Damietta was a dark mass against the grey dawn. He wondered if those who had first settled this area for its choice location at the foot of the Nile River, where it met the Mediterranean Sea, realized what a target they were destined to become. Damietta was the key to this part of the world. He who controlled Damietta controlled the Nile, and he who controlled the Nile controlled Egypt. He had been working for this opportunity for a year now, and he was not going to let it slip. The city was surrounded by Christian soldiers. William’s detachment was part of the second wave of assaults. The first were men landing from the Nile itself. As soon as they were engaged, they would charge the adjacent side of the city from the initial assault. It was calculated to break the back of the resistance once and for all. It should work, provided the surprise of the attack was preserved and had not leaked to the enemy. But they had taken the utmost care to protect this, with only the generals of each army knowing what was planned and misinformation deliberately being leaked to the men to throw any would-be spies off the trail.
William was largely responsible for this plan and loved it for its simplicity. An army was a massive beast that was infinitely dumber than the lowest rodent, infinitely slower than the slowest insect, and yet more powerful than a wildfire; and it needed to be manipulated accordingly. Overly elaborate plans rarely worked in the mishegoss of battle. But small subtleties often went a long way against an opposing army.
Just before the sun crested the hills, the roar of the assault from the Mediterranean side washed over William and his men. He looked to Gorm, who now sat at the head of a host of mounted knights. They were a majestic sight with their silver armor glittering in the early morning light and their pennants fluttering in the cool air. Gorm raised his sword high in the air. “For God and country!” he called and spurred his destrier down the hill toward the city.
The cavalry rushed toward the battle in the first rays of dawn, when it was only just possible to distinguish friend from foe, with William’s infantry close on their heels. The soldiers from the city were well engaged on the Mediterranean side, and the cavalry led by Gorm cut a swath of destruction from their unprotected flank. Everything was going exactly as planned. William’s infantry were charging down the hill, a large gap having opened between his men on foot and the much faster cavalry, when the early dawn light was almost completely obscured by an immense dark cloud that arose suddenly. William almost missed it in the low light, expecting no opposition other than the forces that were before them. It was almost too late when he roared over the din of the field, “Cover!” Not a moment was lost, not a man hesitated before throwing his shield overhead and crouching down as the hail of arrows from the city wall clattered around them. They plinked off shields and armor, they embedded themselves in the ground like stalks of wheat, and for those who were not careful enough or well protected enough, they cut into unprotected flesh.
William was surprised they would have left so many archers on the walls when their army was making its last stand. It was also strange that the darkened city still seemed to sleep while its army fought for survival. He would expect it to be alive with activity. Nevertheless, when the hailstorm stopped, he shouted the command to resume, and they charged ahead until the sky was once again darkened with the massive volley of arrows and the infantry was once again forced to take cover. When they arose this time, however, the gates of the city were open and a sea of soldiers was streaming out upon them.
“Ambush!” he roared. It was a trap and they had fallen right into it. William cursed himself for his oversight but hunkered down again as the archers protected the approach of Damietta's men with yet another volley. Once they were engaged, it was difficult for the archers to shoot effectively, but they could keep an advancing army off balance enough that the defenders could gain the initial advantage.
The moment the last arrow had dropped, William roused his men and charged into the sea of newcomers. Like two mighty waves colliding, William’s company crashed into the Moors that were still pouring from the gates of Damietta. William charged into the army, hurling his shield at the unprotected head of a nearby Damiettan. A whirling disk of death, it slammed into the side of his head, and William impaled his first hapless victim on the end of his spear. He felt the familiar rush of the battle, and strength surged through him. On an impulse, he raised the dying man up on his spear and shouted, “Death to the Moors that have corrupted our lands and perverted our religion!” He flung the body off into another approaching Moor. The enemy soldier stumbled in an effort to avoid the grotesque projectile. William spun his spear in his grip and drove it deep into the Moor chest as he tried to avoid the body.
Whirling, William stabbed at a soldier’s exposed face. The unusually long reach of the spear often took the average sword-wielding soldier by surprise. However, this Moor instinctively jerked back, only receiving a deep gash on his cheek rather than the promised fatal wound. William instantly closed the distance. Stepping forward, he swung his spear in a wide arc around his head, catching the same man in the side of the head with the heavy oak shaft. He crumpled instantly to the ground.
Then, as it always did, the way opened before him and he had to take it. William charged deep into the enemy line. It was the challenge he had issued so many times before—a challenge to death himself. He pushed far into the opposing lines until he was surrounded by enemies on every side, completely cut off from help. He was throwing the gauntlet down before the Heavens, challenging them not to kill him. He had to know if the Angel of Death could not be enticed to take his soul as it should have so long ago. He wanted Death to take him now, while he was prepared, rather than at some future time when he least expected or desired it. He charged into a thick of soldiers. It was him and only him against the enemy. He had to know if God was fighting for him or against him. William ran the point of his weapon through the ribs of a Moor who had made the fatal mistake of failing to notice an enemy so far behind his own lines.
When William had first joined Gorm in his crusade as scarcely more than a boy, he had ideals about noble combat and glorious battle; he truly believed there was honor in war and the rules of chivalry would be abided. His eyes were quickly opened, however, to the ugly truth that in a battle it was kill or be killed. One did not let a soldier retrieve his weapon only to be stabbed in the back by that same blade. When an enemy stumbled or dropped his weapon, he had lost. There was no such thing as a fair fight. In fact, William did everything in his power to ensure that battles were not fair. Keeping the odds overwhelmingly in his favor ensured that he would lose fewer men, which meant more victories.
Now William tended to see the enemies as a thick forest that needed to be removed. His movements became almost mechanical, as that of a lumberjack who had felled so many trees he did not see the individual tree anymore but only the large brown mass that remained to be cut before the day was done.
Jerking the end of his weapon free from the body of his latest victim, William closed the distance on another enemy, caught his sword slash on the side of his spear, and spinning, pinned the man’s sword arm between his own arm and body. With his free hand, William swung the back end of the spear under the Moor’s feet and swept them from underneath him. The Moor hit the ground hard, and William finished him with a quick thrust of his weapon.
Still another Moor was standing over one of William’s own soldiers whom had tripped. His man was helpless. William could not cover the twenty feet in time to rescue him. On impulse, he hurled his spear at the Moor. Hit! The end sunk into his kidney, and he dropped his weapon and arched back in agony. The prostrate soldier was immediately on his feet and back in the fight.
The enemy saw William unarmed and quickly advanced on him. William locked eyes with the advancing peasant made soldier overnight. He drew his katana from its sheath slowly and deliberately, letting the slightly curved blade sing as it left the sheath. He let the finely crafted weapon catch the light and highlight the waves that ran in close lines down it from the hundre
ds or even thousands of times the metal was folded by the swordsmith. He let all this work its effect on this boy that was younger than even William himself. The Moor boy stopped short. What had only a moment ago seemed an easy kill now looked menacing indeed. They were only a moment thus locked on each other’s faces when William knocked the blade of another soldier aside and whirled. Dropping low, he sliced a deep cut in the side of the Moor’s thigh. The now helpless Moor dropped, and William leapt over him to the boy.
The boy’s weapon was raised high, ready for William. William feigned a stab at his face. The Moor’s downward defensive swing dropped too fast to control. It missed William, who had stepped just out of range, and the blade dug itself slightly into the ground. William slammed his boot down on the middle of the blade, wrenching it from the Moor’s hand. The boy was defenseless now. There is no such thing as a fair fight.
William stepped over the boy’s body in an effort to reach his spear, still embedded in the body of the fallen enemy. Besides being his preferred weapon, it was extremely valuable, and if it were picked up by someone else on this immense field, he may never find it again.
***
Tahir rushed out the gates ahead of his men. They were aiming to separate the second wave of infantry from their cavalry, which was already entangled in battle with what they presumed to be the entirety of the Moor army. Typical Christian arrogance to assume Muslims lacked any cunning or forethought, like simple animals that were fit for nothing but extermination. It was all too common for the Christians to disdain his people and assume they were weak and stupid. This was a prejudice that served Tahir very well.
Tahir's men crashed into the infantry of the crusaders, determined to cut their way through them before the Christian cavalry could return to reinforce them. The enemy realized what was happening too late for any but a thin line of foot soldiers to turn and meet Tahir’s men head on. Tahir himself was in the section of his line that hit the back of the Christian infantry, which was largely unprepared for the strike on their flanks. He cut into the enemy with relish. He had dispatched three enemy soldiers before he realized part of his own line to his left had collapsed and there were crusaders streaming behind his line. He rushed over to provide support but stopped short. His heart froze for the briefest of moments as he beheld an angel sent from Allah himself, and he was fighting for the crusaders.
There, some fifty paces to his left, deep behind his own line, was a figure that glowed in white and gold armor in the early morning light. Tahir was mesmerized as he watched this being that seemed to have materialized behind his line. He wielded death with his spear like nothing Tahir had ever seen. He watched the spear whirl seemingly of its own volition and the figure leap and spin and jump as a dancer in some elaborate performance.
An angel? That was ridiculous. Tahir forced himself to snap out of his trance. This was nothing but a European devil that was cutting through his soldiers like blades of grass. He was greatly concerned by this, not only because of the men they were losing but also because the crusaders seemed to be heartened by this dramatic display. This white man seemed to know in advance what each of Tahir’s men would do. He had to be stopped, and it seemed that his spear was where his real advantage lay. Tahir watched as the white knight hurled it and killed a man not far from Tahir himself and immediately began fighting his way toward it. Tahir knew he had to get there first.
With a dramatic thrust of his mace, he doubled the closest Crusader over, then crashed the mace into the back of the Christian helmet. The sizable dent convinced him his job was done as the Christian collapsed. He took a few rapid steps towards the enemy spear. Several of his men intervened to keep the possessed knight from reaching his favorite weapon. Tahir breathed a sigh of relief. He was almost there. An ironclad knight suddenly stood before him in full armor. Tahir cursed at him. “Get out of my way!” He ordered in Arabic. But of course the European did not obey. The Europeans never took the time to learn anything about the people they were trying to destroy. Even so, he now had a problem. European knights were encased in iron, and dispatching them could be a long and frustrating ordeal. It could take even the most skilled warrior some amount of time to find a weak spot and exploit it. Tahir was not afraid, but he was vexed at this delay. “Move aside!” he ordered again.
The knight raised his sword. Tahir roared angrily, smashing the knight’s blade aside and going on the offensive. These knights were the reason Tahir had taken to using a mace against the crusaders rather than his preferred blade. Often the blades were ineffective against someone completely clad in iron. But the maces were a different story. He swung again and again, furiously driving the knight back. Tahir could see his men continuing to drop before the white knight not far away. He knew he and the Christian were both racing for the same objective. He had to get there first!
Tahir's opponent tried desperately to defend against this crazed Moor, but the end came when his heel caught on the body of a fallen man and he tumbled backward. Tahir was instantly on him, smashing his visor repeatedly with heavy blows until the knight stopped moving.
Tahir looked up, panting, from where he stood over his victim as the white knight was just dispatching the last man in his way. Tahir was triumphant. He had beaten the white knight to his weapon. The very body that had tripped up his opponent had been that Moor with the spear stuck into him. Gleefully Tahir jerked the weapon from the corpse and turned on the white knight. He was looking at this knight as if he were the heart of this evil scourge that lusted after Tahir’s city.
Tahir had only used a spear a handful of times. He felt it was a clumsy weapon given to the unskilled, expendable foot soldiers. But then he had never seen anyone use it the way this man had. It was a refined instrument of death in this knight’s hands. Watching him, the advantages of it were obvious. Holding the weapon in both hands, Tahir leveled it at the white knight’s chest, halting the knight’s charge at once. Tahir stepped forward and swung the weapon in a wide arc at the knight’s midsection, trying to duplicate a move he had just seen him perform moments before. But the awkwardness of the weapon carried it well past his intended target and left Tahir’s flank open; The white knight took advantage of this and flicked a quick blow at Tahir’s side with his long, curved sword blade, cutting a jagged gash in Tahir’s flesh.
Tahir looked down at the wound in surprise and confusion. Rethinking his strategy, Tahir made a savage but clumsy thrust toward the knight’s chest, but the knight was expecting it. He parried the blow to his left with the sword, stepped in close and seized the shaft of the spear with his free hand while he put his right foot on the Moor chest and shoved him violently backward, landing him in the dirt. Before the Moor had a chance to collect himself, the knight was above him with his foot on Tahir’s chest, the spear point held at his throat, and his sword poised over his head, ready to strike the Moor. It was the end. Tahir looked up at his executioner and all at once realization dawned. This was no angel of death but a mere man. What’s more, it was not just any man. “I know you,” Tahir spat. “Have you come here to finish the murdering and pillaging that your villainous father began so long ago?”
The white knight’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You knew my father?” he asked.
“He himself tried to take my city on several occasions and failed. Just as you will fail.”
The knight only grinned at him with no trace of humor. “When you get to Hell, give Braden my regards!” Tahir made as if to reply and instead kicked hard at the young knight, lifting him off the ground and sending him stumbling backward. Tahir snatched a weapon dropped onto the earth and was again back in the fight. He now knew something about this knight, and this was a fight he was determined not to lose.
***
In the heat of battle, it was always difficult to tell exactly which side was prevailing. For William, the strength and morale of his men was gauged more by feeling than anything else. He trusted to a sense garnered from the men around him and how hard he himself was fi
ghting. The Moors had surprised the Pope's forces and successfully divided them. They were using that to their full advantage. Each force of the Pope's was smaller than the Moor army they were engaging, and as a result they were being pushed back by the greater numbers of Moors.
The crusaders were fighting for a noble cause, but the Moors were fighting for their homes and families, which was the strongest cause of all. Whenever possible, William would keep his campaigns from reaching this point. As long as their homes and families were not at stake, the soldiers always fought as if they had something to lose–tentatively, and not overly committed. But when their backs were up against their own front doors, they fought like lions, as they did this day. It looked as though the day would go to the Moors again. That the people of Damietta would repel another invasion as they had for so many centuries. But the crusaders had one more trick to play.
William was sparring with a particularly able Moor. William’s pride had forced him to respond glibly to his opponent’s comments about his father, but suddenly he found himself very curious to know if this Moor had actually known his father. Braden died when William was very young, and William had very few actual memories of him.
The Knights Dawning (The Crusades Series) Page 5
