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Malaka.”
    Abdallah gripped the railing and bowed his head. The wood groaned beneath the pressure of his hands. “I could not forgive Ulayyah. Perhaps she could not forgive herself.”
    Faraj remained silent for a time and then cleared his throat. “Fifteen years ago, you did what was right. Without your support, the Ashqilula fell. Now, you have a chance to do the same again, here.”
    With a stiff bow, Faraj gripped the sinewy rope, vaulted over the side of the galley and clambered back into the waiting boat below.
    The stars framed Abdallah’s head. Even in the gloom and with the torchlight behind him, tears glistened on his cheeks. Faraj took a last look at him and then rowed with his counterparts back to shore.
    When they reached the coast, he stepped on the shifting sand with Muhammad, while their men pulled the boat inland. From the center of the encampment, loud shouts echoed a warning of some vicious argument.
    Faraj dismissed Khalid, waved Muhammad off and sank down. Then Faraj drew up his knees, clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them. His gaze contemplated the black hulks crowding the midnight blue waters of the White Sea.
    ***
    At dawn the next morning, horns resounded throughout the encampment. In silence, Faraj and Khalid rolled up their prayer rugs. Neither man had slept. Both donned hooded, chainmail tunics and brass helmets. Faraj slid his sword into its scabbard, his khanjar in its sheath and fastened the sword belt around his waist. Khalid handed him a tasseled shield, bearing the crescent moon of the Faith at its rounded center.
    Marinid catapults hit the citadel’s defenses, as they usually did each morning. They concentrated on the battered length of the wall near the eastern gate, which Doñ Alonso’s men had valiantly attempted to reinforce each night. Now it gave way, in a deep roar of crumbling rock. The screams of men vied with falling debris. The impact reverberated through the surrounding rock face. Shards of dust sprayed the air. When the thick clouds cleared, the jagged edges of what remained on either side of the breach looked as though the Hand of God had ripped away the masonry.
    Heavy boulders whizzed overhead, pummeling the shattered remnants of the wall. Castillan common knights, distinguishable from their noble counterparts by their round shields of Moorish design, poured out of the rift.
    Marinid light horse cavalry, with camel units in support, surged to meet them. The more powerful Castillan knights with kite-shaped shields and long swords fought for Prince Juan. He hung back in their midst.
    The Ashqilula banners billowed in the midst of the other forces. Faraj spat in the sand and turned to Khalid, who stared stone-faced at the fighting near the wall. The edges of his scar were nearly white.
    Faraj asked, “Nervous?”
    “No,” his captain said, his voice barely rising above a whisper. “If you tell me to fight, I shall fight. I value my life more than that of the enemy. I have no scruples about killing any man who raises his sword against me.”
    The Ashqilula under Abdallah’s command drew up in a solid, unbreakable formation, bowmen hemmed in on either side by cavalry. They seemed prepared to ride out in support of the Marinid cavalry. Faraj shook his head.
    Suddenly, the Ashqilula changed direction. They veered to the left and down to the coastline, toward the galleys bobbing along the shore. They cut a clear path between the Marinids at Tarif’s wall and the rest of the invasion forces.
    Faraj’s heart thudded so loudly that it vied with the shouts of confusion and cheers from some in the Marinid encampment. Khalid grinned and clapped him on the back. “We make our move, yes?”
    “Yes.”
    Chaos descended now. The Marinid cavalry fell back from the breach in the wall, while those at the rear engaged the Ashqilula warriors fleeing the battle. Metal clashed and clanged. Prince Juan cursed and whipped his horse, urging his men into the fray. Archers