Templar Steel
Page 29
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It was a charge, the likes of which had never seen before with little thought for position or detailed tactics, eighty Christian warriors, hell bent on driving a human wedge through the heart of the enemy.
Behind them, the army split into two distinct halves, led by Raynald and the king. The only plan was to follow the Templars into the breach before branching off towards the flanks to split the enemy position apart. It was a gamble like no other, but bearing in mind the strength of the enemy, it was the only way that Baldwin would have any chance of victory.
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At the front, the disciplined line of Templar knights drove their horses as hard as they could, reaching full gallop just before they smashed into the enemy lines in a storm of flashing steel and screams of pain.
Saracens who, only moments earlier had stood resolute in their defence, were trampled mercilessly underfoot, their lightweight spears useless against the attackers’ heavy armour and their bodies breaking like twigs beneath the thundering hooves of the war horses. Templar lances impaled men, sometimes more than one, such was the impact, before snapping or being wrenched from the bearer’s hands due to the momentum of the charge.
Screams of agony and fear filled the air as hands that had borne lances only seconds earlier, seamlessly drew the heavy swords to lash out at their lightly armoured victims, cleaving flesh from bone and sending fountains of blood high into the air. The Templars ploughed on, forcing their mounts over and through whoever laid before them, their swords cutting down men with impunity, and though the charge slowed, the advance did not. Many of the horses, trained to a life of battle, trampled the enemy beneath their hooves, lashing out at anything in reach with their teeth, their nostrils flaring and eyes wide with fear as they ploughed onward over the sea of dead bodies.
Within moments the brutal charge had reached over halfway towards Saladin’s position and though there were almost ten thousand enemy warriors to either side, most were powerless to react due to lack of room to manoeuvre.
Behind the Templars the shattered enemy lines struggled to reform, their commanders screaming for flanking soldiers to fill the gaping hole but there was no time. Only seconds after the vanguard had forced the breach, King Baldwin and Raynald of Chatillon led the rest of the Christian army pouring through before each flanked off in different directions, one to the left, the other to the right, effectively splitting the Ayyubid forces into four. Their numbers were far larger than the Templars with over four hundred knights in the vanguard of each back-up force along with thousands of lancers and Turcopoles, and with the defending lines already in disarray from the shock tactics of the Templars, the Saracens struggled to organise any sort of unified defence. Suddenly the well packed lines favoured by Shirkuh and Taqi ad-Din changed from an impressively organised formation to a deadly hinderance, preventing any sort of counter attack.
Within minutes the Saracen position was in danger of falling apart and Saladin stared in horror from his horse several hundred paces to the rear of his army.
‘Where is Taqi?’ he roared, ‘why do we sit back and die like sheep? Sound the attack.’
The sound of horns rent the air and down at the front of the Saracen army, the panicking Taqi ad-Din realised the command was aimed directly at him. He drew his sword and holding it high in the air, led the counter charge from the right flank.
‘Allahu Akbar’ he roared and spurred his horse forward, charging towards the flanks of the penetrating enemy army. Most of his men followed but many, shocked at the brutality and impact of the Christian attack, swerved their horses away to head away from the battle field, leaving the Saracen general dangerously under strength.
Despite this, his men hardened to the task before them and crouched low in their saddles, determined to sever the deadly snake of horsemen penetrating the Saracen position but had covered only half the ground when a hail of arrows smashed into their flanks, cutting down men and horses alike. Taqi looked over and saw another line of Turcopole horsemen, hundreds strong, bearing down upon them from the hills, with bow skills second to none.
‘Keep going,’ he screamed as his men fell about him, ‘we need to break their line.’ Harder they galloped and though their numbers were vastly fewer than they had been only moments earlier, they smashed into the main body of Baldwin’s men, having an instant impact.
Lancers who had been focussed on driving the charge forward were now forced to turn and defend themselves, and for a few moments, the king’s advance faltered beneath the impact of the attack, but no sooner did the side battle commence than the Turcopoles caught up and fell on Taqi’s men with their own blades. Within moments, any structure on both sides fell apart and the fight opened up across a wide front, each man for himself as any sort of communication became useless. Horses were cut down left right and centre, their own screams of pain merging with those of the many men cut asunder by Christian and Saracen blade alike and soon the fight became one between thousands of men afoot, each equally desperate to stay alive amongst the carnage.
At the battle’s heart, Sir Gerald fought viciously, all thoughts of pain from his injuries forgotten in the heat of conflict, each swing of his sword accompanied by a roar of anger as he slaughtered any Saracen within reach. A few paces away was Cronin, no less lethal with his own blade and together they led by example, driving deep into the heart of the Saracen lines.
The sound of metal clashing against metal rang through the air as men fought and died in the name of their own Gods and screams of fear merged with those of victory as many suffered the brutal reality of war in their own desperate battles to survive.
Cronin dragged his sword from a Saracen’s chest, turning his head away from the spray of blood erupting from the man’s heart before spinning around to parry the thrust of another enemy blade. Desperately he fought and though his body was still weak from his time in the desert, the battle lust was upon him and he fought like a demon.
Hassan followed him through the throng, ensuring Cronin’s victims posed no more threat by slitting their throats with his skinning knife but the enemy’s numbers meant the pressure was unrelenting and no sooner had they killed one than another took his place. Over and over again, Cronin’s sword flew through the air to end a fellow man’s life, but even as the bodies fell about him, he slowly became aware that his strength was ebbing with every blow.
‘My lord,’ shouted Hassan suddenly, ‘behind you!’
Cronin spun around to see a Saracen swinging a blade towards his neck. With little time to parry the blow, he ducked and charged into his attacker’s body, driving him to the ground. The two men fought desperately but the strength of the Saracen soon became apparent and he pinned Cronin to the floor, his hands tight around the sergeant’s throat. Cronin struggled but he knew he was beaten but as the last of his strength left his body, the grip around his neck loosened and he looked up to see a narrow blade sticking out of the Saracen’s throat.
Slowly his attacker fell aside, his spine severed by the blade and Cronin could see Hassan standing in his place, his face shocked at how close his master had come to death.
‘Hassan,’ croaked Cronin, struggling to his feet. ‘You saved my life.’
‘I did my duty,’ said Hassan leaning down to retrieve his blade, ‘nothing more.’
‘Are you wounded?’ shouted a voice and Cronin turned to see Hunter scrambling across a sea of dead bodies towards him.
‘Scratches only,’ said Cronin. ‘It is good to see you again my friend.’
‘And you,’ said Hunter, ‘but there is no time to talk. Have you seen Sir Gerald?’
‘He was here a few moments ago,’ said Cronin, ‘and headed in that direction.’ He pointed deeper into the heart of the battle.’
‘Then I must go and join him,’ said Hunter. He paused and stared at Cronin. ‘You look spent,’ he continued, ‘leave the rest to the army and retire while you can.’
‘I will gather my strength,’ said Cronin, ‘and the
n resume the fight. Every blade counts.’
‘In that case, I wish you well,’ said Hunter, ‘and may God go with you.’ Without another word he turned to follow Gerald.
‘Here,’ said Hassan, giving Cronin his water bottle, ‘and catch your breath, my lord. Death was almost a bedfellow.’
‘A few moments only,’ said Cronin watching as another advance of Christian soldiers marched past to engage the enemy, ‘and then we advance again. This fight is not yet over.’
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‘Kill the Kafirs,’ screamed Taqi, his face splattered with rivulets of Christian blood, and he swung his sword mercilessly, a fearless warrior in the service of his sultan. All around him his men did the same, their victims piling up and as their counter charge started to take effect, Taqi, at last, saw his counter attack not been in vain. The king’s line was breaking, giving a surge of extra strength to all the bloodied Saracens still fighting.
‘Keep going,’ screamed Taqi, ‘do not falter!’ But even as his men pushed harder, one of his commanders caught sight of something that made his blood run cold. To the rear of the Turcopoles came another body of men, and this time, he knew it was one that could not be bettered. It was the Christian foot soldiers…thousands of them.
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In the vanguard, the Templars ploughed onward, fighting furiously against overwhelming odds. Behind them came their mounted sergeants, tasked with defending the knight’s backs and keeping open the breach. They too fought furiously, and hundreds of Saracens died at their hands, completely overwhelmed by the brutality of the advance and the undoubted skills of their attackers.
The ferocious charge sent rivers of fear down the spines of the defenders and many in the Templars’ path broke ranks, turning to run, terrified at the perceived invincibility of the giant men on brutes of horses. The Grand Master saw the cracks and seized the opportunity.
‘Keep going,’ he roared, forcing his horse even harder, and though it was unlikely that any man more than a few paces away heard him, the sight of Amand’s huge horse surging forward urged the well-trained Templars to follow suit and they ploughed into the fray with renewed energy, determined to reach Saladin himself at the rear of the army.
Across the battlefield, the Christian advance cut through the enemy position like a knife through butter, splitting the Saracens apart. The effect was devastating and as the vicious battles continued on three fronts, those Saracens on the outer edges started to doubt the outcome and turned their hoses away to flee the scene. The trickle soon became a flood and soon, hundreds of men were galloping from Montgisard, knowing that they could not win.
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‘Where are they going?’ screamed Saladin, ‘order them back.’
Again, horns echoed through the air, but it was no use and as the Sultan watched, almost half of his army fled the scene, leaving the rest in disarray. Shirkuh ad-Din galloped up to him, forcing men to jump from his path.
‘My lord,’ said Shirkuh, ‘you must leave this place.’
‘No,’ roared Saladin, ‘we can still do this. We still outnumber them.’
‘My lord,’ shouted Shirkuh again, ‘please listen to me. The Christians are driving through in three columns with no intent on engaging us on a wider front. This renders most of our army useless and we can only watch from the flanks as our men fall like autumn leaves. Already Raynald of Chatillon’s column is in reach of our rear lines and if he breaks through, your escape route will be cut off.’
‘Escape,’ gasped Saladin incredulously, ‘why do we need to do such a thing when we have the stronger force? It is they who should be seeking escape.’
‘My lord,’ said Shirkuh, ‘Taqi ad-Din and his men are surrounded, half of the tribes already ride away to save their own skins and Raynald is about to cut us off from our caravans. On top of this, the Templars race like an arrow towards this position and my men can’t hold them much longer. Leave this place while you still can and live to fight another day.’
Saladin was furious. Only a day ago he had an army capable of taking Jerusalem but the combination of the Christian’s resolve, the unexpected charge of the Templars and the cowardice of some of the lesser tribes had seen him hamstrung. If he continued there was a possibility that his army could rally but even so, they would be in no state to besiege Jerusalem, the only thing that was important.
‘Shirkuh,’ he said eventually. ‘As usual, your words are unwelcome yet wise. I will leave with my bodyguard and ride for the desert but there I will rally our men to see what options remain.’
‘There are no options,’ replied Shirkuh, ‘except heading for Egypt. I will hold the Christians back as long as possible, but they have us on the retreat. Head east to the mountains as fast as you can. We have a corral of racing camels on the edge of the Negev, waiting in case this sort of thing happened.’
Saladin stared at Shirkuh, confused.
‘How is this possible?’ he asked eventually. ‘Did you not believe that victory was achievable?’
‘I believe in you, my lord, but no matter how sure I may be regarding your guidance, I will always ensure your safety is at the forefront of my thoughts. The camels are waiting, as are the guides to take you there. Now, I implore you, leave this place while you still can.’
Saladin turned and stared at the battle unfolding before him. As far as he could see, his defensive lines were breaking apart as men fought desperately for their lives, the screams of the wounded and dying echoing through the air alongside the terrible battle cries of their tormentors. Many of the enemy horsemen had now dismounted and fought afoot, their huge swords cleaving through the lighter armour of their opponents in a frenzy of aggression and brutality, and Saladin knew that when it came to close quarter battle, his own forces were no match for Christian knights.
‘I do not understand,’ he said eventually. ‘This cannot be. Everything was in our favour, yet our men are being slaughtered like lambs. What have I done so wrong that incurs the wrath of Allah?’
‘Now is not the time for self-doubt,’ said Shirkuh, ‘all that is important is that you escape to raise another army. Jerusalem will still be ours, my lord, but not this day.’
Saladin paused a moment longer before finally accepting the guidance of his most respected General.
‘My heart is heavy,’ he said, ‘but I will do as you ask. ‘
‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Shirkuh and turned to the commander of the Saladin’s bodyguard. ‘Take the Sultan from this place,’ he barked, ‘and ensure you protect him with your lives. If a single hair on his head is harmed, I will have every man here skinned alive and his flesh rubbed with salt. Understood?’
‘It will be done,’ said the commander and turned to rally his men.
Shirkuh turned to Saladin.
‘Waste no more time, my lord,’ he said. ‘Be gone from this place and one day return with an army ten times the size. Jerusalem will indeed be ours, I feel it in my heart.’
‘You are a good man, Shirkuh,’ said Saladin, ‘do not die in this place.’
‘I will do what needs to be done,’ said Shirkuh, ‘and if it is Allah’s will I die here then I embrace his judgement.’
‘Allahu Akbar,’ said Saladin.
‘Allahu Akbar,’ replied Shirkuh and watched as his Sultan galloped from the field, surrounded by a thousand Mamluk warriors.
‘My lord,’ shouted a voice, ‘the men of the red cross, they are almost through. What are we to do?’
Shirkuh dismounted and drew his sword.
‘I’ll tell you what we are going to do,’ he shouted, ‘we are going to fight until they are defeated or every last one of us lies dead in the dust.’ He lifted his sword, rallying the men around him, ‘death to the Kafirs,’ he called, ‘Allahu Akbar.’
‘Allahu Akbar,’ they roared in return and as Saladin and his bodyguard disappeared into the distance, the remains of his army turned back to face the rampaging Christians, determined to gain him as much time as possible.
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King Baldwin waded through the bodies of dead men, his face pouring with sweat beneath his helmet. His personal bodyguard fought frantically all around him but still some Saracens got through and he was forced to defend himself as best he could. His bandaged arms felt leaden and his armour weighed him down like a horse upon his back, but he was determined to battle on, knowing that any king worth his salt should fight amongst his own men.
Those under his command had fought hard and for a while, the outcome had been under threat, especially when Taqi ad-Din’s army had charged in from the flanks, but with discipline and the timely intervention of the Turcopoles, the Christians had endured and now marched forward, mopping up any of the enemy too stubborn to surrender.
A momentary lull in the battle allowed Baldwin to pause and he raised his helmet to get some fresh air. All around him there was a sea of dead bodies and though men still fought in all directions, it seemed to him that the tide was turning, and his army was getting the upper hand. As he watched, a voice cried out and he saw Gerald of Jerusalem running towards him.
At first, the king was confused as he had ordered Gerald to stay away from the fight but within moments realised that the knight was screaming a warning. Slowly he turned to see a lone Saracen horseman had breached the Christian lines and was riding hard towards him, guiding his mount with his knees as he pulled back the drawstring on his bow.
Without a shield there was little the Baldwin could do but just as the arrow was loosed, Sir Gerald reached the king and knocked him to the ground. Baldwin’s knights fell upon the Saracen and cut him apart as others ran over to check the two men were okay.
Sir Gerald got to his knees and helped the king to sit up.
‘Your grace,’ he said, ‘are you hurt?’
‘Only my pride,’ said the king, brushing the dust from his arms, ‘you?’
‘I think…’ said the knight, but before he could continue, a single line of blood ran from the side of his mouth.
‘Sir Gerald,’ gasped the king, ‘you are wounded.’ He jumped to his feet and immediately saw the Saracen arrow sticking out of Gerald’s back.