Azzam: The Sword of Samarkand

Chapter 2

Far to the west of Samarkand lies the city of Ashmunein – a sea of domes wrapped tightly by swirling desert winds. Many leagues even further west in the midst of shifting sands and scattering particles, lay two figures side-by-side on top of a sand dune. 

“I see something!” the young prince Omar peered through a short length of pipe fitted with a powerful magnifying glass.

“The sun is about to set, what can you see in this dying light young master?” said the tall grey-cloaked figure. 

“Wait… wait… It’s a cam-mel… no… thwee camels and their riderz!”

Strange, thought Azzam to himself. Its almost dark, its dangerous to be out in the open this late, and there aren’t any settlements near by. 

“Are they far? Are they coming this way?” enquired the Mameluke warrior.

 “I lost them… no wait.. there they are. I can barely see them now. I think they are moving away.”

“Hmmm..” thought the warrior.

The howling desert wind was still kicking up sand into the air. It was difficult to see very far with all the yellow particles swirling around. But there were few souls in these parts anyway. Which is precisely why this location was a perfect hideaway. Azzam had discovered the lodge in pursuit of a party of marauding knights enroute to Arabia

He remembered their leader – a very tall red-head with broad shoulders and powerful arms. The knight held a green flag marked with a strange looking figure - the head of an eagle and the body of a lion. Azzam brushed the scar on his chest instinctively. Ahhh yes, I remember, the knight had managed to wound him deeply. The Frank fought ferociously with enormous raw strength. But years of training allowed Mamelukes to remain calm during combat, to wait patiently for the opportunity to deliver that decisive blow, with lightning speed and surgical precision. One mameluke was said to equal five Mongols or three knights. 

Sultans that could afford to train Mamelukes would keep them close by.

“It’s almost time for Maghreb – the evening prayer”. 

The young prince leapt to his feet, handed over the telescope and began trudging through the loose sand towards a stone lodge in the distance without a word. The stone lodge was built as a temporary facility by the Crusaders, the masonry was superb as could be expected from Frankish architects.  It was not on any official map in Arabia and neither was there a settlement or well-trodden track near by.

As they made their way back to the lodge, Azzam wrapped his long arms around the shivering prince. 

“Ahhh… the desert night,” thought Azzam.

It was quite cool at night but it was the wind that sucked the warmth from one’s body. The boy was developing well. He had a stubborn resolve which helped, but compared to a Mameluke he was downright soft, even feeble. Life was unforgiving, and if his father’s gravest fears were realized, then he would need to toughen up pretty quickly.

The retainer stood in the middle of the house, lifted his hands to his ears and called out the invitation to morning prayer. 

Listening to the recitation of Azzam was certainly one of the highlights of Omar’s day. The old warrior had a sweet soulful voice, and when he recited the rhythmic poetry of the Quran, his voice echoed across the stone lodge. Each day he recited something different, partly because it helped him to maintain his memorization of the whole Quran and partly because he wanted the young master to focus on the new verses he would be studying for the next day. 

The boy’s training was progressing as planned. Every day would be devoted to memorizing the Quran, strengthening the body with basic exercises, developing balance, dexterity and competence in using simple weaponry followed by a short trip into the desert to identify the creatures of the desert by their sounds.