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An Epic Novelof Persia and Palestine in the

Time of the Crusades

! The Assassins of Alamut is a riveting tale, painted on the vast canvas of life in Palestine and Persia during the 12th century.! On one hand, itʼs a tale of the crusades—as told from the Islamic side—where Shi'a and Sunni are as intent on killing Ismaili Muslims as they are crusaders. In self-defense, the Ismailiʼs develop an elite band of highly trained killers called Hashshashin (Assassins) whose missions are launched from their mountain fortress of Alamut.! But, itʼs also the story of a French boy, who is captured and forced into the alien world of the assassins. Forbidden love for a princess is intertwined with sinister plots and self-sacrifice, as the hero, and his two companions discover treachery and then attempt to evade the ruthless assassins of Alamut who are sent to hunt them down.! Itʼs a sweeping saga that takes you across 12th century Persia and Palestine, over vast snow covered mountains, through the frozen wastes of the winter plateau, and into the fabulous cites of Hamadan, Isfahan, and the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

“A brilliant first novel, worthyof Bernard Cornwell at his best.”

Fate is an ill that no one can avert.It wields its sway alike o’er Kings and Viziers;

The King who yesterday, by his rule devoured Kerman,Becomes today himself the meat of worms.

— Baba Tahir —

Chapter 1Ambush and Capture

Talon whirled around to stare toward the source of the shouts of alarm from the men of the baggage train, which had just come under attack. He saw the looks of fear on the ashen faces of the women with whom he had been riding as they, too, turned to stare at those shouting. The knights on their large horses wheeled to face a group of mounted, armed men charging down the slope from the east. The men-at-arms guarding the train, some with bows and others with long pikes, ran back to group themselves around the women and baggage train. Talon reined his young mare in as she jerked her head and skittered at their approach. His eyes were wide and unsure, and he wanted to be told what to do, but everyone was busy dealing with their immediate concern—which was to stay alive. A pikeman ran up to him and seized his reins. “You have to stay with us, young master,” he shouted, his voice hoarse. “The knights will deal with the savages.” Talon nodded, wrenched the reins back, and followed him at a canter to the tight knot of women and other men-at-arms grouped around the wagons. The knights had run headlong into the charging Saracens, and a mêlée had developed. It was hard to see anything amid the dust and turmoil of hacking and slashing men, screaming into each other’s faces as they tried to dismember each other with axes and

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swords. Riders collided and fell with shrieks of pain coming from both horse and man as they tangled on the ground. The men were desperately aware of the urgency of getting up to face an enemy on their feet, rather than risk being pinned to the ground and getting trampled or stabbed where they lay. Talon felt a trickle of fear, but thinking of his father, he forced himself to control it and look calm. All the same, his mouth was dry and there was a lump in his stomach, but he concentrated on what was going on, trying to make some sense of it. Then there was a shout from behind, and everyone turned to the rear of the baggage train. There were shrieks of alarm from the women in the wagons, and yells and shouts as the soldiers tried to form a defense. Panic set in as a second group of horsemen came out of nowhere and hit the column from this unexpected direction. The first attack had been a feint to draw the knights on their heavy horses away from the real target. Now they were being at-tacked in earnest, and it was everyone for himself. Talon’s guard abandoned him and ran toward the new conflict, leaving Talon near a wagon that contained two women who cringed together in wailing terror among the baskets and baggage. He held his mare in check, still unsure as to what he should do. His uncle, fighting with the knights, could not come and give directions either to him or the soldiers. The battle soon became a chaotic, undirected fight with no one in charge. The foot soldiers, with no leaders, battled for the wag-ons with the enemy horsemen, and others on foot darted in and out of the battle, stabbing and slashing at unwary soldiers and horses alike. Talon had his new sword drawn, but had a hard time controlling his mare, unsettled as she was by the clash of arms and the fighting men’s yells. A fog of dust and noise descended on him as the battle rolled past. Two horsemen, not of the knights, dressed in long flowing robes and flashing chain-mail shirts, drove a knot of foot soldiers back, hacking savagely at them while they retreated. The cursing, swearing group barged backward into Talon’s mare, crowding her hard against one of the wagons. They were soon gone into the swirling dust before Talon could worry about being attacked. He was trying to calm the terrified mare when the foot soldier that had talked to him earlier came reeling past, blood flowing down his face from a jagged head wound. Others followed, many limping away in panic, their eyes white with fear and shock on faces gray with dust.

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Then out of the crowd of struggling men and horses darted a thin figure in loose brown pantaloons and shirt, wearing a dirty turban wrapped around his head. He ran up to Talon’s mare and seized the reins, tugging on them, shouting at him in some foreign tongue. Without thinking, Talon leaned over the mare’s shoulder and slashed down at his would-be captor’s head. He saw the blow make contact and felt a strangely satisfying feeling radiate up his arm. The figure screamed and disappeared underfoot. Adrenaline was now taking control. He had killed his first en-emy and wanted to scream his victory to the world. His fears evaporated at this first taste of fighting, and he instinctively un-derstood how warriors felt at the onset of battle. He now wanted to charge anything and everything, and cut and slash until he had carried all before him. Another figure, dressed in a similar manner as the first, rushed at him out of the writhing mass of men, horses, and clouds of dust, carrying a long, curved sword. Talon saw the movement and was about to hurl himself at the approaching enemy when his mare stumbled and fell, and he toppled over her head to land at the feet of the oncoming figure. He heard his mare scream with agony and narrowly missed being hit by her flailing hooves. Someone had stabbed her in her chest as she went past, ripping out her insides. She lashed out with her hooves while in her death throes, scream-ing her agony to the world. Winded by the fall, he lay there in the dust, choking. Then, try-ing to get back on his feet, a hard hand smacked him across his face, knocking him flat on his back. Before he could do anything, someone flipped him onto his face and a knee crashed into his back, while his arms were seized and tied behind him. He was hauled to his feet and bundled away from the surrounding battle. His captors shouted at each other with voices rapid and gut-tural and shoved him ahead of them. They seemed to be in a hurry to get away from the scene of the battle. In his dazed state, he could make no sense of what was happening to him, although he vaguely wondered why they had not killed him. They ran over the rise of the slope, and he was forced to run with them. It was very difficult to do, with his arms bound pain-fully behind him, but his captors gave him no respite and drove him on. Whenever he fell in the dust they hauled him to his feet

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with curses and blows, half dragging him forward to a group of horses being held by people dressed in similar garb. There was shouting as they came together, and then he was hauled unceremoniously onto the back of a horse, his feet tied un-der him, and they set off to the northeast at a wild gallop. His dazed mind registered the screams of the wounded and the shouts and clamor of battle that were rapidly fading behind him as they rode.

James Boschert grew up in the then colony of Malaya in the early fifties. He learned first hand about terrorism while there as the Communist insurgency was in full swing. His school was burnt down and the family while traveling, narrowly survived an ambush, saved by a Gurkha patrol, which drove off the insurgents. He went on to join the British army serving in remote places like Borneo and Oman. Later he spent five years in Iran before the revolution, where he played polo with the Iranian Army and devel-oped a passion for the remote Assassin castles found in the high mountains to the north. Escaping Iran during the revolution, he went on to become an engineer and now lives in Arizona on a small ranch with his family and animals.

About the Author—

James Boschert