It was hot. Too damn hot. Out here on this dusty plain, the wind blowing sand into his face. The Crusader, not that he resembled a Crusader, stood clutching nothing more than a chipped, battered sword. His armour had been shredded to rags, rust coated his mail giving more depth to the sticky blood that covered his every limb. Breathing deeply, the lone Crusader grabbed hold of an arrow protruding from his forearm, grunting with the effort and pain he snapped the weak shaft in two and threw it to one side. It had been a hard days fight he mused to himself, a hard fight indeed. Many of his sisters and brothers lay scattered across this barren plain, left to fester in the burning afternoon sun. Yet for although many of his fellow Crusaders had died more score of the heatens lay dumped, limbs splayed decorating the dustry ground. It had been a hard days fight he said to himself again, yet a victorious one. Without glancing to his flanks he knew that a wall of Crusaders stood, shields ready, sword arms flexing awaiting the final push. Upon that lowly plain it was said heroes would be born.
Minutes crawled into hours as the ragged line of Crusaders faced their foe. The Crusader, some called Sir Cymro stepped out of line and trotted towards their leader, Reinhardt. A courageous man, an honourable man. Upon arriving at Reinhardts tent he overheard the recognisable but welcoming drone of the King discussing, no lecturing the rest of the Knights on the plan and hopeful outcome of the battle. Ducking under the tent flaps and entering the tent, it took Cymros eyes a few seconds to adjust from the brightness of the afternoon sun to that of the dim interior. To one side of the tent a campaign desk sat, ontop of this burnished wood a campaign map was sprawled detalining the surrounding area, and nearby targets.
'Here is where we are, over that ridge lies our target, Aslafhat Castle, a modest structure yet a dependable objective,' a ligh boyish voice brought Cymro back to his senses, glancing off to the council chambers he recognised the voice of St.Jeez, the Holy Prophet on the latest Crusade. An oppressive silence met his words. That ridge he so lighlty described was dotted with an angry horde baying for blood, and worse revenge. Three days ago the Crusaders of Acre had ambushed a small cavaran containing goods of various prices, yet the main good that attracted everyones attention was that of a young woman. What dignity she had before quickly vanished and she was left to wander the wilderness with tattered clothes and a bruised face. In response the local Lord had raised a small army and rapidly caught the small force Reinhardt commanded. The ensuing fight had been brief but bloody, the aftermath was clearly portayed outside the tent.
'Do not forget Saint that a force opposes us and has every advantage, height, ranged and even armoured cavalry, that ridge you describe will be a lot harder to take than you imagine' the sharp response vehemently echoed from one of the Knights.
'That is simply why we make them come for us' SirCymro stated drawing himself into the conversation. 'They will want to deal with us before nightfall.'
'How can you be so sure' replied Reinhardt his voice laced with amusement.
'You witnessed their rash attack on us earlier, they are desperate for revenge' came the controlled response, Cymro irritated at the mocking tone Reinhardt so loved to employ. 'The troops are ready, well rested, fed and watered, their sword arms will strike and their shields will remain true, if they attack their attack will be merely waves against the cliff face, broken upon impact'
'Yes but even cliff faces get steadily beaten back, but you are right they cannot hope to defeat us, we have God in our hearts, rally the troops, get them into position and ready at a moments notice'
'Yes sir'
'Remember dear knights. God Wills It'
Upon those words the council chambers erupted into a chorus of God Wills It.
Back outside SirCymro strode to his position in the ranks, he would command the centre and face the full fury of the attack. As if in response to his thoughts a deep brassy note echoed from the ridge, and as one the horde rippled forward, from this distance it resembled a colony of ants racing across the plain. And as ants they would be crushed under the heel of his boot mused the tall Crusader. Doning his helment he called to his men God Wills It, a deafening roar responded to his cry, and so the battle had begun.
(Part 2 coming up when i can be bothered)a
