Chapter 272: Spreading Wings
The oarsmen behind David responded in unison, but they had already exerted all their strength.
At such a time, even a split second would become as long as a hundred years. David felt as if he had already died. Hell, only hell could have such a scene. Before them were devils as numerous as toppled mountains and ruptured seas. In the sky, a rain of sulfur and firebrands poured down.
When they fell into the water, it made the water boil too, and all they could smell at their noses was gunpowder, metal, sulfur, and the scent of burning flesh and skin. All they could hear was the wailing and roaring of humans.
David somewhat understood his father now. Raymond must have participated in such a campaign before, which was why he earnestly begged David not to venture into danger lightly—but at this moment, David could no longer care about that. He wished he could jump into the water and use his own strength to pull the ship forward.
And what was even more worrying was that, besides the shouts of humans, he could also hear the neighing of horses. He couldn’t help but worry whether the war horses behind the ship would lose the courage to charge due to injury or panic. Just as he almost couldn’t resist turning his head to look at his own war horse, there was a thunderous explosion, followed by a strange crunching sound. He couldn’t control his body and slammed straight into the shield.
They had finally reached the shallows, and the enemies were charging toward them.
“Lord, protect me! Saint Philip, grant me power equal to yours!” David shouted the name of the saint he revered, then reversed his sword hilt, using it to pry up the wooden peg fixing the shield to the deck, and pulled out the shield.
He held the shield fearlessly and charged straight ahead, facing those hideous devils—he raised the shield and swung it, smashing a Saracen’s face into a collapsed mess, staggering him backward before he fell flat on his back.
In such a melee, no one noticed him, and countless feet immediately trampled over his body. He might have survived before, but now he was certainly lifeless. David barely paused for a moment; he then tilted the shield to block a hammer from the left, countered with a slash to gut a Turk, then charged straight with his shoulder into a Saracen noble whose view was blocked by the Turk. If it had been a mortal, the opponent would surely have had his tendons snapped and bones broken on the spot.
But this noble had also received the Prophet’s revelation. After taking such a heavy blow, not only did he not collapse weakly, but it ignited the ferocity in his heart.
He drew his scimitar and leaped into the air. What David had received was infinite strength, like a mountain, while this Saracen noble possessed agility like that of a bird or monkey. His movements were so fast they left afterimages in human vision. Against a slightly slower or less reactive knight, he could have severed an arm or neck in one motion.
David’s escort had caught up, with a pair of keen eyes. He immediately raised his bow and crossbow and shot an arrow at the devil entangling his master.
The arrow grazed the Saracen noble’s thigh, making his fluid movements as chaotic as a interrupted melody. David didn’t even look at him, swung his broadsword horizontally, and struck his cheek. Vanishing with the enemy’s speed was half his skull.
At this point, a small patch of white ground had appeared around David. The knight spat a bloody glob onto the ground.
“These cowards!” Though heathens had the right to retreat, a hero would always be revered, and a clown would always be mocked.
David stood in place and let out a roar, like a violent explosion in people’s eardrums, making everyone dazed—this was no human sound—he drew all the battlefield’s attention here.
Then he raised his shield, with the red-field gold-edged cross（ of Tripoli’s emblem） gleaming in the sunlight. “I am David of Mersin, son of the Count of Tripoli. Rally to me, rally to me!”
His shield was like a flag suddenly raised in enemy territory. Every knight instinctively moved toward him. At the same time, their spirits lifted, free of initial fear and hesitation. They desperately closed in on David and gathered into a force not to be underestimated.
David glanced around and found the vulnerability in the Saracens’ assault. It was atop the wooden walls just built by two batches of slaves, still bearing the bloodstains sprayed by the slain slaves. He led the knights charging there, tearing a gap in what seemed an impregnable line, even if small.
The Emir or Fatah stationed there clearly did not want to lose his army for some grand cause. He called for aid from surrounding allies, but after scant response, he unhesitatingly chose retreat.
He knew his colleagues would fob him off with lack of the Sultan’s orders, but the Sultan had already handed over power, and they had agreed each to fulfill their duties—though now it seemed those were just unreliable promises.
His action naturally drew a chorus of curses. The generals who had wanted to stand by had to send their armies. David faced immense pressure, but fortunately, he had cleared a nearly blank path for those behind. Before the enemy could mend the gap, the following knights charged up.
When David felled the last Saracen rushing at him and looked around in surprise, he realized his strength had not yet waned—or rather, he was like a pot of cold water set on a bonfire, only now truly boiling.
“Can you still charge?”
He asked. “Yes!” the knights shouted in unison, though a few stayed behind, the white light enveloping them now very dim, showing they received little grace. David showed no disdain but nodded to them and turned away.
From Caesar, he had learned many things, one being not to judge others by his own standards.
Before these knights, he was undoubtedly a hero, but before Caesar, what was he? When Caesar fought alongside Baldwin on the battlefield, he was still in Holy Cross Castle and his father’s castle, obediently being a good child.
But whether at banquets, martial arts tournaments, or on the battlefield, Caesar never despised him for it. He had even advised Baldwin not to be so stubborn—they were special to begin with.
Fearing disease and death was human nature, especially as they were just children then.
“Have I grown up a bit?” David asked himself, then looked up to see his escort leading his war horse. Covered in blood and filth, his eyes shone like stars.
For knights, the best way to fight was of course mounted charge, piercing or hurling enemies with long spears. Best of all, this shallows was neither mossy mud nor piled with hard smooth pebbles, but the sandiest land perfect for horses to gallop.
David leaped onto his horse, took the long spear from his escort, and gauged the distance to the Saracens’ second line—about three hundred feet, enough. The Saracens watched the Christian knights charging, spear tips lowered and gleaming menacingly, yet showed little fear.
They crouched behind the barricades, eyes fixed on the rising and falling hooves. The ground shook constantly, jarring their chests, but their faces bore eerie smiles, as if awaiting something.
Three hundred feet was a mere instant for war horses, like a blink—hooves upon them in eyeblink.
But contrary to the Saracens’ expectation, David lowered his spear rather than leveling it. He did not leap the barricade but upended the stake before him with such force his war horse sank its hooves deep into the sand.
The stake flew, smashing rear Saracens, causing wails. Before his action, those ambushed behind had jumped up and retreated as planned.
Beneath them was no solid land, but a moat full of thorns. Not deep or wide, but if knights leaped barricades and landed here, their hooves would trample not flesh but collapsing thorns.
Their war horses would neigh in pain, break legs, fall into the moat, and enemies would swarm, slaying the dismounted knights.
Like with Baldwin and Caesar, David was followed by his most trusted knights. Seeing him act, they followed without hesitation. Only two or three, slow to react, either hit barricades or leaped into the Saracen trap.
But most knights hadn’t maxed speed— in parallel charge, they kept pace. After hurling barricades, they reined to leap the moat, landing heavily on Saracens who hadn’t fled, killing or gravely wounding them. The impact of a thousand-odd pounds at speed on fragile human bodies was predictable.
The general defending the line felt disappointment but didn’t retreat. Perhaps as an Emir, not Fatah, his soldiers came from his power, not tribe. He urged them to fight while facing David himself.
“They only have these few,” he shouted. “They’re tired, exhausted, no match at all. Don’t be fooled!”
He led from the front, charging to clash with David, but on the third pass, David severed his head.
With the Emir’s head falling, David’s knights cheered, but only David knew he was at his limit. An ordinary knight could sustain full gallop or fight for about a quarter-hour, but a blessed one for hours.
David’s grace was not scant, but enemies were countless, like endless waves.
By now, the pontoon bridge across the Jordan River was built, and Crusaders began crossing.
But earlier, once positions were set and neither Crusaders nor Saracens could change, another army had departed in the faint dawn light.
When they heard Count Caesar of Edessa had built a bridge upstream per the king’s order, generals thought the king mad. But then Count Berion stepped forward, swearing to God he had seen such a bridge—wider and sturdier than the Jordan pontoon, wide enough for twelve knights abreast.
At high noon, they saw the bridge gleaming white in sunlight—not angel or God light, but bark-stripped white heartwood reflecting sun.
No time to kneel in prayer; the shallows forces were bait tossed to rabid dogs, distracting vile heathens from rear moves. They had to reach the Saracen high ground rear and strike from behind.
Indeed, David felt breathless, limbs aching, murmuring prayers. Saint Philip watched him truly, but saint’s blessing was infinite while human flesh frail—he had handed command to another knight… held up only by sheer will.
Over a thousand charged the shallows to fight beside him, but comrades kept falling—armed attendants, escorts, knights. Hours of fighting, more to come. Amid endurance or mad cries, they could do nothing, not even think.
Thinking sapped courage; under enemy pressure, a moment’s lapse brought disaster—like the enemy before David, grinning as he saw this tough foe powerless.
But inexplicably, he glanced back in panic. In that instant, David hacked off half his shoulder. He fell from his horse, wailed briefly, then went silent.
What did he see? David looked that way, spotting amid dense Saracens a crimson flag with glaring Ayyarasa Road cross, its bearer in white like snow amid soot.
“Caesar!” David called—or thought so; actually just a low mumble.
“Too early!” Gian said urgently. “Lord!”
They should wait for main force to join battle.
But Caesar just shook his head slightly: “Too late.” Waiting would doom David and the thousand-plus on the shallows to Saracens.
Even if not for David, for Crusader warriors, he couldn’t stand by for “best” timing.
What was best in this world? For him, best was following Abbot John as monk—safest, most comfortable. But he didn’t then, nor now.
Caesar’s escort raised his flag. He gazed admiringly at his master praying. When he raised his head, his knights were clad in moonlight-like scale armor, its glow undimmed even in blazing sun.
Like a honed sharp sword, they charged straight into the Saracen camp.
At first, some thought another Emir-Fatah squabble, even watching gleefully relaxed, unarmed, unable to imagine anyone circling to their rear.
This was no boundless wilderness; Saracens faced Jordan River, backed by Damascus Chieftaincy Fatahs.
After smashing one camp, Caesar scanned and saw no Sultan’s great tent—the largest, most lavish, most conspicuous, like Nur al-Din’s once.
Nor Saladin’s eagle banner.
These days, he kept contact with Baldwin.
In this era, place, no carrier pigeons; couldn’t send knight galloping back and forth amid constant movement—so they used hunting dogs. The knight who communed with animals never imagined such use.
Dogs’ noses keenest; finding folk miles off easy. They tied copper tubes to collars with letters inside for swift messaging.
Dogs needed no smooth roads or knights, could ford, climb. Camouflaged collars made patrolling Saracen soldiers see mere wild dogs, ignoring.
Latest from Baldwin: Saladin stabbed. Caesar instinctively suspected conspiracy, but with no Saladin tent or banner, deeming it plot ignored Saracen doctrine and law.
Layout showed no true commander among tent owners. Caesar shared Baldwin’s thought: Had these Saracens turned idiots, squabbling amid this?
But no time to dwell. He didn’t rush to breach camp for David’s rescue—that would expose them fully to Saracen view, harming not helping David, drawing more foes.
They didn’t truly engage Saracens but roved their camp, using war horse speed and saint’s grace to harass, torment, enrage them.
Knights slew freely, set fires everywhere, especially supplies guarded by an Emir and soldiers. Saracens knew supplies vital for ten-thousand army.
But foolishly piled jars with fodder together. Caesar, galloping past, spotted the fleeting chance.
“Crossbow!” he shouted. Gian spurred beside, unhitched a crank crossbow from saddle, handing to Caesar. Crank crossbow needed feet to span, but blessed knights could with hands.
Caesar raised, shot, piercing a jar that shattered, spilling liquid—oil! Not light wine!
Gian, seeing, gleefully lit from burning tent, ignited bolt after Caesar spanned. It streaked like meteor—at noon, unseen—shattering more jars, spilling oil, igniting blaze.
Saracens noticing rushed yelling, but too late.
“What are they shouting?”
“Probably oats, barley stuff. Truly God bless.”
Gian replied eagerly. More Saracens came; Caesar summoned knights to cluster, facing enraged foes. When line might break, Caesar shielded forward. Though no sword, his damage matched sharp blades—none lasted a round before him.
After hundred tries, failing to unhorse, ground, maim hands, behead these arsonist knights amid wails—a Fatah roared: “What is this? A turtle? A turtle?!”
“Feels more like a big porcupine.” Another Fatah sighed. Clustered Christian knights were armored beast. They hoped “Shield of the Holy City” would tire or err, but alas, he seemed tireless; weakness there got new grace, flaw flashing then sealed seamlessly.
“I just don’t believe he gets so much gaze and revelation. He’s a Christian.” Another Emir said inscrutably.
“If he’s the one Saladin spoke of, it makes sense.” Another Fatah said, sarcasm drawing Emir’s angry glance. “Still on Shield of the Holy City now?”
“Isn’t he?” Fatah retorted: “See your soldiers unwilling to fight these knights anymore. Who endures swinging sword hundreds times for mere enemy mockery.”
Even advantaged, men tire, especially in drawn fights; most warriors seek new targets—even if supplies burned, they could seize Christians’ wheat and livestock.
“Seems you overlook something.” Another Fatah said; his reminder initially ignored—his army, or tribesmen, half-lost prior, power weak, disregarded.
He raised voice: “Lords! Lords! Haven’t you noticed? Where did this army come from?”
“Right, where’d this army come from?”
Shallows Crusaders were surrounded, nearly food. So where from? Panicked eyes spread till rearmost cried awakened: “They… they’re from upstream!”
Tent folk jumped. Rushing out to churning smoke, saw Crusaders silently standing at their camp rear.
Then shallows Crusaders and far-shore Ayyarasa Road King Baldwin saw them. Both cheered; Baldwin mounted: “In God’s name! Follow me to battle!”
“Follow you to battle!” knights shouted, raising spears.
Baldwin drew long sword, pointed ahead; they charged pontoon of linked ships—guided by gleaming white Saint George’s Spear.
To Saracens, Baldwin and his invincible Saint George’s Spear were nightmare. They’d mock his frailty, youth, powerlessness.
But on battlefield, he was white-robed death god. None breached Shield of the Holy City, none withstood Spear of the Holy City.
From above, shallows stalemate line visibly pushed back hugely as Baldwin hit pontoon.
David’s war horse dead, he fought afoot Saracens, but now tears welled, blood surged. Wounds forgotten—or healed seeing Baldwin.
He roared, raised a Saracen corpse as shield, recharged the fray.
But facing Saracen finally feral: pierced by David’s long sword, not retreating but lunging, clutching enemy tight.
David fell with him; three-four Saracens rushed to kill, but in chaos or corpse-respect, found no opening.
In crisis, David truly exhausted. Teeth bit Saracen chainmail, eyes skyward saw twisted faces—but next instant, clouds parted, light poured!
Caesar!
His white light brighter, burning white flame. To weary Saracens, like thunderbolt, shredding position; his knights followed.
If Saladin there, he’d rally Saracens. Numbers advantaged; crush any foe wing—rear attackers, fighting knights, or Ayyarasa Road King—and chance remained. But here self-preserving Emirs and Fatahs, seeing desperate fight’s end, flinched.
Time short, but enough. As Caesar hoisted David onto Castor, Baldwin leaped beside; Saint George’s Spear waist-swept foes before.
Pollux and Castor at war horse prime—beginning, colt-playful yet top in load, speed, agility.
Castor’s temper good as Caesar’s; even Pollux provoking, he’d yield. Thus Pollux king of Crusader herd: head high neighing, Christian knights’ mounts—and some Saracen—shuddered, heads low, hooves stamping.
Sensing dominant peer demanding submission.
“Can you still fight?”
Baldwin asked David behind Caesar; as expected, David bellowed, “Of course!”
“Give him weapon, horse.” Baldwin ordered. Knight yielded mount; escort handed his master’s weapon.
Though so, Baldwin nodded meaningfully to Caesar. Sending David vanguard not to orphan him to father or make suffer—wounds from David’s leaving healed by Caesar. This paved David’s future path.
Indeed, one Abigail in Holy Cross Castle enough; no need second coward from father’s indulgence.
Speaking of, where Abigail? Ordered to stay near—Baldwin realized him missing. Not really dead on field?
But Baldwin dismissed silly thought. Unless God intervened, making Abigail fight Saracens harder than herding pig to Mass—he could hide anywhere.
First seeing Baldwin, Caesar extended hand; gripped midair, strength passed to Baldwin—who unwounded—then David beside.
Caesar raised visor, smiled slightly at David: “In this battle, your feats greatest.” David wearily lifted eyes, saw outstretched hand, paused, lost in thought.
But then smiled relieved too; chainmailed hands clasped tight.
First feeling Caesar’s graces to others—powers his father cursed, scorned countless times. Body lightened—not illusion. Seeing Baldwin caused excited numbness, post-battles taught him that.
This wholly different. Improving truly, like most favored priest’s treatment. Wounds painless, legs un-stiff, spine straightenable.
This why Caesar drew so many knights’ following?
Were he not Count of Tripoli’s heir, he would too.
As night fell, fighting eased—Caesar prepped liver meat powder for his knight attendants and laborers via oxen, horses. Such luxury not universal, even Saracens not; amid unrecognizable friend-foe, they withdrew severally.
But victory scales irrevocably tipped Crusaders; they encircled Saracens from high ground and shallows.
Saracens still eight-nine thousand, matching Crusaders, but too many ears, mouths, minds.
Soon from Saracen ranks, word: one willing to surrender to Crusaders if allowed take his soldiers.
“Should we accept?” Baldwin asked.
