The fall had knocked his scimitar out of his hand. Anguished, he felt for it, but it was as if it had fallen into a well.
"Simon! Where are you?" Friar Mathieu shouted.
"Ah! Ah!" Simon let his breath out and sucked it in, gasping. He wanted to cry for help, but he could not use his voice. His body shook with terror.
And he felt the body under him moving with swift and terrible power. The cord snapped tight again.
But not before Simon got his right hand under it. The killer gave a vicious jerk on the thin cord, and it felt as if it might slice through his fingers. But Simon pushed against it with all the strength in his right arm, and loosened the cord enough to be able to pull air into his throat. He worked his other hand under it.
His shout burst from his throat. "M'aidez! Help me! Here! Here!"
Boots pounded toward him. He felt men around him. He heard them coughing and sneezing from the spices that filled the air. A sword poked him through his mail.
"Under me! Stab! Stab! You cannot hurt me!"
The cord went lax. The attacker had let go of it. Simon drew air frantically through his tortured windpipe.
Before he could get to his feet, an arm, hard as if clad in mail, whipped around his neck, clamping him to his enemy. He felt the edge of a dagger at his throat.