called, and shot John in the same place he had hit
Philip, the center of the chest. The force of the bolt knocked John
backward.

John toppled from his horse and slid to the ground. He cried out some
words in his Tartar language, shivered, and lay still.

Lorenzo stood a moment, breathing heavily. He felt the satisfaction of a
man who has done a hard job that he had long wanted to complete. There
was no satisfied blood-lust, no gloating over vengeance achieved. It was
just the good feeling of an archer whose arrows had gone true.

"Kill him!" Sordello shouted.

The Armenians and Sordello thundered down upon him. Lorenzo set the
crossbow stirrup on the ground and put his foot into it, but he knew he
would not have time for another shot. He tensed himself for the bite of
those saber blades into his unarmored body.

Then, like a curtain, the fleeing remnant of the Sons of the Falcon and
the French knights in pursuit on their gigantic horses swept between
Lorenzo and the Tartars' guards. Still clutching the crossbow, he ran.

A bay Arabian horse, riderless, its eyes rolling in frenzy, galloped
toward him. Lorenzo threw down the crossbow and sprang into the animal's
path, spreading his arms wide. The horse tried to dodge around him, but
Lorenzo grabbed the reins, dug his heels in and jerked the horse to a
stop. He spoke soothingly and rubbed its head, and when it was calm
enough, he scooped up his weapon and heaved himself into the saddle.

He felt a grim satisfaction at having killed the Tartars. But it was too
late, and not enough. Daoud's brave attempt to finish Charles had been
smashed, and the battle was all but lost.

He must get back to Rachel and Friar Mathieu. If, out of this tragedy,
he could rescue Rachel, that at least would be something.

* * * * *

Striking right and left with his saif, Daoud hammered on lifted shields,
on mailed arms, on helmets, on longswords. Few of his blows did damage,
but they forced a way for himself and his horse through the ring of
Frenchmen surrounding Manfred's defenders. Mustached faces, blind with
fury, thrust themselves at him, and he struck at them with fist and
shield and sword. He drove his horse into a narrow space between the
rumps of two huge destriers, pushed them apart like Samson bringing down
the temple of the Philistines, and was facing one of his own Sons of the
Falcon, a dark-skinned man with blood and dirt smeared over his bl