ir, feeling it blow through his beard. He looked to the right and to
the left. The Sons of the Falcon were racing beside him, these good men,
these warriors to whom he had taught his Mameluke's skills, these
comrades he had come to love.

_Now we are truly Sons of the Falcon. We dive to kill our prey._

His left hand held the reins lightly, giving the horse his head. At this
speed he had to trust the horse to find the way. They were partners.
They jumped over a dead crossbowman. They leapt a great fallen Frankish
charger. Daoud felt as if he had wings. He laughed aloud. They dodged
around a melee. He rocked to the jolting as the horse's hooves hit the
ground.

There ahead, the red and black banner planted in the soil of the hill
was much closer. Daoud could clearly make out the black rampant lion. He
could see the tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a blood-red cloak and
the helmet with the gilded crown. The man was staring this way, perhaps
only now becoming aware of his danger.

A crossbow bolt hummed viciously past Daoud's ear. To his right a man
cried out and fell from the saddle. Hamid. He felt a moment's pain.

No time for fear or sorrow. He crested a small hill and saw lines of
crossbowmen on a long rise of ground that ran across the valley. They
were far away, still small figures, but growing larger as Daoud galloped
on. They were turning their backs, having just fired. Their first volley
had hit only a few of Daoud's men, because the Sons of the Falcon were
still out of their crossbows' short range. Facing Daoud now were the big
rectangular shields they wore on their backs. The row of shields leaned
away from him as the men bent to draw their bows.

Charles d'Anjou and the men around him were gesturing and pointing. Did
they really expect these archers to save them?

Daoud pulled an arrow from his saddle quiver and nocked it.

"The instant they turn, shoot!" he shouted. He heard his order echoed as
the word was passed down the line. The red flags went up. He took aim at
the back of a man in the center of the crossbowmen's line.

The archers whirled, bringing their bows up. The red flags dipped. As he
felt his galloping horse's hooves leave the ground, Daoud released the
string. He saw the man he had targeted drop his bow and fall to the
ground.

The Falcons' arrows swept the crossbowmen like a scythe. The powerful
Turkish bows could shoot farther and be reloaded faster than the
European weapons. The f