Chapter 467 - 332: The Punishment of Impalement (Part 2)

Another round of catapult attacks exploded against the city walls. Great sections of the wall crumbled into dust, leaving gaping breaches.

The defenders, armed only with short-range bows and Crossbow Cannons, could not reach the front ranks of the Seljuk Turks. Unable to counterattack, they could only concentrate their fire on the besiegers who were now rumbling toward the walls.

One of the siege towers inadvertently fell into a spiked pit dug to trap Infantry. Its structure shattered, and the hundreds of men on its upper ladders and railings were flung out, crashing to the ground. Their screams were cut short.

Another siege tower was struck by a Crossbow Arrow in a structural corner. The wooden wall splintered open, exposing the packed Seljuk Warriors inside—they became living targets for the Fatima Archers, who unleashed volley after volley of arrows upon them.

Amid a chorus of agonizing screams, the siege tower slowed to a halt, then tipped forward, overbalanced by the weight of the dead inside.

The remaining ten siege towers continued their relentless advance until they slammed into place against the battlements with a loud CRASH. A great wail rose from within the city; though bristling with arrow shafts, the towers were undamaged.

Oguz watched the slaughter in confusion. "Byzantine... Is that the Empire of the western god?"

Tutush shook his head. "In the name of Allah, the One and Only. The Byzantines cling to a tradition of permanence, and I would relish the opportunity to teach them that they, too, are mortal. But that will be a long campaign, spanning many years, like one of our longest chess matches... Before we can strike at those distant empires, we are setting the board to consolidate our homeland. By then, Oguz, you will be a man, and you will not tremble at the kind of scenes you are about to witness today. People will revere you, and you will bring glory to Allah. Our fate is preordained: glory awaits us!"

Tutush raised the battle standard and roared. In response, a tide of Seljuk banners flooded the walls.

"The walls are ours! Forward!" The war horns blew, and the Seljuk Army surged forward as one, a unified tide of men.

....

「Three days later」 Jerusalem had fallen to Tutush, and in the city’s center, a bloody execution was underway.

"Watch, Oguz." Tutush twisted his younger brother’s head, forcing him to face the execution.

Oguz shivered at Hilfa’s terrified screams. The Lord’s face had gone deathly pale the moment he saw the thick, short, crudely-made yet sharp wooden stake in the central square of Jerusalem.

The setting sun cast a long shadow from the instrument of execution as two Lance Soldiers gripped Hilfa’s shoulders, marching him forward.

The people of Jerusalem—the women and children who had survived the three days of slaughter since the city fell—and the Seljuk Conquerors watched the scene in near silence.

"He has to die. If he lives, he is a threat, a seed of rebellion. So he must die publicly, so his subjects know what awaits them should they follow his example and rise against us," Tutush said, his face a mask of cruelty.

Oguz’s expression was grim. He knew his brother was right, despite the horror of the scene before him.

He pulled free from Tutush’s grip. "I understand. Don’t treat me like a child, brother."

Tutush smiled faintly and nodded. "You are becoming the man I hoped you would be. One day, they will give you a title befitting your greatness. To be the man I know you can be, you must cast away all doubt. Know yourself to be invincible, and do not flinch from the brutality of war."

He gazed westward with a melancholy air. "We had a great-uncle who could have achieved great things, but he was ruled by weakness. He chose to escape the realities of war."

"What happened to him, brother?"

"He went west, settled in the lands of the Byzantine," Tutush snorted, "as if making a statement about his pacifism. He could have been great, but he was too meek, Oguz. Meek, even more so than our own father. And though our father was a successful Conqueror, he failed in some ways. He did not understand that some men simply do not deserve forgiveness."

Oguz shifted uncomfortably. He was reminded of how his father died. He had loved his father, but he wrestled with the contrast between him and his brother, Tutush.

He had known since his first campaign with the army that his brother’s path was the one he wanted to walk.

Yet, the very act he had committed to prove himself to Tutush now filled him with a profound sense of shame.

He remembered the old slave, a quiet, humble man who was grateful for any gift from Oguz and contrite when punished.

One day, Tutush had summoned Oguz to the palace roof, where he found the slave kneeling and weeping, surrounded by a circle of confidants.

Tutush had announced to his men that his younger brother, Oguz, would one day lead them to ultimate glory. Then he had handed his brother a knife.

Tutush had declared that Oguz would now demonstrate his ruthlessness by executing the slave.

A year had passed, yet Oguz could still feel the warm splash of blood on his hands, still see the confusion in the slave’s eyes as the man looked up at his young master.

Oguz looked up at Tutush and realized his feelings for his brother were a tangled web of love and hate.

"I will never run from glory," Oguz said solemnly.

Tutush’s expression remained cold.

The memory faded. Reality returned with a terrified groan from the center of the Jerusalem square.

Two Spearmen shoved Hilfa forward toward the waist-high wooden stake.

The man who had stood so proud on the walls that very morning now clawed at his own delicate face, crying out to the heavens and pleading with the people who were once his subjects.

Finally, the two Spearmen pulled Hilfa’s legs apart.

They looked up at Tutush, who nodded.

Hilfa’s eyes bulged, his mouth forming a silent plea as his shoulders were forced down.

As they forced him lower and lower, there was a sound of tearing cloth, then the snapping of bone and sinew. The sharp stake pierced his rectum, tore through his bowels, and parted his organs.

At last, his legs lay splayed on the ground, the tip of the stake lodged somewhere in his chest cavity.

As Hilfa’s breathing grew faint and blood trickled from his mouth, eyes, nose, and ears, Oguz refused to look away.

But the man was still alive, and would remain so for the rest of the day and most of the night, until his heart became too weak to pump blood throughout his horrifically compressed and twisted body.

"Now gouge out his eyes!" Tutush commanded sharply.

Oguz did not flinch. This was the other side of glory.