The Battle

The neck guard of his armor cut into his wound as he rolled over to face the sky. Moans and cries of pain mingled with the smell of burning flesh surrounded him as he slowly rose to a familiar sight. Unusual though! Where were the victors? Why were are not here picking over the battlefield, the women attending the wounded.

As he stood, his head throbbing, he felt sword still in hand and instinctively hacked the head of an Arab groping on all fours. The blood spewed out upon his foot guard as he kicked the severed neck. A thought of god's wrath upon infidels had accompanied every slash and thrust of his sword arm since his arrival.

Surely God had won the day he thought, as he stumbled over dead and dying bodies towards a structure hacking as he progressed. He was to weak to thrust and he felt justified in leaving them to die with new wounds accompanying the old. He saw no other knights as he fell against the wall of the structure and slid to the ground weak with blood saturating his chain mail and sticking to his chest.

He had noticed his helmet lying in the sand and a creased cut into the neck guard from the deadly curvature of the Arabian sword, which is only feared against an unguarded attack from behind. An impracticable weapon against any Knight or those that would stand and fight yet fearsome to the common man. He thought of the humors about why the Arabians had never developed a fighting sword. The saying was that although they fought often among themselves they typically intimidate one side or the other to flee in panic as the other side rides fourth to slash them from behind. Hence they do not fight but rather are deadly slashers. To him they were horse shit riding the horse.

His thoughts were disrupted as he noticed another knight stumbling whlist slowly making his way towards him, hacking as he went. Several sword creases could be seen upon his breast plate. His awkward sword was explained as he noticed the knights right hand had been severed. His sloppy butchery was befitting the wailing pigs. The blood that flew into the air pleased him as he welcomed the sight of a fellow soldier of God.

As the knight approached he called out, 'Sir Knight, how are ye wounded?

'My helmet gave way to a slight yet bloody neck wound! And ye Knight?'

He held up his stump 'I swear with my remaining hand to give twice the vengeance upon this filth!'

'Well said Sir Knight, where has the battle gone?'

'I know not!'

'Come, you must put fire to thy wound.'

'Have already done so and my suffering was a sweet smell to God whereas the
stench of this filth would shut heaven!'

'Come, rest until the victors return.'

The Knight falls against the wall next to him. 'I pray my lost hand has
found the throat of an heretic in hell.'