kingdom of nations

Chapter 125 First Battle (6) (Special thanks to Alliance Leader THEBIRO - Bonus Chapter!)
Ali was just an ordinary slave. In the Sultan's army, they were the lowest class. These slaves, with distinct features—dark skin and topknots—were neither Saracens nor Turks or Kurds who had gained trust by following the Saracens for a long time; they were simply slaves.

This history has been passed down among the Nubians for over a thousand years. They served as vanguards for the Carthaginians, later as scouts for the Romans, and now they are "employed" by the Sultan and Caliph as slaves, undertaking many tasks beyond combat—to the Saracens, they are like sand thrown into muddy water during rainy days, or dried herbs burned to repel mosquitoes. No matter how much they lose, it is not worth regretting.

In battle, they often suffer the greatest losses. One Fatah leader once bluntly stated that if they could exchange a hundred Nubians for a Christian knight, it would be worth it.

But would you say they would be angry or rebellious? No, his simple mind can't hold that much thought.

Although he was the lowest in the Sultan's army, he was the noblest among the unarmed civilians. He still vividly remembered the bewildered, terrified, and sorrowful eyes of those dressed in white robes as they stormed and burned a village not long ago—they prostrated themselves at his horse's hooves, begging for forgiveness, but he had come for the slaughter.

He beheaded them, old and young alike, and robbed them of their possessions. Unfortunately, there was almost nothing of value in the village. In the end, he only managed to take a few pieces of clothing. As for the precious books, he didn't even glance at them before leaving them in the house, where they were consumed by the flames.

But for Ali, the splattered blood and countless cries of agony were the best reward he could receive—regardless of the commission the Sultan paid them. His strength and brutality caught the eye of a Kurdish captain, who brought him to his side and promised that if he could demonstrate more strength and courage in the subsequent siege of Arrassal, he would promote Ali, freeing him from slavery and making him a soldier of the Sultan.

Sultan's warrior, what a beautiful title! Although he was simple-minded, he had heard of how a humble little man could rise step by step to become an Emir or a Vizier through his own talents—the opportunity was now before him, making him feel hot all over and unable to sleep.

Or perhaps it was because he was able to sleep in a tent after becoming a follower of the Kurds, and the overly enclosed environment made him uncomfortable.

When he was a slave, he slept haphazardly in the wilderness with other Nubians who were also hired laborers.

Although dozens of people were crammed together in the tent, the feeling was completely different, as if something had been added and something had been lost. He quietly crawled out of the tent and looked at the dark night sky. This was against military law, but he still did it boldly, only he didn't go too far.

He hid in the shadows of the tent, his dark skin concealing the Nubian well. He told himself it would only be a moment, and looked toward the Sea of ​​Galilee (Lake Tiberias).

It was roughly the time before dawn; the moon had already set, and the stars had stopped twinkling. Compared to the lake when he fell asleep, the once bright eyes that reflected the sky had become a dark, gaping hole, as if capable of swallowing everything. Ali turned his head away in terror after just one glance.

Not only had the lake become terrifying, but the hills on the other side had also become unpredictable. When marching during the day, all they could see were yellowish-brown hills, not very high or steep, with little vegetation, only a few scattered olive trees or other shrubs of unknown species.

They were so close to the lake that only one road remained, which could only accommodate four carriages traveling side by side. It would be difficult to accommodate their army of nearly 20,000 men.

Their ranks were stretched out in long, narrow sections. If he were a falcon, able to fly through the sky and look down, he would see several distinct sections, from the humblest to the most noble, each tent separated by fences and guards.

His current location is quite a distance from not only Sudan, but also from the Kurdish leader's camp. He doesn't know how long it will take him to cover those few hundred feet.

The lucky Nubian took one last look at the hills, which suddenly seemed to grow taller in the dead of night. Ali even thought they were a group of sleeping giants—just like the legends in his tribe, who would rise up and pour down on their camp, burying them all, once the devil whipped them and drove them up.

Ali couldn't help but shake his head, trying to shake off this terrible thought, but as his head shook, he seemed to see a silvery light. Was it moonlight? Or perhaps the dawn that had arrived sometime earlier? He couldn't be sure, so he could only try his best to look in that direction. Before he knew it, he even stood up.

This action caught the attention of the patrolling soldiers, who were about to shout insults at him, prepare to arrest him, tie him to a stake outside the camp, and whip him in front of everyone the next day, expose him to the sun, and deprive him of food and water, so that everyone could see what would happen to those who broke the rules.

But when they followed his line of sight, it was as if Iblis (the Saracen devil) had robbed them of their ability to react and think. What did they see?
Firelight, flickering and dancing, rose atop the rolling hills, stretching to the left and to the right, its end invisible. Within the firelight, a holy white light flickered, leaped, and surged. They had seen this light many times on the battlefield; it represented God's blessing and the prophet's revelation, a power beyond mortals—even if their beliefs differed.

The patrol team leader almost screamed, but his past training kicked in, and he stuck his finger down his throat, silencing the scream in his swaddling clothes.

It was the cusp of night and dawn, and even the nocturnal animals had returned to their burrows to sleep—most of the people in the camp were fast asleep. Catching a fool loitering outside a tent wouldn't cause them much disturbance. But if someone screamed, warned, or even shouted for them to fight, it wouldn't achieve its purpose; instead, it would trigger panic.

He didn't shout, but he forgot about the black soldier standing blankly outside the tent who screamed, "The enemy! The enemy! The enemy is coming!"

In the dead of night, a scream pierced through dozens of tents like a horn, jolting everyone inside. They might not have understood the words, nor knew what was happening, but their first instinct was to grab their weapons. In this age of scarcity, how many people could actually see in the pitch-black darkness?

Unable to discern their surroundings, they could only rush out of the tents as quickly as possible to avoid dying in this soft grave. But even after rushing out, they were still surrounded by countless people. Who were they? Friends or enemies? Various languages ​​echoed through the camp, calling out to even more people. This situation was like a pebble thrown into a lake, creating ripples that spread in an instant.

Even if someone could see in the darkness or light torches, they couldn't control the situation. Death was relentlessly watching them from the tops of those hills that didn't seem particularly high during the day. In contrast to the Saracens' panic, the Crusaders were in high spirits. As night fell, they knelt and prayed toward the True Cross under the leadership of Baldwin IV, and the priests celebrated Mass for them.

Moreover, after the Mass, Baldwin IV generously took a fragment of the True Cross, crushed it into powder, poured it into a holy water cup, and gave everyone a sip. They immediately felt energetic, sharp-witted, and invincible. They showed no fear even when facing an attack on a position with tens of thousands of men.

Before the torches were lit, they had already knelt and prayed, and received the blessing of the saint. As if they knew what they were about to do, the light on the weapons of each knight was dim, even though the blessing they had originally received was not very strong.

As a Templar Knight stationed at Macabu Castle was intently observing the enemy's situation, he felt something gently brush against his shoulder. Looking down, he saw that he was covered in a layer of translucent chainmail, each chainring gleaming. He couldn't help but reach out and touch it, but his fingers passed right through them, as if they were just illusions.

Another Templar Knight beside him saw this and immediately tilted his spear and tapped it on the surface. To his surprise, it produced a metallic sound. "What is this?" he asked in astonishment.

This Templar Knight had previously climbed the city walls with Cesar and others during the expedition, so he certainly knew what it was.

“You’re quite lucky,” he grinned. “We’re not far from the king, so the ‘Little Saint’s’ protection also extends to you. You can think of it as a second layer of chainmail; arrows can’t penetrate it, and it can save your life from heavy hammers or axes. And it will last much longer than you think—at least until the war is over.”

But if it takes too many heavy blows, it will become dull or shatter, and then you'll have to rely on yourself.

The Templar Knights of Macab Castle were dumbfounded—not that they felt it wasn't enough, but rather that it was too much. Like the former Earl Etienne, when he distributed his shield to others, the duration it lasted was only enough for them to run towards him from a few hundred feet away, and it couldn't withstand more than a few attacks from a pack of wolves; the other knights fared much the same—and this power…

He instinctively looked around and saw that the soft white light was pouring down on at least a hundred knights. "God," he couldn't help but pray, "God is my witness, is this the power that humans can possess?"

of course not.

Grand Master Philip of the Knights Templar withdrew his gaze. When people saw Baldwin IV charging across the battlefield, invincible and unstoppable, they would naturally marvel at the St. George's Spear, which seemed to condense sunlight.

But for the knights, while lances could kill enemies, they couldn't kill every one. In battle, it was their shields and chainmail that saved their lives. They would naturally praise their king, Baldwin IV, as a truly valiant knight and be willing to obey his orders.

But as early as during the expedition, he discovered that whether it was the Templars, the Knights of the Holy Grail, or the Knights of the Good Hall, or even those outsiders, they were all more friendly towards Cesar and more willing to gather around him. This is human nature; people are certainly willing to follow a hero, but if possible, they would also like to become a hero themselves.

The biggest prerequisite for becoming a hero is not to die, especially before you have made enough achievements. As long as you are alive, you can still make a comeback even if you lose your armor, horse, and followers, as long as your courage is not destroyed. But if you lose your life, then you really have nothing left.

He could now understand Walter and Geoffroy, but time was running out for him. The young King Baldwin IV, seated on his horse, had already raised his lance, a bright banner that shone against the dark sky, a banner that even the firelight could not extinguish. They had all seen it.

"By the will of God!"

Baldwin IV shouted, his voice not loud, but remarkably penetrating. Everyone heard him, and then they echoed his cry, "God grants us glory!"

"For God, not for us!"

"Yarasaro!"

They spurred their horses, which initially moved slowly in small steps, then quickly turned into a full gallop. They went straight down the not-so-steep hillside, carrying billowing dust and powerful momentum, as if in an instant they had already rushed into the Saracen camp.

All they faced were rudimentary fortifications, rough fences, tents, and the people inside. Many were still half-asleep, while many more had previously been killing and trampling each other.

The first rank of knights, led by Baldwin IV and Cesar, were all chosen and deeply favored men. Their horses were covered in heavy armor, and their chainmail and weapons were shrouded in a deadly white light. These Saracen enemies tore the entire camp in two as easily as tearing a piece of rotten linen!

(End of this chapter)