Oathbreaker: Return of the son, #2

By Dimitar Gyopsaliev

"A man is only as good as his sword"

Experience the thrilling historical fiction novel Oathbreaker, set in the aftermath of the Second Battle of Ayn Jalut during the Crusades. Follow the gripping journey of Peter Longsword, a hero wracked with guilt after his friend Adam's death and on a quest for revenge. Struggling to find his place in a tumultuous world, Peter must confront both external threats and internal demons as he navigates through political intrigue and historical conflicts between Christians and Mamluks. Along the way, he develops relationships with Lady Eleanor, Princess Shajar al-Durr, Lord Broca, and Ivar as he seeks to uncover the secrets behind mysterious shipwrecks and his father's legacy of honor versus betrayal. With powerful emotions and a strong conflict at every turn, will Peter be able to protect those he loves and find the truth before it is too late? If you enjoyed books such as Ken Follet's Pillars of the Earth, then you'll love Oathbreaker. Buy now before the price changes!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dimitar Gyopsaliev
• Release date: Nov 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9786199217153

Dimitar Gyopsaliev

Dimitar Gyopsaliev was born and raised in Plovdiv and now lives in Sofia with his wife and his two kids. In addition, his family inspired him to write. Dimitar and his son Branimir are very curious and constantly explore any good story.

Book preview

Prologue

Holy Land, summer of the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ;

The storm had died down, leaving a calm sea, and the water a deep blue. As the waves rolled in with a steady rhythm, their white foam lit up the sandy and rocky shoreline. The sun blazed high in the sky, its heat warming the beach and the breeze blowing away. Seagulls glided on the air currents, their cries piercing through the air. The dunes stood as silent witnesses to the vast sea.

Matthew and Matilda breathed in the salty sea air as they walked along the beach. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over their small fishing village near the coast. The two children had always loved this time of the day when they could escape their duties in the village and play Red and White knight. Their wooden sticks clashed as they fought an epic battle on the sandy shore. Matthew, pretending to be the Red knight, swung his stick with ferocity, while Matilda, the White knight, parried with skill and precision. They fought passionately; their faces contorted with determination as their hearts pounded with excitement. They had always dreamed of becoming knights in the great crusading fortress that stood a few miles to the north, controlled by the mighty Templars. They had always imagined fighting for honor and glory, like the heroes of old.

Why do you always choose the red? I want to be a Red knight, said Matilda.

Next time, Matthew said.

You always say that.

Red is mightier than white. Defend yourself! Matthew raised his imaginary sword and lunged.

Matilda stepped back and avoided the attack.

You wish! She laughed at Matthew and took another step back, but something hit her right leg.

She screamed, then stumbled and fell.

Do you surrender? Matthew asked victoriously as he focused on the girl.

Then they saw it.

A skull lay half buried on the beach.

Look! What’s that? Matthew said.

The skull greeted them from the sand with a twisted smile. Something flashed between its teeth.

Matthew kneeled and examined it.

What is it? A jewel? Matilda asked as her eyes brightened.

I don’t know.

The boy reached out and grabbed it.

A chess figure, he said. With a crown.

A king?

Maybe.

As they examined the skull, an enormous shadow appeared over their heads.

A black crow flew out of nowhere, landing near the skull with an ominous caw. The children stood frozen for a moment as the excitement in their eyes turned to fear.

Without a second thought, they ran back to the village. They couldn’t wait to show their discovery to the village elder.

As they ran, the sun had almost fully set, casting the small fishing village in an eerie golden light. However, their excitement was mixed with fear as they couldn’t shake the unease caused by the appearance of that crow.

With this discovery, their ordinary day became special. For an instant, their eyes met as they ran. They had found a treasure.

Chapter One

Holy Land, summer of the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ; Two weeks after the Second Battle of Ayn Jalut;

Peter received a boot on his face and woke up with a jolt.

A mist had settled and shrouded the camp as they slept. There was no sun to illuminate it, so it looked like a silvery cloth. It obscured even the trees.

Get up, Longsword, Sir James of Durham shouted, kicking the sleeping man again on his thigh. The kick made him fall onto his side. He groaned as he massaged his sore thigh. From the corner of his eye, he saw the offending foot stretch towards him again. This time, he tried to move his face away, but it hit his nose.

I’m awake… Peter said with a wince. He tried to sit up as he held his nose. James grinned at him.

Move your arse!

Peter was more sore than annoyed as he focused on Sir James. The captain of his party, his friend, and a Scot from Lord Edward’s retinue who took him under his wing. He was one of the distinguished knights from Edward’s household. A loud one, with brutally dark humor, but a brave soldier with a fearsome reputation. Most of the men called him Red Herring, because when he got angry, his pale face turned red, like the fish from the northern sea—a herring, kippered by smoking and salting until it turned reddish brown.

Peter, Adam, Owen and thirty crusaders, along with twenty archers, were traveling back from the exchange of the prisoners with the sultan’s representatives. It was a safe journey to their destination, where they delivered the traitors from the Second Battle of Ayn Jalut to the sultan for gold.

They made their way back, hauling their reward with them, happy they could finally sail back home. A day away from the City of Acre, they had set up camp for the night.

However, his body now ached as though wild horses had dragged him through the road. Peter groaned again. He had been so tired that he had slept while seated with his back to a fallen dry tree. Peter had just rested and yet his body felt so worn out he doubted he even shut his eyes. Regardless, they had reached the skirt of the mountain and made their camp. They would be at the city by sundown if they started early, so rather than complain, Peter tried to straighten himself up. The pain in his thigh and the heavy chainmail also wore him down, but he ignored them, finally resting his back on a tree. Around him, men were busy getting out of their tents and arranging their things so they could move on. The extinguished fire and the harsh reek of men reminded Peter that he and the rest of his men had not had their baths.

Deciding not to be the one to drag the men behind, he approached his horse, which was busy nibbling something. It looked so content that Peter did not want to disturb it, but he needed a drink, and his flask of water was on the horse. He moved closer, stretching his hand towards the object when an arrow flew by, missing his leg by an inch. Peter moved back immediately, surprised by what happened, and turned his head toward where it had come from. He only saw the mist. Another crusader had seen the arrow and was seconds away from raising an alarm when another arrow flew into camp and ran through his throat. The force with which it pierced the man’s throat made a squelching sound that quickly alerted Peter of his surroundings. Someone was attacking them just before dawn when they were sure the sentries would be tired and could barely see.

We’re under attack! Sir James shouted. Line up! Spears and shields up front! He yelled again, showing his twisted smile as he leaped to the other tent. His face turned red as his eyes blazed.

The men who were still in the tents ran out with their weapons in hand and grabbed their shields. Ignoring the flask of water, Peter grabbed his sword instead and was on high alert, as he breathed in the morning air and observed the camp. The mist made it difficult to tell how large the enemy force was.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned. His friend was running towards him with a grin on his face.

They are coming, Owen grinned when he found Peter.

Who’s coming?

Who cares? The Welshman archer said with a shrug, We’ll beat these shitheads.

Mamluks? Tartars? Peter Longsword rubbed his eyes. Bandits?

The sentry didn’t say, Owen winked as he took up his longbow, thrilled. Some arrows flew in from the slope and hit the ground near his left boot. Instead of Owen moving away, the Welshman only smirked as he took his arrows. He loved the thrill of a good battle.

Thank the Lord he was already awake, Peter thought. He didn’t want his miserable life to end with a cut throat while sleeping in the dirt alone.

I’ll teach you how to shoot, you bastards, Owen shouted at no one in particular as he retaliated. He fired into the mist, confident that even though he could not see them, his arrow would reach them.

Come on, you’ll waste your arrows. Let’s go to the others! Peter said, as he took Owen’s arm. He knew his friend could stay there, but they needed to move, or else Owen would keep on firing blankly. The Welshman allowed Peter to move him away as soon as they ran towards the other men.

No horses’ hooves, Adam said as he stood near Peter.

Are you sure? Peter raised his eyebrow. There were sounds of shouting all round and it made hearing difficult, even though Adam was near him.

Whoever’s attacking us is on foot. I can’t hear any horses, Adam said.

Before he could reply to him, Sir James interrupted them with a shout,

You, Welsh-arse Master, take your scum shooters on that ridge. Sir James pointed at the north as he put on his great helm. Hurry men, we haven’t all morning! You know what to do. Shoot these bastards down when they approach.

If only they could see the raiders. Damned bastards, Peter thought. The mist was thick and did not look as if it was going to disappear soon. Their attackers somehow had the upper hand because they knew where they all were.

Owen nodded without a moment’s hesitation and said something in his native language to the rest of the archers. They swiftly ran towards higher ground, trying to get out of the mist. Peter glanced at him; Owen’s age was hard to determine. He had brown eyes and freckles on his face. His wild, dark-red curly hair was shaggy. His roguish look seemed to invite trouble. But there had to be a reason he was one of the most trusted men of Lady Eleanor’s household and one of the best archers, too.

Together with Adam and Peter, they became close friends over the last few weeks.

Longsword, we will see you after the fight. Owen winked at him as he followed his men and added to the orphan: If you survive, your highness.

Worry about yourself. Peter winked back at him.

The name he had called him wasn’t a new one. His friends understood he was the lost heir of William Longsword, a half-brother of Richard the Lionheart, and a cousin of Edward, the Crown Prince of England. As a result, he had become famous. Regardless, Peter was an orphan, a street dog from Acre who did not want to be defined by the ties of his blood, and was instead determined to make a name for himself using his own hands.

Rally to me! Sir James ordered. Although his nickname was Red Herring, he had the charisma of a lion.

It was a frosty morning and the mist that wrapped the lower part of the mountain clouded their vision as the air stung their lungs. Peter did not falter. He could hear the other knights and men-at-arms shouting, dressing, and preparing for the coming encounter while Owen and his archers bought them time. He was also glad that he had not pulled off his chainmail, or he would be with the others still grappling around the garment.

Some of their forces had already engaged the enemy. He could tell from the distant cries and clatter of steel as they bared their souls. One-third of their men had already rallied with the Scottish knight. This should have been yet another peaceful back and forth, but now they were under attack. He did not even have a clue about who they were against.

Shields and spears, to me! Their commanding officer roared. James was a big and fearsome warrior from across the sea, and his very presence was more than enough to boost the morale of all their men. He gave a battle cry as he swung his sword toward a raider who jumped at him. It connected effortlessly, cutting the poor fool down like a sickly reed. Sir James was just as powerful as he was proud, and he did not take lightly to their assailants. He smashed his sword at the unlucky raider, who fell as if struck by lightning. Except that the lightning was James’ sword.

Adam was right, no horses! Peter did not see any of the attacking shadows on the horses. He had no time to tie the leather laces of his kettle helmet around his chin. He took his sword and shield as he marched into the unknown.

Adam unsheathed his sword with his merry smile and was by Peter’s side. He was younger than Longsword, but brave and naïve as well. The pair had become somewhat inseparable and were very keen on watching each other’s backs. It was the way they fought, as they had always been good together.

Are you ready, Adam? He glanced at this handsome blonde-haired young man, his pale face full of sunspots, and received a nod. The two stood side by side, and then Peter grumbled.

I’m hungry.

Though the situation was not great, he could not help it. He had not eaten the night before because of his tiredness. At the moment, he had a grumbling tummy to contend with, not to mention the raiders who seemed to want their necks.

We will eat later. Adam grinned.

Let’s hope. Peter nodded.

The closer they drew to the crusaders, the clearer the sounds came to Peter; he could hear yelling men and the song of warring steels clashing. It was a dreadful sound for one to awaken to so early in the morning, but like a spell, it had caused the blood in their veins to pump like fire. Be it fear or adrenaline, it was a sign that they were alive, and the men were determined to stay that way. As they fought, they screamed. This time, there was no harmony; it was just men who wanted to live.

The mist was rising, but they hardly could see the charging enemy. His newborn beard annoyed his face and chin. Peter wanted to sleep more because the muscles in his hands were stiff. He stretched his neck and tried to focus. It’s not the time to sleep, he thought, as he kept his eyes straight ahead. The other men beside him looked very alert, and he tried to be like them. They aligned their shoulders, held tight their shields, and pointed their swords forward. Still, he thought the sentry gave them enough time to bear weapons and meet the enemy, not face-to-face. He could hear Adam’s heart working.

"TAP, TAP, TAP." He saw the outlined figures of the enemy raiders.

Loose. Peter heard Owen’s voice and the whistling sound of the arrows arrived. The cries of men echoed in the valley during the morning. Noise from arrowheads piercing the shields arrived from behind. He heard some bodies fall, and the charging enemy was in clear sight.

A big bastard clad in leather jerking with a white mask on his face swung his axe toward his shield, followed by two more behind him. Peter only saw an enormous raider and his raging eyes aiming to break his skull.

Kill them! Sir James cried out, as if reminding them what their work was.

An arrow stuck in Peter’s shield. Another one flew over his head. He ducked, trying to not lose sight of the advancing enemy, and felt an arrowhead graze at his helmet. He heard a scream from behind him.

The big attacker came for him and struck his axe over his shield. He almost splintered the wood as if it wasn’t the iron rim. Peter’s left hand shook, and he stepped back. Adam trusted his sword forward, making the big attacker evade, and stepped aside, but he left his axe at Peter’s shield.

Peter glanced at Adam. The sunspot face of his friend winked at him as he was grinning. They did not need to exchange words; Longsword liked the young soldier. He had become the younger brother who he wished for but never had. In battle, their spirits had become attuned to each other, as the young soldier was brave and his spirit was always high.

Peter blinked and looked over the top of his shield. Using all his might, he pushed the axe away with his sword and stepped forward to support his friend, who was busy trying to thrust another attacker with his sword.

Do not step back! Stay closer! Sir James shouted orders.

They had formed a two-row line, ten men in the front, and as many as behind them. They had lost 3 men already, but regardless, the second row of men raised their shields to protect the heads of the first row from arriving arrows and prepared their spears to attack from above their brethren’s heads. It seemed it was not only Owen’s men who were good at shooting. Judging from the way their enemy’s arrows kept hitting the spots where they were, they also had good shooters.

Peter smelled the wooden shaft of the spear. The morning humidity and the mist made his nostrils more sensitive, and he could sense it all, even though the wood was cut long ago. However, it was not only the wood. As he breathed deeply, he picked up a hint of blood in the morning dew. As Peter stood among the men, he sensed their fear, causing his heart to race. The enemy had already taken some of their good men. Now they wanted to avenge their deaths.

As if the enemy had the same thought, they suddenly hit them hard.

The raiders ran toward them and tried to pierce and cut their small shield wall, but the long spears stopped them.

Peter felt the push from the front and heard the men’s cries. The spilled blood and shit met his nostrils. Suddenly, his knees were weak. He almost kneeled, but the man behind him supported his back. And he used his sword as a spear and trusted it forward. Then he restored his balance and pushed his shield toward the attackers in front of them. Peter again spotted the big man with long black hair and blue eyes through the white mask he wore. He also saw that he had a new weapon with him—a sword this time. It seemed he hadn’t missed his axe after all.

The raider’s white mask that covered his face till the nose made him look different from the rest. He seemed to be their leader and realized that the crusaders were not surrendering that easily. Peter felt insulted. As they fought on the even terrain, the crusaders put the raiders’ fighting skills to the test. He knew it was because of the way they had crept up on them, using the mist as a cover. If they had done it in the open, Peter knew that his sword-brothers would have thrown a good fight, but the raiders had behaved like cowards.

Peter raised his sword and slashed it into the raider’s helmet. He heard the chunking sound of metal kissing metal. The raider yelled, but did not fall. Instead, this angered him more.

Push forward! Kill them!

Sir James shouted.

The arrows arrived again and killed two attackers.

The sun’s rays cleared the mist, improving the visibility of the raiders. Owen and his archers were doing their part. With every wave, several raiders dropped like flies, with the arrows from Owen and his men sticking out from their lame bodies.

Keep shooting! Sir James did not stop giving orders. It was his consistency that held their forces in line to coordinate every attack and defense they had made. His voice was like a ray of light in the darkness, and every time he shouted, his voice gave them the gull for their battle cries to grow louder and their thrusts more violent.

Die! Peter cried out and thrust his sword into an attacker’s neck near his right. Blood spurted out from that spot like a hole in a keg. It splashed on his face, and he screamed again, trying to push the lame body off his.

Adam made a similar cry as his blade cut through an attacker’s arm. The two were like wild beasts let loose on a flock of sheep, yet their movements were still calm and calculated. Blood was still coming out from the gash in his attacker’s flesh, and it came out more in fast bursts as Peter tried to pull out his weapon. The enemy leader in front of him saw his opportunity and tried to reach Peter’s neck with his sword, but his attempts were in vain. Adam was there, parrying with his weapon. He had seen the way the big man had focused on his friend and had gotten an inkling that he was going to go for him. Peter was still busy with his attacker, and if the big man went towards him, he would have two enemies to face, so he quickly kicked the dead man from his sword and concentrated on the masked man.

When they fought, Adam and Peter became the same. Defending and attacking, intending to protect each other. It was one where they stood, their backs to each other, attacking enemies from each side. If anyone wanted to cut down the other, the other was there to protect. It was a stance that helped as one would see what was going on at the other’s back, and likewise.

While fighting, they had somehow found themselves at each other’s backs, and they worked fine together. They were always together, protecting each other.

Peter’s eyes blazed with fury as he lunged forward from the shield wall and his foot kicked the nearby enemy’s gut. The man fell to the ground, pushed his blade onward, and felt that it pierced the leather armor of the man in front of him. He didn’t bother to check if he was dead. His sword had already gotten through his skin.

Thrilled, Peter pulled away his sword and swung right as he hammered his blade in the face of another raider. Immediately, he swung his weapon toward someone. He quickly retrieved it and moved on to another. There was not even time to clean the blood off his face as the raiders came from every side, screaming their battle cries.

His senses were alert, as he could see how everything around him became slow and blurred. The adrenaline coursing through his veins seemed to have heightened his senses. He glimpsed to his left and saw the nostrils of the enemy spread as he tried to shout something to his followers. Peter bent his head and felt a sword glance at his helmet. With a smirk, he stepped forward and jumped over the fallen dead man so he could strike another attacker across the chin with his shield and listen to the man’s wail over the sound of broken teeth in his wake.

Peter! Adam called from behind him. Stay in the shield wall!

Longsword! Sir James’s furious voice echoed in the valley. Just then, an arrow stuck in Peter’s shield again. The black-haired orphan did not give a coin about it. His face was still on fire from the kick he had received from the Scottish knight. He was angry because he wanted to sleep more. These enemies attacking them hindered that, and that angered him more. Just before the attack, he was dreaming about his Lady Isabella, and for the first time in a long while, he felt at peace. These intruders had broken that peace.

Damn you! Peter’s sword met an attacker’s elbow and chopped his hand clean off as he kicked the poor bastard to fall backwards, screaming. He turned with haste and pierced another enemy that had nearly gotten past him in the back. It was swift, and the man dropped dead quicker than he could grunt or wail. Peter did not stall; he heard his blade rend flesh as he retrieved his weapon and used his shield to knock down another attacker who had tried to get a jump on him. He felt the blow with his left hand, and the wooden planks of his shields vibrated. It was not until the vibration stopped that Peter realized his hands were trembling. Peter had survived a battle before, but he was not such an experienced one.

He took a deep breath to steel himself. As long as he did this, he was sure his arrogance would not lead him to an early grave. He saw that he had broken formation and was about to return to it when he rose his head and saw the big masked man leap toward him. The orphan stepped left and ducked to avoid the sword aimed at his head. The blade struck his kettle helmet. A moment later, the blade would have cut his neck, and that would have been the end of Peter Longsword. Instead, the enemy’s blade tilted his kettle helmet to one side and left his head naked. Peter cursed under his breath as he lost balance and fell on his hands. He had to tie up his leather laces. Peter raised his head, turned his gaze toward the assailant, and received a boot on his chin.

Bloody hell.

Not again. Another kick in the face.

The attack had him railing and disoriented for a moment, but luckily, he regained his composure in time to roll and jump like a cat. He parried another swing for his neck.

Peter! Adam’s voice bellowed from right behind him.

Longsword was still in a daze from the blow and lost balance again for a moment. He feared he would fall again. But he used his shield to support himself as he kneeled. For a moment, he thought he had lost his sword, but he felt the strings he used to tie up the hilt around his hand in case someone tried to pull it out from his hand during the fight. And he grinned.

Peter was happy. The blow was jarring indeed, but it was more or less the wake up call he needed. This he had learned from Sir James.

He placed his gaze again at the enormous,