The victory whoops of his fellow Mamelukes were, for Daoud, a draft of elixir from paradise filling him with new strength.
"Great Baibars, honor to his name, has defeated those who never knew defeat!" Mahmoud exulted.
As the last word left his lips, a Tartar arrow, long as a javelin, thudded into his chest. He gasped, and his pain-filled eyes met Daoud's. He dropped his scimitar and his hand reached out to grasp Daoud's arm.
"A good moment," he grated. "Praise God!" He slumped in the saddle, the flowing white beard fluttering in the east wind.
Grief shot through Daoud like the Tartar arrow that had pierced his old naqeeb.
Daoud knew what Mahmoud's last words meant. It was the best of moments to die. A moment of triumph.
But a moment of grief for me, Mahmoud, because I have seen you die.
Daoud rode forward over dead Tartars to the place where the enemy had planted their standard, on a small hill. Bunched together, the last few Tartars fought on foot.
A fierce joy swept Daoud. Victory! He had believed that God would not allow Islam's last defenders to be defeated, but the wonder of a triumph over the invincible Tartars was so overwhelming that he almost fell from his saddle.
In the midst of the Tartars one man dashed this way and that, shouting orders to the few dozen men as if they were still thousands. He wore a gold tablet stamped with symbols on a chain around his neck, the badge of a high-ranking Tartar officer. Scouts had reported that this Tartar army was commanded by one called Ket Bogha. This must be he.