Dorylaeum - Contest Entry

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I wake to the sound of screams.

         There is no more chilling sound on this earth than that of the dying. In the distance there is a deep rumbling. If not for where we are, I would think it thunder. But no, in the barren plains of Anatolia, it never seems to rain. Many have already succumbed to the heat, or the dehydration, but I am one of the lucky ones. The thought causes me to snort as I duck out from underneath the rough awning I have sheltered under for the night.

         The sight before me is worse than I have ever seen, and I pray I never have to see its like again.

         Men lie everywhere, dead and dying, with arrows jutting unnaturally from their bodies. Plenty are still on their feet, forming a rough ring around the edge of the camp, but they are only half-dressed, having decided to grab weapons to defend themselves rather than spend precious time donning armour. As my eyes focus beyond them, what I had taken to be a heat haze is in fact a monstrous cloud of dust, pluming into the air. From the cloud come screaming demons on horseback with their wicked-looking, short bows. Even as I stand stunned, an arrow whips past me, coming too close for comfort.

         I immediately crouch to reach around the side of my pitiful shelter. Good, they're still there. I grab my tall, conical shield and spear from where they had been lying; where I had discarded them at the end of yesterday's exhausting march. I swing the shield around to face the enemy, and not a moment too soon. Another arrow speeds over the heads of the front lines of men, and impacts in the centre of the red cross emblazoned on the front of it. The force of the arrow sends a shock up my arm, and suddenly I have no desire to stand in line with my friends. If the enemy bows are that powerful, what chance do we have?

         Nevertheless, my feet take me forwards, and soon I reach the back of the ragged formation of men trying to protect our camp. For an hour, the horsemen wheel in front of us, taunting us in their barbaric tongue, and releasing arrows with breath-taking ease. The knights among us, distinct by their expensive chainmail, order us to hold the formation. What are they thinking? We should charge them, otherwise we will all die by their infernal arrows. Men all around me continue to drop, arrows taking them in spite of their shields - lodging in their eyes; their throats; anywhere not covered.

         The barrage finally ceases, and my spirits soar, until I see that they have only run out of arrows. Even from this distance, I can make them out: dark-skinned and lightly armoured. They know how to fight in this heat - this is their land after all. We wait, silent as the rays of the sun crash down over us. Sweat beads on my forehead, and drips slowly down my face, but I daren't shift to wipe it away. The only thing I can do is to try and blink the stinging liquid out of my eyes.

         The horsemen emit a mighty roar, and begin their advance towards us. Once they reach a gallop, I drop my spear head so that it is pointed outwards, butt grounded and braced against my right foot. All along the line, my action is copied, and I know we now must present a hedge of spear points that the horses should be unwilling to run at. I am right: at the last moment, the horses veer away, around our camp. There is nothing we can do to follow them, so I have to hope that the rear of our camp is protected.

         As the riders flow around our line, an encroaching dust cloud is left in their wake. I almost sigh in relief, glad that the defense of the camp is no longer solely down to us. A knight to my left calls out in alarm, and I realise with a jolt of panic that there are men on foot following the horsemen. Hefting my shield, I step forward into the line as the same knight calls for a shield wall. The overlapping shields must present an intimidating sight, but the enemy do not slow, screaming their hatred across the intervening gap.

         The spears come down once more, all along the line. Time seems to slow as I await the moment of contact. With the enemy so close, I can see everything about the men we will shortly be struggling with for survival. Many of them are bare-chested, bodies glistening with a sheen of sweat in the blazing, morning sun, and sport only threadbare trousers. They look remarkably similar to us, but for a slightly darker tint to their skin. They sweat just like us, and I hope that they will bleed like us.

         The lines come together with a crash of thunder, shield impacting against shield. Even braced as I am, with two ranks behind me, I skid back a pace, only to be thrust forwards off the shield of the man behind. I thrust my spear over the rim of my shield without any target, and feel it impact against something. Drawing it back, I thrust again, and again. When I lower my shield to look outwards, I see a tide of the enemy pressing forwards. My next thrust is untidy, and takes a man in the shoulder. The man is huge, and grabs the haft of the spear, yanking it out of my hand. Now I am facing this tide of men with nothing but a shield, unless I can fumble my axe clear of the belt loop it hangs from. Even then, I know it will be no use; there is no room to swing it.

         Concentrating on maintaining my feet, I push forwards into the enemy, both hands on my shield straps, and one shoulder shoved hard up against the inside of it. In spite of mine and others' gargantuan efforts, we are still being pushed back. There is a shield hard against my back, the man behind it struggling to add his weight to mine, but it is no use. I can just about see the back of the enemy mass - the other side of the sea - but it only shows exactly how many are arrayed against us.

         The knight to my left is fighting in the front rank, and I admire him for that. He is bravely laying about him with his sword, killing them in droves, but as I notice him, shining silver in the glaring sunlight, he goes down beneath the weight of four assailants. For a moment he rears up again, sword swinging with abandon, but then he succumbs as one of the men plunges a knife into the weaker armour covering his armpit.

         A loud cheer rings out behind us, and I guess it is from the enemy at the back of the camp. It will only be a matter of minutes before the horsemen ride through the camp, no doubt firing arrows as they come, and hit our tiny formation in the rear. I daren't look back, but realise that, caught between two enemies, the battle is as good as over. In the front line as I am, it will be all but impossible to escape. I am going to die.

         To my surprise however, horsemen very like those who had passed us by earlier are galloping away behind the foot soldiers in front of us. The foot soldiers notice them too, and begin to panic. Just as they are beginning to pull back, mounted knights hit them in the flank. I have seen knights on the charge before, in Greece, but nothing like this.

         At a full gallop, all the combined weight of horse and rider is concentrated into the point of the lance. The knights before us drive through the enemy infantry as if they were riding through grass, leaving only a trail of mangled corpses behind them. The pressure was on the shield wall is relieved straight away, and I can breathe again. Still the knights thunder on, following the routed enemy back the way the came, now cutting them down with swords and maces.

         I cheer with the rest of the men in the camp, raising my hand into the air, and silently thanking God. The First, glorious Crusade will continue to the Holy Land, to reclaim it in the name of God.

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Word count: 1,434