Pain surged through her like huge electric currents paralysing her to the point that she was barely conscious. She was suddenly so terrified and in such agony that she couldn't think clearly but for one thought - Who the hell is doing this to me?

The horse pounded on while its rider was completely silent. The heat of the day provided Fazia with further torment. She felt as though she were wrapped in a thick and suffocating cocoon of woollen blankets. Her breathing became more and more laboured and she struggled desperately to stay conscious. Fazia's only desire now was to face her aggressors when the bag was removed from her head. She wanted to see the eyes of the man who dared treat her this way. But it was of no use. Finally, her body betrayed her mind. She fell limp and all went dark.