Efthimios peered through his visor. The mystical Anatolian sun danced on the horizon, with hues of purple, red, and orange. It was a sun not seen in the west, and the land it graced was fought over viciously.
By order of the Basilius, their party was to stay alert for a marching Seljuk army. They had been warned by scouts three days past and had readied themselves in a night. They camped just outside of Nicaea, the first major city east of the Bosphorus.
He was a veteran of war, Efthimios was, and knew the sight and smell and feeling in the air well when the Turks came close.
First, you saw them at a distance, their deadly horse arches followed by more poorly trained infantry which could be easily crushed if fought man-to-man. They looked like ants on the horizon, an army of them; Just waiting to swarm up the leg of unsuspecting prey.
You could smell them, sometimes even thousands of cubits away. The stench of such a huge force, comprised of thousands of men who had marched hundreds of miles was enough to make an ordinary man run. It was the smell of disease, and sweat; of malnourishment and pure hate for those who would dare to try and civilize them. But the smell to come after the carnage would be far worse, near unbearable, and blood would run up to the knees.
The ground would vibrate with the gallop of hooves, a steady rhythm which signaled impending death by an arrow through the heart. The Seljuk Turks came from unknown and uncivilized parts of the world and they showed no mercy.
All of these signaled the coming of the Turks, and yet they were not feared by the Greeks. The army of the Basilius never lost. They had learned the ways of the Turks and adapted to their fighting style. The generals of Byzantium knew every trick, every tactic, and every sly move the barbarians had in their book, and used this knowledge to their advantage.
Grass blew in the wind. The yellow sky gradually got darker. Efthimios sniffed. What was that smell? He smelled the flowers, propping themselves up lackadaisically. He sniffed again. Sweat. He heard a call, scouts rode their horses up to the camp, shouting. The barbarians were coming. The scene around him gradually lost its beauty. The sky darkened at a faster rate. The breeze lightened. God himself was preparing the ground for the battle to come. Looking out again, he saw them. A wave of filth, crashing and rolling upon themselves like the waves of the Aegean. But unlike the sea, this was no beauty.
The Byzantines lined up. A hail of arrows descended on them, killing few of the heavily armored Romans. Predictable Efthimios thought. The barrage continued to little effect for several minutes. His eyes drooped. Others around him began to relax as the amount of arrows hitting them gradually decreased. Here comes the horde. And there it was, rushing towards them with no sense of order or thought. Now begins the slaughter. Then, suddenly, out from the hills to either side of the Greek army poured more Turks, many mounted. Shouts of new orders rang out from the officers, but they were too late. The Seljuks descended upon them like rabid dogs.
Efthimios started cutting, dozens of the Turks fell under his blade, but there were too many. All around him, everywhere, his friends and kinsman fell to the overwhelming odds and tactical advantage. After finishing a particularly loud one, no doubt shouting obscenities in the guttural language, Efthimios turned around. He was fast enough to see a cudgel coming down on his head, but not fast enough to react. The world flickered, as if the candle of God was blown out. Suddenly, the candle was relit, he saw himself, laying there, blood sticky on his brow. His view widened, the full carnage of the battle was now visible. Others rose from their bodies as well, ghosts of their former selves. A look of sadness spread uniform among them all as they watched their kin be slain. Young men with children and wives at home, never to return. The spirits hovered there, suspended in time, surveying the doomed battle. Their numbers swelled, then, without warning, it was over.
He felt a pulsating wind, and raised his gaze towards the sky above. What he saw then was not the sky he knew, but an endless dome, culminating at a gate, swung open to its full extent. He saw the source of the wind; what looked like glorious icons descended upon he and his comrades. It was as if the iconostasis of heaven was gracing them with its presence to lead them into the heavens. As Efthimios' eyes focused, he saw that the beings coming down were not icons, but Angels, Saints, and the family members of those now dead. It dawned on him, where was his family? Where were they to lead him into the glorious above? He began looking around frantically for his father, a priest in life. He was nowhere to be seen. He looked to the dome again, and there he was, standing there, not coming to lead him into paradise. A horrified look spread across Efthimios' face. Where was he going? God forbid it be... A sense of relief washed over him as an angel hovered down to him. It moved its mouth, yet no sound was emitted. A whisper spoke to him in his head. "Now is not your time." The angel pointed to his body, still laying on the ground. A Turks was searching it, most likely for valuables. Finding none, he moved his hands to Efthimios' throat, seemed to have felt a pulse, and threw his body onto a cart that was rolling among the dead. "Go." Darkness enveloped him.
[H.F.] The Sun of Anatolia
Originally Posted by Dan the Man
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) it's really good so far, I look forward to reading more of it!
Uh, well they don't call me that at all, but still! A man can but hope.
Your descriptions of the surrounding landscape are thus-far rudimentary, but very good for their level. Now, all you must do is remember that it's visor, NOT VIZOR! 
You crazy Americans and your "z"s! 
