see forms of men and weapons swarming the breach.
A volley of bangs shook the street as the gunners fired their weapons, turning their heads to the side to protect their eyes as the strikers
ignited the powder with brilliant explosions. Some enemies fell, limbs
shattered by the storm of bullets, but more took their place. The foot
soldiers rushed forward to meet them, Muslim and Catholic meeting in a
clash of steel and blood.
Jorge pressed his back against the wall, and closed his eyes for a
brief moment. These were men like him, followers of Christ, baptized in
the holy waters of his own faith. Men he was paid to kill.
He heard footsteps around the corner, and stepped out, sword
ready. A helmeted man wielding a mace and a broad shield appeared
before him, swinging his weapon in a vicious arc to smash Jorge’s head.
He ducked the blow and retaliated, but his blade skittered off the man’s
shield. He leapt backwards to avoid another swing, and thrust his sword
towards his opponent’s wrist, the razor tip biting through the leather of
the man’s glove. He swore, and the mace dropped from his useless hand,
the tendons severed. Jorge took advantage of the moment, and pressed
forwards, raining blow after blow down on the man’s shield. Finally the
shield slipped, and Jorge slid his blade around it delivering a gash to the
inside of his elbow. The crippled man raised his hand painfully over his
head in submission, and Jorge moved on, seeking a new opponent.
All around him, men were killing and dying. A pair of spearmen
skewered a Catholic from two directions, only to be brought down by
11
a skilled swordsman who sliced through the shafts of their weapons,
rendering them useless. A heavily armored fighter waded through the
carnage, dealing out destruction in horrific swings with a great-sword almost as tall as he was. A lightly armed trio of Muslims tried to circle him,
but after he eviscerated one of them, the others lost heart, and backed
away.
Across the plaza, Jorge could see a few merchants cowering in
fear, hoping not to be noticed by the attackers. A cloth seller tried to
escape by running across the square, but she was brought down by an
arrow in the back. The great-sword fighter swiveled his helmeted head
like a hawk searching for a mouse, the monstrous blade held erect beside
his head. The dark slit hiding his eyes snapped over to the wall where a
man in robes was struggling to pull a wounded friend to safety. Jorge’s
breath caught in his chest when he saw the man helping the wounded
one was Ahmed. He had his back to the great-sword carrier, who was
advancing on him, adjusting his grip on the hilt of his weapon to bring it
down in a deadly strike. Jorge felt his feet carrying him forward, towards
Ahmed and enemy. He swung his blade at the man, but the soles of his
boots slipped on the bloody stones of the plaza, and his attack missed
the vulnerable opening at the knee and bounced harmlessly off the man’s
steel backplate.
Jorge scrambled upright as the great-sword fighter ponderously
turned to face him. He towered two heads above Jorge, the polished steel
of his breastplate emblazoned with a blood red cross, the immense blade
making Jorge’s look like a dagger. With a grunt
he swung his sword downwards, trying to chop
Jorge in half. Jorge brought his blade up at an
angle, stepping sideways so the terrible blow
slid off his sword and into the cobbles of the
plaza. The force of the strike staggered Jorge,
his arms ringing with the reverberations of his
blade. Before he could counterattack, the huge
blade was already in motion, sweeping in a vicious arc aimed at Jorge’s midsection, and it was
all he could do to interpose his blade.
“¡Tú eres Christiano!” exclaimed his opponent suddenly. Perplexed, Jorge looked down
to see that somehow his crucifix had slipped out
and dangled over his armor.
“Why are you fighting for these infidels?” continued the man. He thumped his
armored fist on his chest. The crimson cross
emblem was splattered with blood. “Do not
make the mistake of crossing blades with me. I
will destroy you.” His voice was low and dangerous, but sounded slightly muffled from inside
the helmet.
Jorge looked down at Ahmed. He had
a scratch across his cheek and dirt smeared his
face, but his eyes burned bright beneath his
severe brow. Jorge lowered his blade, backing
away from his opponent. The man turned back
towards Ahmed, raising his blade to deliver a
killing blow. The fingers adjusted on the leather-bound hilt, and Jorge felt his gut constrict.
He felt Ahmed’s gaze searing him. Suddenly,
something snapped inside of Jorge, and he
charged his opponent again. His blade hummed
through the thick air like an angry wasp, knocking the huge blade off its deadly track. The man
bellowed in rage, and lashed out with a mailed
fist, catching Jorge on the side of the head. He
staggered back one step, but then regained his
footing, and retaliated, aiming his sword towards his opponent’s neck.
The great-sword fighter stepped back
to gain some space, but Jorge kept on him, not
allowing him to gain the advantage of distance
where the longer blade would be more effective.
He launched a flurry of hacks in quick succession, but the great-sword moved to block them,
ponderous but effective. He ducked a counter
attack and caught another one with his blade,
forcing the other man’s blade down and striking towards the head. He felt the blow connect,
and saw a long dent in the steel of his opponent’s helm. Jorge stomped on the great-sword,
pinning it flat to the ground, and drove his tip
through the narrow eye-slit in the helmet. An
agonized scream erupted from the man, rivulets
of red spurting from the helmet and down the
man’s torso. He raised his hands to his head, but
toppled over, Jorge’s blade still embedded in his
face.
Jorge pulled it out of the dead man,
wiping it clean on the corpse’s doublet and
sheathing it. He helped Ahmed to his feet, and
together they pulled the injured merchant Ѽ)ѡ