Vengt's Tale
Part II: Anagnorisis (For Vengt's Tale Part I: see
http://forum.melee.org/general-discussion/vengt's-tale-part-i/msg965508/#msg965508)
Chaos reigns.
“Incoming cavalry from behi..” The sergeant's warning was cut short by a cavalryman's saber, and just like that, the disciplined army simply ceased to be. The shield wall broken, men fled in every direction, soon to be ridden down and killed one by one.
A splash of crimson obscured Vengt's vision as a riderless horse careened through the ranks, knocking him face-first into a morass of sand.
"THERE IS NO ESCAPE." He could hear it now, the voice of the war god, calling out, demanding sacrifice. But this was a foreign land and these were not his gods. It was his own neck on the altar.
Triumphant, blade raised high for the killing blow, the rider bore down on him like the swift certainty of death, and looking to his side now, Vengt beheld the visage of his savior.
"Jesus?"
He was an old guard, with eastern countenance, flowing white beard and a face burnished dark by the sun. For armor he wore a wool jerkin, a white cloth skullcap and what looked like a potlid for a shield. In his right hand he gripped a peasant's pitchfork. There was not a single soldier more poorly equipped for war... except for Vengt.
The old man who looked like Asian Jesus raised the primitive farming implement in a graceful, almost benevolent motion, and then, with shocking, savage violence, he stabbed towards something slightly to the left of Vengt's head. Behind him he heard the whinnying of a horse and turned back to see one rearing on its hind legs, its rider struggling to stay mounted. The old man had stabbed it, stopping it against all laws of physics and saving Vengt's life in the process. With surprising strength he stabbed again, killing the horse and sending its rider tumbling to ground. Before the rider could even regain his footing the old man was upon him driving the dull pitchfork home with such force that it pierced through the rider's tough leather armor, through flesh, and into the earth below.
Vengt was transfixed. Where the sudden, violent spectacle had shocked him into a state of near paralysis, the old man merely turned away and laughed--a careless, resounding, insane laugh, leaving his enemy there pinioned and cursing in his own indecipherable language.
“Sh..shh...Sha.” The din of war was briefly muted and the sound of the dying man's words seemed to drift there.
"Shaaytan...."
And once again the roar of battle washed over them. Vengt did not know the Saracen tongue, but this word was familiar even to him.
The truth struck him like a hammer. “You! You're not Jesus.” Turning to his erstwhile savior he stammered accusingly, “A demon more like! Nay, the daemon I daresay! Spelled with an 'a', whatever kind of daemon that is!"
The old man gave a knowing, smiling grin. “Keep moving! Make towards the dune to the east, and for God's sake find yourself a weapon!” The reprimand jolted Vengt back into action, and suddenly, there was a semblance of order on the battlefield. He felt the war god's grasp slipping away. Today he would live!
Still gurgling in his own blood and offal, the dying horseman clutched a long, gleaming throwing spear of the style favored by the Saracens. Placing one boot on the man's chest, Vengt pried the weapon loose. “Right then,” Vengt reassured himself. “It's just darts at the pub now.”
And then he saw it.
Towards him and him alone, the mameluke charged, screaming a warsong. The Smiling Daemon had already disappeared over the dunes. Help was nowhere in sight.
The desert knight thundered, inexorably forward, ironclad, led on by an all-consuming murder-boner. The sky darkened.
"But, I wanted to live...." he protested, as the wargod laughed.
"I want to live!"
The rider struck home.
Vengt closed his eyes and threw.
