novelSusiti Chapter 88 Almorin
Chapter 88 Almorin
In May of the Islamic Hijri 578 (late October of the Julian calendar 1182), the nights in the West Bank were already chilly.
Farooq tightened the reins, and his warhorse, puffing out white smoke, returned to camp under the moonlight.
For several days, he led the remaining Ghulam elites to lie in ambush in the hills and dry riverbeds along the main road from Tiberias to Beitshean.
However, the road to Beit Sheam was unsettlingly quiet; apart from the sound of the wind and the occasional desert fox, not a single patrol from Jerusalem was seen.
The expected reinforcements seemed to have vanished into thin air, and this unusual calm made him more anxious than a bloody battle. Each fruitless retreat seemed to confirm that Tajudin's initial caution was not entirely unfounded, and this thought only fueled his anger.
The loss of several hundred elite ghulaans, though not fundamentally damaging the besieging army, was like a thorn in Farouk's side.
These warriors were the backbone of Ayyubid's army, the sharpest blades charging into battle, yet now, because of his recklessness, they had died unjustly in that treacherous fortified city. He desperately needed a victory to wash away the shame and regain face, even if it was just to intercept a supply convoy.
When he lifted the curtain of his tent, the fatigue from days of travel and the worry about the battle situation were instantly replaced by alertness.
No candles were lit inside the tent; only the cool moonlight slanted in through the cracks in the tent flap and the ventilation holes in the top. A figure stood silently in the depths of the tent's shadow, as if he had become one with the darkness.
The man wore a seemingly simple white robe, but in the moonlight, the delicate dark patterns on the hem were faintly visible. He was tall but slightly hunched, with white hair and beard, and his face was deeply lined.
However, when he turned his head, his eyes were like those of the most dangerous falcon in the desert, sharp and cold.
"Almorin?!" Farouk's hand gripped the hilt of his knife, his voice low and menacing, filled with suppressed anger and deep apprehension. "What are you doing here?!"
"Farooq Shah, Emir of Damascus. The Sultan sent you here to test the defenses of Beit She'an, not to send the precious lives of Allah's warriors into the Frankish trap."
Almorin let out a very faint chuckle, his voice dry and hoarse, like boots treading on withered leaves: "Hundreds of well-trained Ghulams, who didn't fall beneath the assaulting walls, were instead trapped like fish in a barrel by their commander's recklessness, executed by those infidels with crossbow bolts like livestock. If this news reaches Damascus, or even the Sultan's ears... I wonder what people will say?"
"You trespassed into my camp just to mock me, old man?" Farouk's clenched fists bulged with veins, and he practically spat out the words through clenched teeth. "When did the Assassins become nothing more than empty talkers?"
"Taunt?" Almorin slowly took a step forward, his tone aggressive. "No, I'm here to atone for your mistakes, Emir. It is the Sultan's will that has brought this old man here."
He paused, seemingly admiring the mixture of anger and surprise on Farouk's face: "Your aggressive attack proves the fortification of this castle and the cunning of its commander. Since the lion's claws cannot tear open the tortoise shell for now, let the serpent in the shadows find its gaps."
"The Sultan's orders?" Farouk frowned.
“Indeed, the Sultan anticipated your setback at Beitshean, but not to this extent…” Almorin said coldly. “Tonight, I will enter Beitshean. The strongest fortresses often crumble from within. I will find their granaries, leave the Assassins’ gifts in their water sources, or…” A bloodthirsty glint flashed in his eyes, “and have a good talk with Baron Guillaume, the one who caused you such a great loss. When chaos reigns within the castle, and fear spreads like a plague, that will be the time for you to sound the horn once more. Emir, this time, don’t let your soldiers and your honor be buried together.”
Having said that, Almorin ignored Farouk's ever-changing expression and, just as he had come, silently retreated into the deepest shadow of the tent, disappearing without a trace as if he had never been there.
Farouk stood alone in the tent. He walked to the table, slammed his fist on it, and spat, "You self-important old fool!"
Almorin moved silently, like a ghost, approaching the outer wall of the castle and scanning the fortress that had caused Farouk to suffer heavy losses.
Almorin's fingers traced the stones of the city wall's foundation, noticing their unusually tight joints. He moved along the shadows, observing that each protruding bastion could form crossfire with its neighbor, completely eliminating blind spots below the wall. This was unlike any castle he had seen in Persia and Syria.
"No wonder Farouk suffered a loss," Almorin thought to himself. These fortifications seemed ordinary, yet they were strange in every way. The angle of the bastions was carefully calculated, the thickness of the walls was far beyond what was common, and even the usual cracks and damage were few and far between.
Almolin chose to infiltrate through the castle's drainage system. Based on his years of experience, he knew this was a weak point in the defenses of most castles.
Once inside the castle, Almorin moved along the walls like a shadow. Taking advantage of the changing of the guards, he silently dispatched two lone patrolmen. His movements were clean and swift; the dagger precisely sliced across their throats, leaving the soldiers no time to even utter a groan.
Almorin was getting closer to his target—Beteshean's granary.
The structure of the granary was quite different from the Persian or Syrian granaries he remembered. The walls were exceptionally thick, constructed of a mixture of rammed earth and brick, clearly a carefully designed structure for fire and moisture protection.
The roof of the warehouse was not a traditional flat roof, but a slightly sloping surface that extended into several brick-built drainage walls, directing rainwater into the underground channels within the courtyard. The warehouse floor was supported by dozens of stone pillars, about half a meter off the ground, with dark ventilation shafts below.
This is a common method for preventing groundwater seepage and rodent infestations. Almorin sneered inwardly, "The Franks actually know how to borrow the Eastern method of using cat holes to prevent rodents, but unfortunately, it's just a clumsy imitation."
Almorin's target was the main grain storage room on the west side of the granary. Based on experience, this was where the largest amount of grain was stored, and it was also close to the well in the inner courtyard, making it easier to dilute traces after poisoning. He climbed the granary wall like a gecko, but suddenly paused when his fingertips touched the surface.
The wall is evenly dotted with fist-sized ventilation openings, but the holes do not lead directly to the grain pile; instead, they are fitted with a grid made of thin copper sheets.
Almorin touched the copper pieces lightly with his dagger and found that they vibrated slightly. It seemed that they were not a fixed structure, but were connected by some kind of elastic mechanism.
"It's like a security bell," he thought to himself, "but if it's just a bell, it's far too rudimentary."
Almorin avoided the ventilation holes, pried open a warehouse window, and sneaked inside. The warehouse was spacious, with wheat piled high, and the air was filled with the warm aroma of grain.
He moved slowly, his boots creaking softly on the pine floor. Suddenly, one of the planks beneath his feet sank slightly, about half an inch.
Almorin heard no sound, but his professional instincts sent chills down his spine. Almost the instant the plank sank, he jerked back, but it was too late.
Suddenly, barking dogs rang out outside the granary, and torches were lit simultaneously on the towers surrounding the granary.
Without hesitation, Almorin abandoned his plan to poison the grain and darted towards the roof beam with incredible speed. Just before the guards broke down the door, he swung his dagger and severed a rope hanging from the roof. That device, originally used to raise and lower grain sacks, now became his fulcrum for swinging out of the warehouse window.
However, just as he flipped out of the window, the hem of his robe accidentally snagged an inconspicuous wooden hook by the window. The hook was connected to a thin chain, the end of which was tied to a string of wind chimes hanging from the eaves outside the barn.
"jingle--"
The cold, clear ringing of the bell echoed through the night. Almorin gritted his teeth and disappeared into the shadows, a chill creeping into his heart.
Who the hell designed this castle?! He's lived half his life and seen countless things, yet he's been humiliated here!