Chapter 453: Revenge

Reyno’s soul had already left his body.

His Armor and Sword were removed and preserved. They were a family legacy. If this holy war ended in victory and if anyone from this company survived, they would eventually return to Normandy, where another young man of Reyno’s bloodline would one day don them and continue the pursuit of glory.

The first time this suit of Chain Armor saved him from an enemy’s fatal blow, he would remember the glory of his family, including that of Reyno himself, and yearn to write his own story.

The Knights piled firewood around the body. A Knight who knew Reyno well was in charge of lighting the pyre. As the Torch was about to fall, the flames spread rapidly, consuming the clothes and then the body. The Sword Belt, made from Saracen hair, flared with sparks and was burned to ashes in an instant.

“Turandot’s whereabouts are unknown. It’s too risky to stay here. Even with Bagrat’s men, we have less than fifty people. Resisting an attack from the City Lord of Hama would be suicide. Besides, I don’t think we should put too much trust in Bagrat’s Normans. They have no will to fight, only a lust for profit. If a battle starts, it’d be one thing if they just fled. But if they turned on us… What are you going to do, Eric? Retreat, or…? There’s no need for pointless sympathy. If the City Lord of Hama is rational enough, if he cares at all about his tax revenue, he won’t be so quick to start a massacre. Every Dane knows the difference between a steady supply of wool and a single mutton feast.” Leif came to Eric’s side and asked him in a low voice, in Danish.

‘That’s bullshit. These Armenians and Greeks killed too many people. Some of the troublemakers even cruelly desecrated the bodies.’

‘The atrocities in the Palmi District have stirred up so much rage among the Heretics. No matter how merciful the ruling lord is, this can only be settled with blood for blood. At least one village will have to suffer the same brutal retribution.’

‘And the Turkic People have never shied away from meeting atrocity with atrocity.’

Leif knew he was talking nonsense, and he also knew that Eric knew he was talking nonsense.

But sometimes the truth didn’t matter. What mattered was giving Eric a way to back down gracefully.

Leif had no fondness for Christians and wasn’t interested in the ultimate fate of these Armenians and Greeks. He even thought this whole war was pointless.

His sea charts were finished. He felt it was time to go home.

He didn’t like the weather here, nor the people. There was even more conflict here than back home. He had a small manor in England now, and he thought of it as Heaven—no, as Odin’s hall.

Besides, he really didn’t want to die in this godforsaken place.

Leif gazed at Reyno’s burning body.

“Leif, you and Guy take those who don’t want to stay and go back. Bring the army stationed at Shazha here.”

“You’re insane. Hama’s army could be here by dawn. It’ll take two days at best to move troops from Shazha. And that’s not even considering the impact of Turandot’s escape, or whether this is all a ploy by Suleiman Shah to annihilate us.”

“Just do it. If Suleiman Shah plans to move against us, I’m afraid returning to Shazha now won’t help either. Just go back. If the place has already been destroyed by Suleiman Shah, then find a way back to Cilicia,” Eric said in a flat tone, looking at Leif.

“You really are insane. If you were truly devout to your god, you never should have left the Monastery to prance around in this embroidered Count’s robe.”

“This has nothing to do with that, Leif. I’m telling you, this is revenge. I was deceived, and now I’m going to make the ones who deceived me pay the price. They want me to run away like a beaten dog, but I refuse.”

“Oh, come on. Back in the Hebrides Islands, weren’t you fighting like a dog for the men of the Isle of Man? I don’t see you taking revenge on them. Didn’t you make a clean getaway?”

Eric: “…”

Eric coughed twice, then gave an awkward laugh. “Is that so? I don’t seem to remember that at all. Ahahaha~”

Leif sighed. “Don’t get yourself killed, my Lord.”

In the end, of the twenty-seven men Eric had brought, only seven chose to stay. Five of them were Welshmen who only spoke Welsh. Aside from battle gestures, the only things they understood were whoring and drinking, so it was impossible to make them understand the situation.

So those five ended up staying, completely oblivious.

…

In Syria, soldiers are precious, but they are also cheap.

Conflict is constant here, and the Emirs and Beys who rule have opportunities to expend the soldiers in their service almost every week.

But every soldier, every seasoned veteran, cared more for his monthly pay than for honor or praise. After all, credit for military merit almost always went to the commanding officers, and the courts of common Emirs and Beys couldn’t support that many men.

As for spoils of war, the so-called “spoils” under a common Emir or Bey were often negligible.

The City Lord of Hama, Yajisiyan, was a prime example. But perhaps he shouldn’t be blamed too harshly. He was just a minor warlord, not of the main Seljuk lineage, and was powerless to interfere in the Seljuk Clan’s internal strife.

His advancing age also forced him to abandon those passionate ideas that belong to the young.

At nearly sixty years old, he was content to live out his days peacefully in his city. Beyond hoping his son could inherit it, what more could he wish for?

Choosing to be his soldier was not a good choice, but Balha always had a way of making life for his own soldiers comfortable and interesting.

Sometimes, all it took was abandoning a few mental and moral restraints, plus a bit of tact, to easily obtain happiness.

Recently, however, his luck had been a bit down. The tedious army life led him to frequent taverns and brothels, and as a result, he was cleaned out by a thief a few days ago. After that, his side business of selling army equipment, which he’d been running for several years, was discovered by a new colleague.

That detestable new colleague planned to blackmail him for a hefty sum, which left Balha, a man with no habit of saving and still reeling from the theft, at his wit’s end.

However, just when he was at a dead end, a riot broke out. The Christians in the countryside launched a brutal retaliation against the Crescent Believers. For any fellow believer, this was a tragic event, but for Balha, it was a stroke of incredible luck.

This was because he would be in charge of conscription—not of professional soldiers, of course, but of peasant levies drafted from the countryside.

Yajisiyan had sent most of his army to support Tutush as a token of his loyalty.

In order to put on a grand, powerful, and shocking display, they needed some peasant levies to pad out the numbers. It was also a way to let the Crescent Believers vent their anger, lest they come looking for trouble.

Balha abused the draft order. The draft of 600 peasant levies netted him 300 Dinars.

Balha specifically targeted men of means, those rich bastards. For them, going to the battlefield was like going to Hell, so to evade military service, they all bribed him.

Balha pulled on his reins, halting his Warhorse. He looked back at his troops. Except for the hundred or so elite soldiers in the front ranks, the rear was a sprawling mob of rabble.

They were all hooligans and thugs, beggars in ragged clothes, pests bred from peace and comfort, gallows-fodder with rotting bodies, and dead men just dragged out of Hell.

They were now on the road to the rioting Christian village.