The Crusader's Crown (Tales of the Brotherhood Series Book 1) James Mercer (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📖

  Garcia had been one of few in the second rank who remained in his saddle, his sword hammering against the shield of his opponent. The Moor soon proved why he had deserved a place in the Caliph’s royal cavalry. No matter how many times the heavy blade of the Templar’s broadsword crashed down on his circular shield he kept a clear mind.

  Seeing an opportunity the warrior thrust his scimitar forward and pierced the knight’s side. The thrust was strong and the blade tore through mail and the gambeson beneath. Withdrawing quickly he could see blood on the point of his blade.

  Garcia roared as the scimitar’s lethal point slid into his flesh and ground against his hip bone. The injury was not mortal but the pain of the injury turned his fury into a maddened blood lust. Doubling his efforts and fuelled by the agony, he stood up in his stirrups and struck the shield with such force that it shattered in two. Before the Moor could counter the attack, Garcia swept his sword across, decapitating the warrior. As he urged his mount forward, the Templar punched out against the headless corpse, pushing it from the saddle. While his strength held he looked for another opponent but already the enemy was starting to break.

  The heavier chainmail hauberks of the Templars had done what they were crafted for. Unless they tried to thrust with their slimmer blades, the enemy could not penetrate deep enough through the preferred armour of the Christian knights. With such an advantage their strikes often glanced off the mail. The knights of the Temple had gained the upper hand.

  Further along the giant melee of death, Sir Aguillard battled forward, deep into the enemy ranks, cutting and thrusting at any in his path. His shield was holding and he could hear the screams of men behind him as the Templar knights who followed cut down those who tried to attack him from the rear.

  He too noticed the Almohad force starting to manoeuvre their horses away, intent on fleeing the deadly warrior monks. Exhausted, he took a brief moment while those behind him pressed forward. He stood in the saddle to look for his Order Brothers’ standard. Further to the right he spied it leaning at an odd angle, then to his horror watched it fall amongst the chaos.

  Turning his mount he tried to push through the constricted horde of Templars who were still persevering forward. They shouted in anger at what they presumed was a fellow Templar obstructing their chance to wreak havoc on the enemy.

  Finally coming to the fringes of his company of men, he could see they were being assaulted on two sides. Acting fast he drove his destrier forward and struck a man from behind, splitting open his back. He did the same with another three before he had freed his men of the assault on one of the two sides. He quickly grasped the standard and held it aloft.

  Seeing Sir Guarin, he steered his horse forward.

   “Guarin. Where is Sir Olbrecht?”

  The young knight could hardly speak for exhaustion.

   “He has fallen my lord,” he shouted over the thunderous noise.

    It was disheartening to hear such news and he pictured the image of Garcia’s smug face.

   “We must continue to press forward. They are sure to fall back soon,” he shouted.

  Rallying the last of his men-at-arms and with Sir Guarin beside him he led them toward the enemy. Although the threat to their front had been forced back, their right flank was still under bombardment by the last of the enemy cavalry who continued to fight to the death. With their kite shaped shields held high, they started to press forward, striking with sword, spear and axe.

  Finally a trumpet sounded in the distance and the devastated cavalry of the Caliph started to retreat. Leading his depleted company forward, Chevalier and his followers joined with the right wing of the remaining Templar force. There was a dent in his helmet, compliments of an Almohad blade. Lifting his visor, he turned and did a count of his men. They had lost six men-at-arms as well as Sir Olbrecht Scholz.

  He could feel the sides of his warhorse swell as it heaved furiously to catch its breath. He patted the brave beast. If it had not been for the chainmail coat that ran along the animal’s front and sides, hidden by the white trappings, his reckless attack into the enemy’s centre could well have resulted in his mount falling and the both of them lying amongst the dead.

  Around him, the moans of the mortally wounded were drowned out by the cheers of victory. They roared their approval, oblivious of their fallen comrades, as they watched the remnants of the royal horsemen flee. Several knights among them, all of them young and yearning for glory, yelled that they should pursue but were soon silenced by their superiors.

  Like his own mount, their war horses’ energy was spent. They had pushed them to the limit and any further demand would likely kill the animals from mere exhaustion. Shortly, new orders came that the remaining knights would escort the Templar Master and pursue the enemy in a solid formation and rational pace.

*****

What had been endless waves of Almohad warriors was finally starting to slow. Looking to the far left of their forces, Robert could see the banners of the Templar knights. They had ceased their pursuit of the enemy horsemen who were fleeing from the dreaded Crusader warriors. He watched as the large contingent of knights and their sergeants slowly moved forward. Somewhere amongst their number was the knight that the Brotherhood were searching for.

  Had he survived? Was he even there? He knew not.

   “Rob, what are you waiting for? The bastards are on