Jon Devereaux, french general of the Jerusalem-bound christian soldiers, sighed. An oxymoron if there ever was one. In his apparently sacrilegious opinion, it mattered not who occupied the city, and the crusades were a waste of time and men. The crusader garb; white armor with the red cross, complemented by a sword and shield, should be habits, complemented by bibles and crucifixes.
His own sword, a green bladed hand-and-a-half bastard sword, was peculiar among the soldiers, his rank allowing him more than the unremarkable longswords of the common crusader. To the common eye, Tamrlaine was a beautiful sword, and nothing more. But to Jon's eye, it was the alien, millennia old spike of mount Olympus, carved from the mount by Kronus' scythe. While falling from the heavens, so it had said, it woke, as from a deep slumber, and angled it's fall toward the ocean, where it might sink and be recalled when it's true wielder might arise. It had not angled itself well enough, for it had had been found by a boy of eighteen, a boy who was about to reshape the world. The boy's name was Alex, but he was better known as Alexander the great. Spurred on by this blade of otherworldly emerald, Alex had taken the throne and held back the wave of invading Persians. On his deathbed, Tamrlaine implored Alex to turf it into the sea, but, ever seeing the worth in such an artifact, he passed to his son, who passed to his son, to his son, so on and so forth, the family ever having great success in colonizations and conquests, until it came to Jon, who wielded it to great effect during the crusades.
Jon looked up, on a whim, and saw, though the inky darkness of night, the outscouts flashing. A pair of riders with mirrors which they would use to reflect light towards the main army. Seeing the ease in the long distance communication, the french quickly whipped up a code, which Jon knew off by heart. ---_. .__-.. came the flashes. Quickly deciphering the code, Jon knew it to read 'Ambush'. Jumping up and shouting of ambush, Jon ran to his tent, hastily donning his armor. Men groggily came from their tents, women still clutched to their sides. The flashes began again, _--- came the flashes, spelling n.o.r.t. and then the mirror ominously fell to the ground, still reflecting into the night.
Roaring at his men to be battle ready or he wouldn't have to flay them, Jon ran to the northern part of the camp. Some of the less drunk and less occupied men were at his side, ready for battle, albeit with wonkily put-on armor.
Private James Hastings, ran up, his open-faced helmet wonky, the open-faced helm deceiving James of it's straightness. Chuckling despite their situation, Jon straightened the affectionately named "hat", on account of it's thin frame. An english lad, barely twenty, and as skilled at swordplay as he was at plucking the strings of his lute, and the heartstrings of Jon's pretty daughter. Jon liked the boy, and had vouched for him, sliding him past the twenty-two age limit that had been put up in the crusades. 'Where is Captain Paddy?' asked Jon
'Still in bed with the sergeant's wife'd be my guess.'
'Well, he misses the battle.' said Jon, knowing a night ambush wouldn't be at all threatening to the camp, especially with them ready. 'Waste not, want not. Private Hastings, I hereby promote you to Field Captain.' Jon finished, drawing a beaming smile from James, and begrudging laughs from the men around him. James had spent almost all of his time on the crusade as a field-captain, having been denied a full promotion because of his non-need to shave. He had spent so much time in a position of command that the soldiers were naming him Field-Captain Hastings, not Private Hastings, even when they were walking around the campsite, the sound of battle unheard of for more than a month. This drew a tirade of swearing, punching, even to the point of weapons being drawn from the ill tempered Captain Paddy. The one occasion when the knife came out of the boot, James had laughed in Paddy's face, mainly because he heard everyone behind him stand and draw their own assorted weapons.
More men had joined the hastily constructed shield wall, and not a moment too soon, for roughly three hundred screaming muslims ran from the dark bushes on the edges of the plain. Jon looked along the edge of the wall, seeing five hundred shields, and more joining. Jon laughed hard when he saw Paddy exiting the tent, armored in bed sheets and armed with twin women, who were similarly armored. The joy of seeing Paddy's face when he saw the charging muslims far out-weighed the grime of battle. Swearing and apologizing profusely to the women, he entered the tent, and came out a minute later, quicker than the average donning of a Crusader's kit. 'Had some help putting one your armor, Paddy?' asked James, a grin on his face, despite the backdrop of his jests.
