The young Arab soldier who Adreah attended to was still knocked out, thanks to a swiftly concocted herbal remedy. Peeling off the man’s sweat-drenched undershirt, she revealed an arrow wound at the base of his neck. Lucky man she thought to herself, that Frank clearly had a sharp aim.

Her friend, Cala, appeared at her side, and they silently began their work together: cleaning the wound, dressing it, then re-clothing the soldier.
“Not too bad, compared to other casualties” Cala commented, in her sweet voice.
“He is certainly blessed” replied Adreah.
Adreah had hardly ever spoken of her life before coming to aid the Sultan’s army in the Holy Land, but Cala knew she had travelled far with her father, and had suffered immensely. It was the way her eyes glazed over when something struck a chord in her heart, the way her face was uplifted when she spoke of her God, the way her youthful laugh contained a well masked glimmer of sorrow.

Cala, a young Syrian, was the daughter of the revered Ilias, official healer to Saladin. She had moved to the battle line with her father to serve their faith and homeland. They worked in Saladin’s camp as physicians, alongside Adreah and her father. Adreah and Cala had formed an immensely close bond during the half-year that she had been here; cala knew that when the time was right, her friend’s story would be told, therefore did not pry into the deep scars.
But for now the Sun was beginning to set on the camp; the fires were lit and there was a sense of peace in the air. Since the young soldier was still unconscious, Adreah and Cala set off to attend to other healing officers. They were popular to talk to and enjoyed hearing tales of astonishing feats of heroism, no matter how exaggerated they were.

A swoop of the troops informed that all were in as good a shape as they could be, and would continue to serve. The peaceful air was ‘The calm before the storm’ as the seafarers say, since tomorrow the Saracens would launch their attack on the Frank bases at Arsuf and the opposite side of Jerusalem. The two girls joined the extended queue for food at one of the many kitchen tents. Order, precision and knowledge were just three of the many explanations why the Saracens were better equipped for this crusade than their Christian enemies; they knew the arts of swordsmanship, healing and education far better. The Franks, on the other hand, were far behind in their quest for schooling and made vital errors.

Both Adreah and Cala, a Jew and a Muslim, had been granted education by their learned fathers and were forever grateful for it. The former could control the tongues of Hebrew, Arabic, Russian and English and the latter Arabic, English and Latin. They were also adept physicians, thanks to their forbears.

Once dished a meagre serving of goat and lentils they went to sit around a small fire with the other healers and a few soldiers. Switching between Hebrew and Arabic depending on who was taking part, the conversation was based on deepest regrets. Adreah’s heart sank to the seabed of her body like a streamlined pebble. Conversations like this meant the soldiers did not expect to be alive at this time tomorrow.

They encompassed all manner of things: not confessing their feelings for a lover, not saying goodbye to a parent or thinking blasphemous thoughts in a time of depression.

Killing was no longer scarce enough to feature.

When Adreah’s turn came, a wisp of smoke became remarkably fascinating as she whispered, “Abandoning my little sister.”
Like a blade to a neck, that cut the laughter short. No one, not even Cala, dared to question the girl, whose soul appeared to be in the horrors of a vivid yet ghastly memory.

As reliable as the tides, the night fell and the moon rose, and Adreah and Cala lay beneath the stars, listening to the pitter-patter of the patrols and the natural sounds of the land; both were thinking of how tomorrow would be a day filled with fatalities. Adreah reached for her friend’s hand, and as they lay side by side in silence she wondered if her little sister was watching over her from above, guiding her with her tiny palm and delicate fingers.

But it seemed the world had had enough of the soothing ripples, and demanded a tempest to be let loose on the shores.

Adreah woke to the sound of yelled orders; she could not quite hear them, but only sensed that all was not well. She hurriedly roused a dozy Cala, grabbed her scimitar and tucked her curved daggers into her belt. They then set off at a fast pace to the next door tent where their fathers slept, watching over any patients.

Two bodies - twisted and battered - greeted them, illuminated in a deep pool of moonlight.

Adreah let out an involuntary cry and raced to her father’s side. A swift check of his absent pulse confirmed what she had already fathomed, and a glance at her friend’s face, half concealed under her scarf, confirmed that Ilias was the same.

A lifetime of remorse and defeat had seemed to dry out all her tears for they did not come; she simply bent over her father’s broken body and whispered words to him in their shared tongue of Russian, mumbling how he could not leave her alone in this world, not after all they had shared, all the pain they had burdened together.

Revenge bubbled inside of her as she failed to silence it; the need for justice overtook any human emotions and she became a creature, whose sole purpose in life was to bring about the annihilation of those who had wronged her.

She was so intent on that thought, too heartbroken, to notice the clamour, the yells in the tongue of English. English… Immediately they were upon Cala, grabbing her friend by the armpits and dragging her, relishing in her discomfort. The moment froze as Adreah surveyed her options. The men’s hearts and torsos were shielded by the terrified Arab girl, and if she threw a dagger there was every chance she would hit Cala. They were rounding on her now... Reckless. With things set in motion again, Adreah rapidly grabbed her two curved daggers and threw them, one aimed just above Cala’s head and the other at a second aggressor. Both found their mark with a satisfying thump followed by a groan from one of the oppressors as he fell back, hand clasped to crimson forehead. Enough to allow Cala to escape?
No, she comprehended, was the sickening answer as the other warriors surrounded her and grabbed her tighter. A second soldier was on his way to capture Adreah, and she heard her friend yell “Run! Save yourself! If God wills it you will see me again… find me in Engl-” before she was knocked out with a messy blow to the head and hauled away.

Adreah whipped around and fled, allowing her inhuman nature to take over her movements and thrusting her grief, anger and guilt into a deep recess, where they could surface when she had the time and strength to process them.

Like the wind of the harshest gale she ran; over the sand dunes, never once stopping to look behind until the ravine that had housed their camp was long gone and she had lost all signs of an attacker. Only then did she sink into the sandy street surrounded by the tiny, pastel houses that she now found herself in.

Dawn was just breaking with a grin upon his face, as if nothing in the world had changed. She sat there until the dusk settled and longer, pondering how drastically her life had altered. Cala clearly thought she was to be taken by the Franks to England... And her father… her father was… was dead. His existence was destroyed. Gone. Never again would his face break into a smile. He would not even be buried. The only person she had left to survive for was Cala, and the hope that she was enduring whatever brutal punishment the enemy had in store for her.

She would go to England.

She would seek Cala out. They would be together. No matter how long it takes.

One of her father’s lessons came to mind: “Allow yourself to be guided by your instincts… they know this world far better than you do”. She would free her friend, if it took her to her very last breath. After all, Cala was too young to leave the first life.

She compelled herself to stand, took one long, shaky gasp, breathing in the beauty of the one place she had called home - the Holy Land - and set off towards the sunrise with her head held valiantly high upon her shoulders.