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Thread: [AAR] M2TW Kingdoms: "Crenellations": A Tragical Chronicle

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    Default [AAR] M2TW Kingdoms: "Crenellations": A Tragical Chronicle



    Author: Monarchist
    Original Thread: [SS AAR] "Crenellations": A Tragical Chronicle (for those with strong stomachs).

    [AAR] "Crenellations": A Tragical Chronicle


    (This AAR is a chronicle of a set of epic and tragic events which took place under my direction while playing Stainless Steel 6.1, attached Lord Calidor's beautiful and brilliant Knights Templar mini-mod.)

    Note: A Question of Attribution.

    Every one of the pictures, drawings, etchings, paintings, and photographs used in this A.A.R. are taken directly from a set of history books published by Osprey Publishing Inc.

    The majority of these pictures are taken from the second book on the Knights Hospitaller (2) (1306-1565)
    , though others are taken from a book simply called The Jannissaries, published under the Osprey "Elite" Series, copyright 1995.

    These books, as well as everything else published by Osprey, are of great interest and use to the historically inclined! Please buy them.


    ----

    "Crenellations"


    A Studied History of Hugo von Augsburg,
    Knight of the Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of St. John of Jerusalem, of Rhodes and of Damascus,
    and His miraculous Deliverance from the Turks in Outremer.


    "On
    the old crenellations,
    b
    y His Sacred might,
    We obferve'd a hundred nations
    Sent to open flight!"


    Introit - Introductory Appendage and Explanation upon the First Part.


    Prologue on the Creation of the Name under which Our present Hero, Hugo von Augsburg, lived his Fantastical and Tragical life.

    The events described herein comprise a Chronicle which remembers a Human Domain whose History was uniform to and parallel with Our own up to the Year of Our Lord CMLV. Within this Sacred Year was fought the Siege of Augsburg and subsequent Battle on the Lechfeld in the southern Frankish lands. Emerging from the rubble of the crumbled Walls, assembled Tents, and slaughtered Magyars was a Certain Triumphant Noble Man whose name is lost to Our common Histories. It was upon this Achievement of Glorious Victory over the eastern heathens, Who had come in Great Hosts to raid Our Lands, that His Eminent Majesty Otto I (der Größe) gave leave to this Certain Noble Man to append to His name a distinction which was the name of the city he had saved.

    As Blue Skies banished miasmic Smoke and Rain from the shattered Crenellations and broken Battlements of the held Citadel, a great Cry was heard to arise from a Thousand Lungs: "Es ist vollbracht!" -"It is consummated; it is finished!" As had not been seen in many a Day, the great Gates at Augsburg, nearly ruined for one Fortnight, were once more raised in jubilation to the herald of Joyous Horns at this miraculous Deliverance. The Fetid and Evil Bulcsú, the Shamed Lél, and the Cowardly Súr, those leaders of the vile Magyars, were observed to flee. Not one Man was deceived; for, with the addition of a New Duke and Hero, who was called von Augsburg, there had been Nothing less than Holy Triumph upon Our Crenellations.

    -

    An Index is Contained within Thif Bracket to Aid the Belov'd Reader in Seeking Partes.
    Each Parte is presented in Partitions consisting of Articles, and Thif Chronicle is given in Three Partes to mirror Our Lord.

    Introit: Post #1, This Post

    First Parte: On the Life of the Hero in the 20th year of His Existence.
    First Article Of The First Part: Post #2, Page I
    Interjection upon the First Parte (Interjectio Primum Pares): Post #3, Page I
    Resumption and Conclusion of the First Parte: Post #6, Page I
    Epilogue and Addendum to the First Parte: Post #7, Page I

    Second Parte: On the Confusion at The Gates
    First Article Of The Second Parte: Post #8, Page I
    Continuation of the First Article of the Second Parte: Post #22, Page II
    Second Article of the Second Parte: Post #23, Page II
    Epilogue and Addendum to the Second Parte: Post #24, Page II

    Intermezzo - Night Scene: Post #26, Page II

    Third Parte: On the Siege of Damascus
    First Article Of The Third Parte: Post #30, Page II
    Interjection upon the Third Parte: Forthcoming
    Resumption and Conclusion of the Third Parte: Forthcoming
    Epilogue and Addendum to the Third Parte: Forthcoming

    Exeunt

    -

    Thomas Hofpitalier, writer of thif Chronicle,
    Completed, by the Grace of God,
    Upon the Fifth and Twentieth Day of the Month called Auguft,
    Anno Domini MDXXXIX


    First Article Of The First Parte - On the Life of the Hero in the 20th year of His existence.



    Hugo von Augsburg surveyed the desolate lands from atop his beloved horse. Gartner had been uncharacteristically jittery and disturbed the last hour, and he was no roundsey or palfrey, nor was he of the disfavored Arabian breed. It was an oppressively warm day east of the Anti-Lebanon mountains, but nothing so ordinary should have worried a good German charger such as Gartner. As much of an irritation this skittishness was to Hugo, the knight had to admit that a deceptive silence and heavy miasma seemed to have descended on the main road leading out of Damascus. While reflecting upon this fact, he raised his visor'd head toward the sun. "Aren't the merchants usually setting up their stalls by now? That guard I spoke to before donning my surcoat mentioned no special curfew." he thought to himself, as he was wont to do. "He should have told me to leave my walking staff if there was anything special to keep me from enjoying the rural areas. I shall have to chastise him when I return."

    Hugo tried to look about himself for signs of the cause of this inactivity, but the fact that he was horsed somewhat constrained this attempt. Managing to slip himself off of Gartner in his clumsy armor, - the type recently dubbed "Maximilian's Armor" by enterprising Milanese smiths after their "beloved" Podestà - he slammed his feet down on to the packed dirt and sunken bricks that was the road to the mountains and the cool, inviting coastal cities beyond. Having unhorsed, he was now facing north, the gate of Damascus about one hundred paces to his right flank. The forbidding mountains sprawled up far away to his left, rather like the walls of the city he was occupying.

    As he stood facing poor Gartner, Hugo looked beyond his saddle to observe a few peasants leaving their huts and setting up carpet on the small courtyard they had laid for themselves under the massive shadow of the walls, several hundred yards away. "Blasted Mohammadans, always setting up those same carpets like the mindless dead...." he whispered to himself, but upon further thought chuckled and, under his lonely breath, admitted that "at least one can always tell which direction one is headed by watching them."

    Beyond the idle joke he allowed himself, the knight still felt rather uneasy in this air of silence. He could see the predictably idle gate guards leaning against the wall, one of them patting his stomach in anxiety over the rations imposed by Hugo's commanders, while the other had dozed off on a small bench.

    The sounds of the great city were a mere quarter-mile to his right, church bells mixing with calls to prayer in sonorous and eerie beauty. Coptic bells which echoed from the city signaled that the Office of Terce had been reached, forcing Hugo to recall that he had been awake since Lauds Bell... or was it Matins? He was too focused on the dead air and silence to remember precisely which office had caused him to prematurely awaken. His irritable mood was not helped by the fact that the poor Duke was forced to put on full plate armor, as well as barding for Gartner, to go for his daily trot through the foothills, thanks to recent Turkish activity.

    "All I wanted was to have this morning for my walk, Lord, and you send those rotten Turkish raiders to the area, forcing me to put this blasted armor on every damned morning!" he jokingly mocked to the sky, before realizing his blasphemy. Looking down in embarrassment, he pinched his thumb and first finger together, apologetically crossing himself along the symbol made by his patterned surcoat: Gules a cross Argent.

    "Forgive me, Lord. You alone know my temper."

    As if responding, on cue, to this blasphemy, a great thundering noise was perceived by Hugo; he looked toward the city gates for a sign of some royal procession, seeing nothing. The northern farm at the walls and the southern wastes yielded no image to account for this noise. Hugo stood in place, stumped by this. "Thunder? Strange... not one cloud is in the blue sky, and I can't remember the last time there was rain in this area." Every second which passed yielded an increase in the volume of the noise, and, gradually, he became aware that the noise was emanating from the Anti-Lebanons. Puzzled, he turned his gaze west to the mountains and faced the foothills, with their dead and twisted trees. In caution, Hugo quickly walked the few paces back to Gartner, who had become even more agitated, and mounted the beast. Though he uttered a quick prayer that they be not so, his fears were justified within moments of becoming horsed once more: a green banner appeared, proud and high, in the foothills about one mile from the city.

    "What tribulation is this?" he asked in hushed breath. "What approaches had better not be what I think it is... we haven't even readied the citadel ye-" he was cut off by his own recognition, through his visor, (which he had forgotten to raise, in his tension) of a glorious golden symbol on the green banner which now flapped steadily in place on the cliffs beyond Damascus. Hugo remembered his folly and quickly lifted the visor of his bascinet for a better view, squinting in the mid-morning light. His clean-shaven Frankish face and unusually short hair combined with stark, misty-blue eyes cut a countenance that immediately explained the sharp faculties in this mere boy of 20. He caught a perfect view, owing to his excellent oculus, of something which struck anticipatory fear into his heart.

    "Vert a Crescent and Estoile Or... Turks."

    Upon uttering this aloud, the great thunder began again, and Hugo perceived that the banner atop the cliffs was joined by an increasing host of men. This was no diplomatic party. The shining halberds, bustling arquebuses, and now-audible clash of shields were evidence that the Turks wanted their Umayyad Mosque back; they wanted it back now.

    Dropping his visor down like a madman, he quickly tagged on Gartner's reins and the horse jumped arears in fright and agitation before making a mad dash back to the undefended gate. As Hugo approached the gate, he yelled out to the hungry guardsman "Turks on the Horizon! Call the levies to arms and open the arbalestry!", then went at a full gallop through the gates. This outburst, combined with the now obvious shouts from the distant but approaching Turks and the hooves of Gartner, shocked the sleeping guardsman into wakefulness. The two frightened guards picked up their pikes and made off into the gatehouse, raising hue and cry so vigorous as if to make the townspeople think a murder had taken place.

    The man uttered a breathless "Whoa!" to Gartner who, though still panicked from the smell of Turkish camels in the air, stopped obligingly. Within a minute Hugo was unhorsed once more, running across the small town square and up the wooden stairwell of the gatehouse, while ripping his bascinet off as quickly as possible. The floorboards of the old stairwell seemed to creak and thud ominously on his desparate way up, and Hugo shivered as he ascended, being well-reminded of the sound of Turkish cannon in these steps. The knight was presently atop the walls, yelling at the stunned Syrian levies to run to the unfinished citadel and find Grand Master's council to warn them.

    As the men scattered down the same stairwell, Hugo uttered a short curse, this time left naked in the air and not apologized for by a cross of the chest. As the sound of war drums ceased in the now halted Turkish force, he took a sharp breath and practiced his coup d'oeil, learned after his recent experience as warrior. "At least twelve hundred..." he muttered, nearly crazed with anxiousness at this recent and abrupt seizure of his senses. A lone sergeant at arms, with full beard and at least of five and forty years of age, came running up to the deserted stone walls just as Hugo was fastening his bascinet back in place.

    "Master, what is the noise and ruckus abo-" the man said between breaths, being stopped by Hugo's open palm, whose outstretched right arm now directed the sergeant's gaze upon the flat sands beyond the walls. The sergeant's mouth dropped in terror, and he wordlessly ran to the stairwell, knowing that he would have to attend to his own section of wall.

    As the church bells of Damascus began to ring out and the call to prayer abruptly stopped across the neighbourhoods, alleyways, and streets, followed by the anguished cries of a city in terror, Hugo sighed and a faint smile crossed his face. Looking upon the faceless Turkish force, then up into the endless sapphire Heavens, he said, calmly, "Was it really so bad to curse?"

    Miraculously, God seemed to answer, but not in words that Hugo understood.

    The Turks opened fire.

    Interjection Upon the First Parte

    It was now upon Our present Hero to make a choice at once Singular and yet Common to all men of war and conquest. The Turks who had found their Holy Mosque Desecrated a mere four Years earlier would Certainly Not aim their demonic Firings upon the Inner Sanctum, as Unfinished as it was. For beyond this small Hill and inner Gate was the Old Citadel, called by those in Remembrance, "Saladin's Citadel". For those Readers of this Tragical Chronicle, a few words must be Heeded in caution, and Ignorances dispelled.

    Upon the First Parte was a name called Maximilian, Dictator of Milan. Within the Time Frame of the Reader's world, who, no doubt enters my mind, is unfamiliar with the Man in this function, it will be Helpful to call this Man "Maximilian the First, Roman Emperor". This is the Title to which men of the Reader's Time would be most Congenial, and the Title to which He adhered in his Earthly reign upon the Proper Time. The Holy Emperor Maximilian was known to have ruled from the Years of Our Lord 1508-1519, though in This Time the Man is a mere Dictator of Milan, and his reign has extended, Due Most Likely to a decrease in Stress and a Prolonged Existence, from A.D. 1504-1528.

    Upon This Interjection, a man called Saladin was given form. The Readers of the Present Time should not be familiar with Saladin, for in His Life he was a mere Sultan of a petty state. Having Conquered Damascus sometime in the Murkey 12th Century of Our Lord, he Erected South of the Umayyad Mosque a Great Citadel in the Greek Style, to his Honor. The Men of the Crusad's found this to be most Peculiar and Striking, for a mere Sultan does not Construct so Lofty an Achievement unless he has Conquest in mind. Thankfully, and Praise Be to God, Saladin was killed by a Sect of his Own Religion upon Anno Domini 1176, when in siege of the Now-Ruined citadel of Aleppo. Upon the Reader's Time, there is no doubt that the name has become Well-Known and Well-Beloved amongst the Eastern Religion.

    To make a Pointe lost upon some of those more Secular of this Civil Society, there must be dispelled the Ignorance of Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline. In This Order are the names of the Offices of Liturgical Hours about which the Coptics of the Eastern Benedictines arrange Their days. In the Present Time, with the Bizarre and Singular invention called "Clock" having originated from Germany, These Offices of the Hours may be divided into Proper Offices.

    Vespers is the Bell which sounds upon the Conclusion of a Day, most-oft called "Evening".
    Compline is the Bell which sounds upon the Retirement to Cots, Beds, and Sleeping arrangements.
    Matins is the Bell which sounds, with variations, upon the hour called 12 ante meridiem
    Lauds is the Bell which sounds upon the hour called 4 or 5 ante meridiem, Dependent upon the Sun's Rise
    Prime is the Bell which sounds upon the hour called 6 ante meridiem, known to us as Early Morning
    Terce is the Bell which sounds upon the hour called 9 ante meridiem, Known to us as Mid-Morning
    Sext is the Bell which sounds upon the hour called 12 post meridiem, known to us as Mid-Day
    None is the Final Bell, which sounds upon the hour called 3 post meridiem, known to us as Mid-Aft

    The Liturgy of the Hours is thus repeated, beginning at Vespers, upon the conclusion of a Day and the movement of Time into that period called "Evening". Each Office brings Holy Consecration upon those who Hear its divine words, inspired for one Solemn millenium after Benedict of Nursia.

    One Final -Doubtlessly Forgiven by the Reader - explanation upon Thif Chronicle is that of Our modern Armorments. It is a custom amongst the Great and Noble of our Civil Society to ride into battle upon short and stout Chargers; the present Hero called Hugo von Augsburg, of that great Dukedom in Germany, had a charger called Gartner. Upon his Destrier was put Bardings of Steel and of Iron, created in the workshops of the finest Master Armorsmiths north of Milano, so as to Cover the Entirety of the beast. Most prized amongst Master von Augsburg's horse-bardings was a creat Chamfron, the Spike'd and violent armor which covered the Fore-Head of his Horse. Beyond this magnificent and gregarious creature, the Armorments of the Duke Himself should be Considered.

    Within the Posesfion of the Duke of Augsburg was a great set of Armor, here described in Brief Detail. On the very soles of his Feet sat the finest leather riding boots, made in such a Fashion as to elicit pleasure and comfort, whilst Tucking Quite well into his armor. Above the boots came those peculiar inventions called Greaves, in Antiquity covering the front of both Legs from Kneecap to Ankle. In Present Times, responsive to Pike and fhot Technology, Greaves have become inclusive, and now wrap around the back of the calf-muscles as well as the front of each Leg, creating a Defensive whole. Above each Greave was historically a Poleyn, or Kneecap-Covering, for protection against such Gruesome thrusting attacks that were Common in Europe. In the case of the Duke, the poleyns on each Knee had been replaced by a rotating knee-iron which attached to the Greaves and extended up to the Unmentionable Partes.

    Above the Unmentionable Partes, which were Gracefully covered by a pure steel Code-piece, sat the prized possession of Herr von Augsburg: a Perfected, Fluted, and Crafted Cuirass of Milanese Quality. The area which comprised the Chest of this Singular cuirass was surmounted by a small, apron-like surcoat, painted a Bright and Brilliant Gules, or, in Modern Parlance, Red. Upon this red coat was a Stark White Cross, formed in the Greek style, which announced that the wearer was a member of the Knights Hofpitalier, so renowned for their Battlefield Medicines, Defense of The Faith, and their Discipline. Steel Gauntlets of a Common Variety were attached to the Fore-arms and Handes, above which sat the usual Spaulders protecting the Upper Arm, and Pauldrons keeping Shoulders safe. Atop the head sat a perfectly shaped Bascinet in the now-popular English Style of Armet, forming a Great and Noble figure atop barde'd horse.

    Thus Concludes the Interjectio Primum Pares.

    Resumption and Conclusion of the First Parte

    Morning near the Umayyad Mosque.

    Muffled voices sounded in dull tones from behind the thick, six-foot-high wooden door leading to the chambers of the Hospitaller Grand Master. The dark and lonely corridor which hosted this door seemed to be filled with a leaden air, a sensation that was not helped by the horrid smell of the eight charcoal torches fixed to each wall. A small, bluish-red carpet ran along the length of this corridor, from the waiting area to the water closet at the far end. The low ceiling allowed no room for windows, though the shining light of a late morning sun pierced through the old front door a few paces down the hall. One solitary horse cart passed in the street, sending small specs of dust flowing into the badly-lit corridor from the reception area. An old painting from the Order of St. John's early days sat comfortably on the dark wall beside the door.

    The muffled voices halted a moment, as if the speakers realized someone had been waiting at the door for several minutes. "Come in!" intoned an irritable and frustrated voice from behind the grand door.

    Henry of Buckingham, having recently inherited his father's rank of Viscount, jumped at the welcome, if sudden, reply to his initially unheeded knock. In the small, dank corridor, he adjusted his gold-embroidered tunic belt and sharply pushed his shoulder-length Norman hair to a more presentable position behind his young ears. A pair of mist-filled gray eyes, mixed with a characteristically pointed Norman nose, gave a dashing appearance to the youth. As he slowly swung open the heavy door, Henry thought absently to himself. "One and twenty years in this world and I'm already here at the best fortress of the Levantines! I can't wait to meet the Gra-" His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the image of the Grand Master of the Order of St. John rising from his solid oak desk, pointing an accusing figure at someone out of Henry's view.

    "-nd just what do you believe you're doing? Your family may have been working to clean up the mess that was the Massif Central over the past few years, but we're not dealing with a horde of peasants in the Levant! You can't bandy about like some after-hours trollop looking for fights in the streets. I'm sick of the Order of the Temple and your knights' refusal to be more cautious!" came the annoyed voice of a particularly dour and sardonic Englishman. Henry opened the door to a greater angle, but quietly, so as to view the object of the Grand Master's scorn without interrupting this conversation.

    The Grand Master seemed just as wise and noble as any description of him had been. Despite his irked countenance, Jean Parnot de Paris, Duc d'Orléans, elected Grand Master a few years before, wore upon his wizened features a gentleman's appearance. At eight-and-forty years of age, his neatly-trimmed, black-gray beard formed, with his mustache, an oval about his lips. Dark blue eyes denoted a certain long-suffering manner in his soul, but one that had left him strong in character and upright in morality. All of these features were easily observed in the few seconds which Henry had before the door was opened fully to reveal the man receiving the Grand Master's harsh words. It was none other than a second Grand Master.

    Philip de Clermont was well known to Henry as a pugnacious and altogether rather arrogant man, though of great prowess in the eternal dance of sword, mace, and lance which so plagued the Levant. The Duke of Clermont was either eight-and-twenty or nine-and-twenty, but the gossipers of the Court were not sure. The feature about this man which most melted ladies of the palace and disarmed men of the guard was, undoubtedly, the viper-green eyes which seemed to pierce the entire room. Philip de Clermont, Duc de Clermont, seemed to exude a masculine aura which outshone all others - perhaps a tad too brightly.

    The Duke of Clermont sighed. "I do not recall the date upon which the Order of the Hospital forced the Knights of Solomon's Temple to be subordinate to your offices, Jean." This use of the Hospitalier's first name greatly irked the man, though he allowed the Templar to continue. "Heh... your office and order is just a batch of nuns and doctors! The Levantine State is ours to hold; Honorious the fifth gave us his leave to do so by all means. Don't be so ridiculous and cautious... or perhaps you're one of the nuns?" At this comment, the Hospitaller burst out in anger.

    "You speak of nuns as if you had not violated a Holy Sister just last month. Oh, yes; we're not called the Sovereign Military Hospitallers for nothing. My own state informants watch even our ridiculous allies, who pretend to work hand in hand with us in pursuit of His Holiness' will, then go out to take the chastity of our sisters!" Philip de Clermont had a good laugh at this remembrance of his past deeds. "Laugh all you wish, Knight of Solomon; you call us mere nuns and doctors, but your cavalry charges are not anything to be admired." Upon this quite shocking and rude retort, the Grand Master of the Templars shot forward a look of what appeared to be intense hatred for the Hospitaller.

    "YOU speak ill of our charges? If I recall correctly, good Master, it was your own Marshal who got himself killed in that half-caring attempt on the Mohammadans during the flight from Kerak! At least the Knights of the Temple have the zeal and conviction to run up against the offensive and brutish enemy. We're always at the vanward of the supply trains, leading the charge while you lag behind with the rearward guard. I cannot count on my fingers how many times we've gone forward in triumph on a march, only to look back and see your knight-brethren cautiously sitting back with the infantry!" Philip sighed in dramatic irritation, smiling his crooked little smile, then said "At least this is proof that you have spent too much time in the infirmary... ridiculous doctors and bedside nurses, the lot of you" in great contempt.

    Henry had merely stood in the entrance arch of the wooden door for the past few minutes, having kept his head down. The thickset and now completely open door was making no noise, as he had assumed these attentive men would notice a Hospitaller Marshal standing there! Gathering up his courage to interrupt this conversation was not easy, as he was a mere viscount, after all, and these political matters felt above him. His growing unease had not dashed his hope to get a word in edgewise; however, his hopes were in vain, as the Grand Master of the Hospitallers quickly reacted in vitriolic and sarcastic response to the Templar's accusations of excessive caution.

    "You speak of glorious charges and a full trot up to the enemy, but you entirely lack your wits on the charge. Where is the mind that the Lord bestowed upon you? All the horse bardings, chamfrons, and elegance of your breastplates cannot replace the strongest shield of all. Boast about your plate armor; I have the shield of the Lord's humility and the lance of His conviction." The Templar looked momentarily shocked by this accusation of faithlessness, but quickly recovered and gave a dismissive glance toward the window behind the Hospitaller's desk. An awkward silence ensued.

    Henry could not, for his entire soul, understand the animosity between these two lions of the noblest character. One moment they may violently argue about sound tactics, overall strategy, and whether to seek a truce with this Lord or that Sultan in the most rude and hateful way. However, one moment later they will be patting each other on the back and taking their knights for joyous rides in the desert amidst laughter and gaiety! Perhaps this was a conflict above a mere viscount, but Henry was the Marshal of the Hospitallers, and thus commander of the entire Hospitaller army whilst the Grand Master administrated and acted as diplomat. The current Grand Master seemed to be doing a rather poor job of the latter in regards to his brothers at the Templar Order, leading Henry to greater irritation, until the Templar spoke out once more.

    "You will never lose your perceived cowardly status amongst my men. Perhaps you need some re-wo-". A rather angry cough sounded out in the small office, a reminder that more than ten minutes had passed since the Grand Master of the Hospitallers had said "come in" to an unknown arrival. Ripping his eyes away from the piercing light green stare of the Templar, the Hospitaller immediately softened his visage into a tired smile when he saw Henry. "Oh, Marshal. I do apologize. What was it you wanted?"

    "Excuse me, Master. I wished to inform you of the fact that my personal scouting party had arrived back in Damascus. We have been out since Lauds, and I believe that it is just now reaching Terce Bell." This fact was revealed by the tolling of Terce a few moments after the Marshal had made his guess. "There is a matter of gre-"

    "Well, then... perhaps you had better retire to your chambers and remove that clumsy armor. I know that it is an annoyance to have to put that on each day for mere scouting, but the Turkish raids have increased lately." the Grand Master interrupted, dismissively. He began again by announcing "We were just discussing affairs which are of an import that could not be appreciated by a viscount. Two dukes of our stature have a certai-", but now it was the Grand Master's turn to be interjected upon.

    "Pardon, Master, but I believe that the affair of an approaching Turkish force numbered one thousand and five hundred men is of great concern to not only a viscount," and, as he said this, the eyes of the Grand Master slowly widened, "but of all men from the Prince of Damascus to the Barons and Knights of the Land!" There was a second awkward silence that fell upon the damp room, which felt cold despite an unusually heated morning sun. "W...what?!" came the stuttered and shocked reply of the Hospitaller Master. The man leaned on his desk, taken completely by surprise.

    The mist-filled green eyes of Philip de Clermont suddenly shone with a demonic intensity common to the Knights of the Temple of Solomon. A cruel and yet lighthearted grin appeared to grow on the man's face until his conspicuously white teeth were visible. "So, I suppose we'll be able to have a glorious charge after all!" As he said this, the Templar Grand Master bounded over the Hospitaller's oak desk and made a dash past Henry, his greave'd footsteps upon the dark red carpet growing faint as he disappeared into the street beyond. The Grand Master of the Hospitallers didn't even have a chance to call out a warning for caution. Out of an inability to speak, he turned to the window behind his desk and practically ripped the shutters off in clamoring to get a better view of Long Street.

    Just as the Master had opened his shutters, he caught a glimpse of a poor woman bringing a jug of water to the square in front of the Mosque. She was suddenly approached by a man who flailed his arms in fear, yelling something generally to the street. The jug-carrier abruptly dropped her jug in terror, covered her mouth, and ran back down Long Street, presumably to her children. At the same moment, shop keepers who heard the herald's cry began shutting their stalls up in fear and with anxious speed. Shortly thereafter, general chaos erupted in the street and courtyard in front of the Mosque.

    Having partially recovered from his momentary and unbecoming loss for words, the Hospitaller Master turned from the window and desparately shot out a question at the Marshal. "Why in God's Name didn't you tell me this immediately?" A slightly quizzical and bemused look appeared on Henry's face, reminding the Grand Master of his folly in arguing with a fellow knight of the Cross. "Well, never mind that nonsense... how many leagues away did this army appear to be, Mar-"

    The poor Master was interrupted a third time, but on this occasion it was no interjection by another man which stopped him mid-sentence. A loud, rolling sound came from the distance, as if a thousand drummers were beating a march upon the distant desert sands, and a sudden crash shook the entire Priory building. The Grand Master held up his black habit in order to run back to his window, this time joined by the Marshal. They peered in horror at the scene. A great tower in the Lower City had just been split in half by a massive Turkish cannon ball, the smoke from that shot visible in the foothills beyond the aptly-named Turkish Gate.

    "Blast it! Blast it! Henry," the Grand Master unusually used the first name of his Marshal, "get out into the streets and raise the hue and cry if it hasn't already been raised in every neighbourhood. If you can, get to the arbalestry and tell the keepers to open up the warehouse. Get the Swiss company out of bed, too! Go!" Henry quickly bowed, hand on heart, in a manner characteristic to his personality.

    The Grand Master, now alone in his office, turned back to observe the watch tower crumble down on to Fisher Street and the market square. Shakily crossing himself, he stopped and whispered to himself "Ah... what am I becoming, a worrisome old widow?" He reflected to himself for a moment as cannon balls began to rain down upon the city. After a moment, a small and victorious smile began to cross his face, and he laughed to spite himself. Throwing off his habit, he dashed to his small cupboard and pulled out a newly-made rapier, moved to the other end of the office in haste to collect his surcoat, and dashed out of the room with a triumphant "Hah!" of great vigor.

    As the door slammed behind the Grand Master of the Order of St. John, the sudden draft created by quick movement sent a small piece of paper flying up into the air. It was evidently well-used and oft-consulted, being torn and crumpled in several places, but it somehow survived the journey through the air to be sucked out of the open windows. The little map of Damascus and its new fortifications drifted down to the empty and quiet street below.



    As shot and cannon echoed into a quiet city, the office was empty as the final coffin on the Last Day.

    Thus Concludes the First Parte.

    Epilogue and Addendum to the First Parte

    Readers of Thif Chronicle may now be asking a question of history.

    As was Emphasized in the introit to the First Parte, the Common History of this world was set apart from that of the Earth which the Reader may know. Whether by some Act of God or a mingling of the Cosmos, He hath come upon Thif Chronicle and come to know its events, Despite being of an Age and Place far removed from them. Perhaps such Things are the Grace of the Lord, or mere Happenstance.

    Upon This World was made a change in the Time-Frame upon the aforementioned A.D. CMLV (955), but the Major Shift came about in A.D. MCCXCI (1291). It was upon this Date that the siege of a certain Port in the Holy Land, most Revered and well-used by the Franks, came about. Though Saladin was Killed long before he could make a vile March upon Jerusalem, it was left to treacherous Mameluk successors to take up the Conquest. Curiously, by the Time which A.D. MCCXCI was arrived at, the Port of Acre was the last Stronghold of Our victorious Crusad'ing Men, just as A.D. MCCXCI in the Reader's time was the year of Acre's Besiegement and Capture. One small event changed the True Course of History, nevertheless.

    It was upon the Morning of the Eighteenth Day of the Fifth Month, A.D. MCCXCI, that the Ancestors of Our present Heroes were present behind the Crenellations of Acre. The houses of Augsburg, Clermont, and Buckingham - the latter of which was made a viscountcy on the Later Date of A.D. MCDXI (1411) - were all present upon this siege, and their Common Presence changed Our Course. This Sacred Day revealed a part of the Lord's Plan for the Latins; it was upon that Day, called the 18th Day of May, that the Cruel and Terrible Mameluk Sultan, who was called Al-Ashraf Khalil, made an ill-considered assault upon Our walls at Acre. The man was killed upon his Own siege ladders, falling to the ground below. This abrupt catastrophe so shocked the dead Sultan's Lieutenant that he was driven to flee in Cowardice, which caused such a great panic amongst the attacking Egyptians that the entire Assault was broken. The Crusaders abandoned their plan to evacuate via the Port of Acre and made a Glorious Charge down the broken walls of St. Anthony's Gate upon that City's walls, chasing the offending Mameluk Army away from their Own siege camp.

    The Mameluk Lieutenant was henceforth not observed to appear, though if He had re-appeared with His Army the Crusaders were ready to hold their Walls unto the end. Capture of the Mameluk supplies in that Aforementioned siege camp was a great bolster to the Latins. No renewed Attack was mounted, and Acre was held. It was upon these very walls that an ancestor of Philip de Clermont, Duc de Clermont, fought; the Ancestor was called Guillaume de Beaujeu, Grand Master of the Poor Knights of Christ of the Temple of Solomon. Within the Reader's time, this great and noble figure was killed upon the walls of Acre, Though within the Present Time, de Beaujeu lived on in victory and charged down to the fleeing Mameluks on that Fateful Hour. Thanks to this golden victory in His Sacred Name, the Crusaders broke several Encirclements by Mameluks upon Latin territory. The Franks pushed Onward, and by A.D. MCCCIX (1309) had Taken Back the Great Fortress Head-Quarters of the Knights of the Hospital, called Krak des Chevaliers, once fallen in A.D. MCCLXXI (1271) to the Wretched Sultan called Baibars.

    Upon the fall of Mameluk hegemony in Galilee, it was many decades before the combined Mongol-Mameluk forces, though not Allied with one another against the Latins, to be destroyed in Syria by the Latins. Between A.D. MCCCLXII (1362) and A.D. MDXXI (1521), it was taken upon by the Franks to Attack and Attack until the Mameluks had lost all of Syria North of Jaffa and South of Antioch. Upon the Most Holy and Revered A.D. MDXXVI (1526), Jerusalem, Holy of Holies, was re-taken after fifty-and-two-hundred years by Way of Constant, Ceaseless raids and charges by the Latins against the Mameluks. Our present Day has seen Yerushalayim held since that Illustrious Date, thirteen years prior to the Writing of Thif Chronicle.

    One Note-Final must be made upon Thif Chronicle. The Hofpitalier Order was called "St. John of Jerusalem, of Rhodes, and of Damafcus" upon an earlier point within Our Chronicle. Readers of the Proper Time should rightly be confused by this, as the Knights Hofpitalier became "of Jerusalem, of Rhodes, and of Malta". However, the Great Siege at Acre and Subsequent Victory allowed the Hospitallers to re-take their old Head-Quarters at the Krak des Chevaliers, as was previously described. Rhodes became the Head-Quarters of the newly-founded Priory of Anatolia to minister to the poor Heathens and the Unwashed, and Damascus became Head-Quarters of the Syrian Priory. Hofpitalier Knights are divided into three sections: Brother-Knights, Brother-Sergeants, and the Clergy. Our distinctive Civil Robes to be worn in times of Peace are of a Black color for the Clergy, surmounted by the Illustrious Eight-Pointed Cross, and of a Red color for the Brother-Knights and Brother-Sergeants, surmounted by a Four-Point Cross. His Holiness has given Our Order leave to wear these embroideries as a Symbol of our Uniform and Disciplined Habits.

    It was now upon Our present Heroes of Damascus to join together on the Crenellated ramparts, and to stand behind Hugo von Augsburg as their forefathers had stood at Acre. A Great and Horrible siege lay in the Making.

    Conclusion of the Epilogue and Addendum to the First Parte, and Conclusion Proper of the First Parte.

    First Article Of The Second Parte - On the Confusion at The Gates.

    By the time Grand Master d'Orléans turned the corner from the dank and lifeless entry-way of the Priory into the Courtyard of the Order, he was confronted with a street entirely bereft of people. All the high shutters were closed, and smoke from various chimneys had disappeared so as to create the effect of total soullessness. A small piece of paper rustled in the wind, and was carried away to the spires of the Umayyad Mosque. There was a scent of burning in the air, with a hint of ... sulfur? The unseen cannons resumed firing.

    The Grand Master ran down the small courtyard in front of his office as the bombs and shot fell, turning left to face the inner gate leading down Long Street. Before the man could catch his breath, a shard of a fallen cannon ball exploded in an upper window, shockingly reminding him that he had best get to cover. Before he could get his wits about himself, however, he was abruptly pulled into a smashed leathermaker's store front.

    A voice whispered into his ear as he was calmly moved into the shadows of the store amidst a great crash. "Master, forgive me" came a voice moments later, which quickly revealed itself to be that of Viscount Henry. The Master turned around in relief that his assailant had not been some covert Turkish assassin. "I did not mean to shock you, but I saw that a piece of shot had made its way into the windows just above you. As you can see, we have narrowly avoided an unfortunate end." Henry gesticulated towards the street with his open palm, and the Grand Master turned about to see that the house under which he had been standing while observing the inner gate had collapsed into the street below.

    "Good God..." came a short whisper from the Grand Master, who then crossed himself vigorously. Jean Parnot de Paris then turned, half-stern, to the Viscount. "I'll thank you for the intervention later. Why did you not report immediately to the arbalestry as I commited you to do?" As he said this, another round of shot exploded above the store, and a third great crash was heard, this time further away in the Lower City. "It was precisely because of that!" came a reply from the calm, if slightly exasperated, Henry.

    Henry's explanation was quick and breathless. "I attempted to make way through the scattering peasants and merchants to get to the warehouse at the Old Citadel and warn the Arbalestry, but just as I turned the corner a bit of shot went off above the gunpowder stores. I was lucky to take cover in a small alleyway as a great explosion rocked the courtyard. Perhaps you smelled the burning powder a moment ago." The explanation left him quite annoyed with himself, as the good old keeper of the Arbalestry had been killed, along with some laymen of the Order, and Henry had been unable to get there in time to do anything.

    "I did indeed smell that cruel and throat-killing odour" complained the Grand Master, "but we can't simply sit here and let the whole city collapse on itself in chaos." As if on cue, a fifth set of shots was heard to resonate and echo throughout the closed-up city. "Damn it, we have to go now. I'm sure the Teutonic garrison, being right at the northeast gate, is probably taking the greatest pressure." The Grand Master, still quite unsettled by this turn of events, patted the Viscount Marshal upon the back to indicate that they should move.

    The two men stumbled out of the ruined leather-tanner's shop and into what was left of a small, green back-yard with a well-made little stone fence leading back into the Courtyard of the Priory. The tiny green sanctuary and picturesque fence seemed curiously out of place in the present confusion. The Grand Master looked about himself quickly to gain his bearings and said "Come; the liason to the German garrison should be at the northeast gate as well. Hugo had better explain himself..." This last sentence was said aside and under his breath, but Henry well understood the meaning. The Teutonic Knights were given the responsibility of watching over the north walls, whence the Turkish shot was coming.

    Hugo von Augsburg had some explaining to do, indeed.

    Continuation of the First Article of the Second Parte

    "On, get on! GO!" came a gruff and forceful voice, mingling with falling shot and the trampling of dozens of feet. "Bring the water buckets, damn you! Is it such an impossible task? Keep on!" the voice rasped with the same amount of implacability.

    Philip de Clermont stood still, feet firmly rooted to the lawn by elaborate and thick greaves. Those inimitable green eyes surveyed the scene unfolding before him. A great hole had been opened in the western wall astride the Turkish gate, and two score of men were grappling with time to bring water buckets and crude jugs across the patch of dead grass just in front of the Turkish gate. A small warehouse for the storage of crossbows and arquebuses had been demolished by a great shot, and conflagrations were breaking out in the Lower City. Massive fireworks were sparking dangerous flashes of light, and the rush for water was so desparate that a few lay brothers from one of the monasteries on Long Street had been recruited to the task. Amidst this confused mass of exploding shells, fire, crumbling ramparts, and smoke, a small cannon team had been aroused from bed and was stoking an ancient bell which had been sheered off and converted into a makeshift shot-thrower. The small army had taken a few old, wooden gabions to shield their movements from an endless Turkish bombardment, the northern wall having been cracked open in several places.

    "Where in the Name is that Hospitaller?" Philip whispered to himself, dissatisfied. "He put up such a struggle at the Priory; I at least hoped he would be manly enough to appear at the scene of the apocalypse. Foolish old man." The duke gazed to his right, up Long Street and toward the inner gate, wearing an almost worried expression on his face. Stoicism was the order of the day for a French knight from Auvergne, but this situation was becoming very irksome and, uncharacteristic though it was of Philip to notice, the frightened Syrian levies were wearing thin in morale. A group of French and German arquebusiers ran down the western side of the wall, towards a fortified barbican.

    "If that silly nun doesn't show up, I'll have to open the sta-" Philip began, but it was now his turn to be interrupted.

    "I'm not a damnable nun, you ridiculous Frenchman," Grand Master d'Orléans was abruptly standing behind Philip, followed by his Marshal, and was wearing a grin of triumph at having come in time to interrupt his rival's ill comment. Philip turned around in surprise to face his intellectual assailant, having been caught in flagrante delicto, but was none the worse for it. "and don't even think of opening the stables; we can't afford one of your stupid cavalry charges. Now, let's stop this charming banter and assume the situation" the Hospitaller demanded.

    "Really now, does it not appear that I am already in command of the situation?" retorted Philip, ever ready to show his eager mastery of all affairs, even in this dreadful heat and noise. "Nothing seems more simple than to hold this section of wall together until the Turks feel satisfied that we are well-beaten by their assault; upon that moment, they will cease fire and send a negotiator forward. That has been their tactic since at least the Second Battle of La Forbie; perhaps you had forgotten that already, in your senility." Despite the fact that shot was now raining down on them in great fury, Philip maintained his seemingly impossible calmness. "At any rate, I am thankful that your men are not as much like women as you seem to b-" An ear-shattering crash sounded to Philip's left flank, and he turned sharply, as if in panic, though his face quickly re-assumed its common aloofness.

    The Hospitaller shot a contemptible look at Philip. "I am the woman, eh? What are you, then, who is so easily shocked by the sound of his own squadron's cannon? Hah! Templars never lea-" The constant bickering finally irritated Marshal Henry, who took an insubordinate shot at the two bickering Masters.

    "Sirs! I am sorry for your conflict. It has cost us many valuable moments, yet we continue to stand here! Why are we idle, clawing at one another, when we are under the Pope's orders? Pro fide, pro utilitate Hominum! Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, Sed nomini tuo da gloriam! We should be ripping at the locks of our second arbalestry warehouse, not each others' jugular veins!" This outburst came as a total surprise to the Grand Masters, who both gave Henry a glance that said "I'll deal with you later...", nodded at one another in wordless apology, and rushed off in two directions, taking half-of-a-dozen sergeants-at-arms with them.

    Henry was left to deal with the now uncontrollable fires breaking out in the courtyard of the Turkish gate while the Grand Master of the Temple went to check the Spanish garrison at Pilgrim's Gate. The Grand Master of the Hospital made his way to the Syrian Gate, where a small English force had deployed mortars in order to return fire at the Turkish auxiliary force's flank.

    "Wait a moment..." Henry said to himself.

    "We've accounted for the Temple Master, the Hospital Master... but, where is the Master of the Poll?!" he said to no one. A short crossing of the chest was given by Henry in hopes that the worst had not come to pass at the Duke of Augsburg's tower. The Viscount Buckingham grabbed a bucket and jumped into the chaos.

    Second Article of the Second Parte

    The world seems slow. "Vert." All things are... a blur. "Azure." The smell of dew on summer grass. "A great flare of light." The sun rises. "Fire on the horizon? No, it is a light... it is the sun? Yes, the sun; it is the glorious sun!" Immense green fields and meadows stretch on and on to the horizon. Calm summer winds blow gently and slowly across the sea of grass, creating small waves of emerald beauty. A tree sits atop the brilliantly colored landscape and sways upon a soothing breeze. Flowers are in bloom, and great hosts of sparrows flit around the entrance to the forest which borders this... Eternal Spring. A great mountain stretches into the vast horizon, climbing in infinite cliffs and foothills. Atop the cliff is a shining light... a green pasture, an emerald Elysium. "Yes... Elysium. Have I passed into Elysium?" Magpies twitter and chirp their perfect songs in a tone which cannot be mistaken; it is the Unapproachable. Perched upon a shining hill in the green field is a castle, a keep untouched by time and the elements. "Could this be the realm of the heroes? No... am I worthy?" A quiet brook flows beyond the trees; a living river, which trickles over rocks, mud, and grass alike, brings joyous life to this blurred and untainted paradise. It emanates a sapphire light of flawless lumosity, and an Empyrean warmth lurks in the forest. A lamb. "A golden lamb?" The lamb approaches; voice calls out. "The lamb speaks? It says... me? Hugo?" The voice falls away. "What is this paradise? This perfection? This beauty?! It implores me... I cannot follow! I cannot follow! What is this horrible passion? I am dead! I am dead!" The forest turns into darkness. "I ... sleep?" The castle begins to fall away; smoke appears in its towers. "No... I sleep... I sleep not!" The voice calls once more. "Hugo! HUGO!" ....

    "HUGO! WA-" The green field melted away.

    "-KE! UP!" As the voice rang out, a great explosion rocked the courtyard of the Syrian Gate, where a score of sergeants-at-arms were tending to wounded civilians. Hugo lay still and spread eagle upon his back. A violent rupture had taken place in the tower which held the old ramparts of the Syrian Gate by which the Duke of Augsburg had made his way up to the crenellations. It was now late afternoon, yet it seemed to have been only minutes since he had made his way to the ramparts and spotted the Turks.

    Shaking and taken out of a deep state of unconsciousness, the duke took a deep and panicked breath. "What in the Name happened?" He suddenly seemed to realize his position on the rubble-covered road and sat up sharply, in great pain. Hugo moved his hands all over his armor in a mad dash of fear. No wounds felt evident to him, and he perceived the Grand Master of the Hospital standing above him with a confused expression on his face.

    "Are you alright, boy? You were shaking as if possessed -" said the Hospitaller in an unusually concerned manner. "We can't have our liason to the Teutonics and the Master of the Poll dying, now." Hugo, mouth open in confusion and primal shock, eyelids blinking rapidly, felt a sharp pain in his right side, which caused him to turn instinctively in that direction, whereupon he saw the ramparts. He steadied his eyes and looked up. The tower which had only just been above and to the left of him as he stood behind the crenellations had been hit by a massive cannon shot and had fallen on to the wall below, breaking its old frame. "How long have I been knocked out, Master Hospitaller?" he asked once he had steadied himself considerably.

    The Grand Master of the Hospital smiled the smile of a wise man who knew a recovered person when he saw one. "I'm afraid I have no idea, my son. As you may have gathered, the Turks have just made a brazen attack on the Damascan Priory, and it sent us into confusion. I found you just this last minute." A rather more quizzical smile appeared on the Hospitaller's face. "In fact, I was going to chastise you for your apparent laxity on warning the garrison of the Turks' coming, but it is obvious that you had no intention to deceive us. You were just as taken by surprise as we... a shame." As if remembering where he was, the old doctor frowned, blinked, straightened himself. He took a cautionary look down Market Street to be sure the Turks had not broken through before he looked back to Hugo, who was in the process of standing up.

    "Master, forgive me... but" began Hugo, who remembered the pain in his right side and had to lean on what was left of the outer wall. Recovering himself adequately with the doctor's help, he began his inquiry again. "But... if we are under attack, why is there no rumble of the cannon? I hear no report or shot in the distance." The Hospitaller gave Hugo a quizzical look once more, then, realizing the veracity of this observation, answered "Why... why, you're right." He looked to the ground, then, as if remembering something, said "However, if they've stopped, that means... oh, no. Their negotiator! Blast it. We should probably get to the North Gate. I don't want those novices and standard bearers answering for me."

    The two dukes turned about to get their bearings. The Englishmen who had been firing a quartet of mortars near the Syrian Gate had ceased their report, proving Hugo's observation of quietude. An eerie calm lay over the city as the Grand Master of the Hospital and the Master of the Poll climbed off of the rubble pile which had almost served as the latter's death bed. A great set of fires from the old castle keep bellowed out black smoke, and a huge orange fire in the Upper City had become rather like a funeral pyre of some ancient pagan deity. "Must be the primary arbalestry..." recalled the Duke, as he aided Hugo on to the level street. A set of minarets in the southeastern quarter, near the Postern Gate, remained standing, but practically every steeple and place of any height had been utterly demolished.



    A woman was heard to cry a lonely and terrible cry, and many moans of pain and anguish were to be heard by men, women, and children alike in the streets. Stepping over a particularly unpleasant arm which had been separated from its body, the two men paused at the intersection between Market Street and Long Street, square in the center of the Lower City.

    Hugo had, by this time, sufficiently balanced himself despite the loss of blood from an unseen wound embedded inside his right flank, so the two made for a small corner shop which had not been set to fire. Here, the Hospitaller sat his wounded comrade on a bench which had miraculously survived the uproar of violent bombardment. A small, carved wooden lamb lay on the floor amidst other colorful children's' playthings, miniature soldiers were scattered between broken glass, and a boy's oaken toy rapier lay upon the central desk, now covered with unsettled dust thanks to the assault.

    "What are you going to do, Master Hospitaller?" asked the weary and understandably shaken Hugo, who made no protest at being left in a store to rest and keep watch on the central square.

    "I am going to make my way down Long Street to get to the Turkish Gate, which was under sustained assault when I left to find you. You know well the Osmanic tactic of surprise bombing followed by negotiations, so I must leave with all haste. You would only slow me. Do you understand?" He said this as he swiftly walked over the children's' toys and moved towards the doorless entry way. "Yes, I understand. I'll make sure the central fountain isn't taken by those blasted Mohammadans." A smile of great happiness at surviving crossed Hugo von Augsburg's face, and one of great thanksgiving crossed that of Jean Parnot d'Orléans. "Then stay safe, dear Poll Master. They shan't take that fountain with you about. Take my rapier; I will not need it for the moment, for I have a plan to stall these barbarians." The Hospitaller wordlessly handed his elegant silver-hilt'd sword to the Teuton and was out of the storefront within seconds. Hugo looked down at the carved lamb.

    ----

    "Noble foes, we see that you do not run in fear of our grand bombardment. We wish to give you a respite, that you might hand to us our most sacred and revered Mosque built by the Umayyads. If you give us this holy site, we shall spare you and let you free to return to Acre. The Sultan knows of your bravery, so mark this offer well, and we will not allow our men to harass you."

    A lavish and well-embroidered, green/gold Turkish gown flowed elegantly in the wind as it covered the body of a man who looked to be a merchant. This was no fighter, but a servant of the House of Osman; perhaps he was even a eunuch, as those peoples were well known to be excellent men of accounts, affairs, and management for those in high position, at least amongst the Muslims. He stood with arms outstretched, giving the sign of a handshake to show that neither he, and by metaphorical extension, his master, were unarmed before the walls of Damascus.

    Flares of heat sprouted up from the burning arbalestry every few minutes in the awkward silence and hot Damascan air. Smoke clouded the majority of the crenellations so that neither the noblemen atop nor the Turkish diplomat below could see one another clearly. The only clarity to be had was in words, and this Turk was unequivocal in that respect. Random coughs, thanks to the smoke, were all that broke the silence until a distinctive French voice called out from twenty-eight feet above the ground.

    "We do not trust you. Leave." Nothing could be more characteristic of such a singular man as Philip de Clermont than his own solid, unchanging voice of defiance ringing out like a musket shot through the empty desert air. Despite the terrible burden which had been placed on the men, Syrian levy and Latin knight alike, they were boosted by this cold refusal by their favorite commander as they looked down from the ramparts on this lone offender.

    "Leave? What a terrible word and, with it, a terrible attitude you bring. As they say in your lands, 'I implore you, sir'. Why does your refusal of a generous offer come so quickly? Surely you can see the Janissaries, Sipahis, Lancers, Macemen, and, most fearsome of all, master gunners, arrayed behind me. They are as dedicated to their cause as your greatest knights, and I venture to boast that they are motivated by a power more divine than your own! If you wish for your God to hold you safely in His arms, you had best accept these most lavish terms. We shall spare no flaying, decapitation, or torture from your flesh. Stay your blades, and we shall stay Allah's whips, peace be upon Him!" These last words rang out in the dry desert air, which retained its icy silence despite the heat.

    The sun began to fall, almost seeming to hasten its descent into the horizon so that it no longer had to witness such carnage as Damascus showed evidence of. The diplomat stood confidently before the gates of Damascus, awaiting an answer. A second man appeared next to the one who had shouted out the blunt response.

    "We have considered your terms, and realize that your threats hold great meaning; we see the honor of your promises" echoed another voice. The diplomat smiled at this admission, but was rudely surprised. "however, we have deemed that, merely to spite you and your filthy horde, you may turn back to your master without an arquebus report stuck in your hind quarter. Tell that to the coward who sits on his golden throne, no doubt carried on the backs of Christian slaves. Let him throw his stones here; our fountains shall continue to rain cool water upon us, and your thirst shall force you to die in the desert whence you came." The voice of Jean Parnot de Paris, resonating out from the side of Philip de Clermont, pierced the heart of the diplomat.



    "Very well, Latins!" came the reply from the evidently pride-hurt diplomat. "We shall give you another night to pray and see the face of God. Perhaps you will repent and know Allah. Or not; the Sultan no longer cares, nor does he give clemency to those who would reject His will. You sha-" The diplomat was interrupted.

    "We grow tired of your usless banter. Begone, peasant." A great uproar of laughter, some forced and some genuine, resulted from Marshal Henry of Buckingham's sudden appearance on, and comment from, the ramparts. The diplomat, indignant at the insult made to his status, turned about in a ceremonial fashion and began walking back to the guns of the now completely set-up Ottoman camp. His foot-steps rang out upon the old road and valley leading to the Anti-Lebanons.

    Both sides stood in silence. A raven, of the litter brought from Europe to remind men of home, cawed before sinking its beak into an eye which had been separated from its owner beside one of the wooden defilades. The sun sank lower and lower, hiding its face; it seemed to want a respite before the day of slaughter came.

    A low and dull clanking was suddenly perceived by the men atop the ramparts, and by the diplomat, who was now considerably distant. Despite having covered several dozen paces in the terrible silence, though, he stopped at this sound and turned about to face the Turkish Gate, narrowing his eyes in expectation. A wounded Christian knight in full armor appeared, his battered surcoat of red and white flapping in the rapidly cooling evening air and light. The figure stopped next to those who had insulted the diplomat's honor, and raised his arm.

    The diplomat squinted to see the details of this stranger, and was met with a smack to the face. Stumbling backwards in shock, the man quickly regained his embarassed composure in the silent desert air and looked down. A small carved animal lay at his feet, which were richly adorned with shoes whose toes curled up and back. He bent over, picked the animal up, and yelled "What is this?!" in tired exasperation, rubbing his damaged nose despite himself. A call came from the ramparts.

    "IT IS THE LAMB OF GOD!" echoed the voice of the distant caller. Silence. A vague swell of noise from the ramparts suddenly erupted into joyous, raucous, and jubilant cheering. The diplomat seethed with rage at this last outburst and insult to his honor and, now, his faith. The fat man raised his own hand, quelling the sudden outburst from the Franks atop their walls, and angrily threw the lamb on the ground, cracking it on the stone causeway. The garrison stood once more in stoic silence, the sound of the shattered toy reverberating into the darkening mountains beyond. As they contemplated what the new day would bring for their shattered city, the negotiator disappeared into the Turkish army.

    Sun set on the Crenellations.



    Thus Concludes the Second Parte.

    Epilogue and Addendum to the Second Parte

    It was now upon Our present Heroes to make a great Gamble in their lives as Men of the Cloth and of the Sword. As is the Custom of The Writer, a short Addendum should be attached to Thif Article, in explanation of such Salient Facts which seem to merit Exegesis.

    Within the Second Parte of Thif Chronicle, it was seen that the Prime Hero, who was called von Augsburg, had upon his name conferred the title "Master of the Poll". It was the Custom of that group of Holy Knights called the Teutonics {since the days after the Siege at Acre in 1189} to control the Entrance and Exeunt of Pilgrims, Men, and Material through the port of that Illustrious City. A Certain Tax was erected in Law upon the Kingdom of Jerusalem in those days, which was called a Poll Tax. This Tax measured each arriving party of Men or Supplies by their numbers. An arriving Party of two score men would pay a certain tax; to make an example, twenty Ducats, whilst an arriving Party of one score men should pay a tax of ten Ducats. Whereupon this Tax was paid to the Teutonics, entry to the Holy Land would be permitted to the arriving Party. It is upon this fact that the Master of the Teutonics has come to be known, in more Recent Days, as "Master of the Poll".

    Beyond the issue of the Teutonics, the duke von Augsburg was given the Relatively New post of "Liason to the Hospital", a Position at once Illustrious and burdensome. The Reader may, in his Proper Time and History, know of the Teutonics as those men who converted the Livonians and Prussians of Lietheuanya. Conversely, as observed in Thif Present Time, the Teutonics have not taken control of the Livonians, nor of the Prussians; this Task was left to a Special Order Created under the name of the Sacred Theotokos. Upon Thif Time, the Teutonics retained their Position as Masters of the Poll in Acre upon the Historical Shift of 1291, and became the greatest Allies of the Hospitallers.

    Whereas the Teutonics stayed in Alliance with the Hospitallers, the Knights of the Temple of Solomon showed their Wicked Obsesfion with banking. Rivalling the Hospitallers, they became, throughout the XV Century A.D., entangled in their own varied Politics. It was only recently, before the Siege of Damafcus chronicled Herein, that the Templars have re-ordered themselves. His Holiness, as all other successors of Peter the Apoftle, has retained great Control and restraint over the Knights of the Temple, as it was in the time of their Founding following the First Crusade. Despite Strife and uproarious disagreement, the Templars retain their marshal Quality and immense Piety; Charges commited by these Knights are not rivalled by any Order.

    Within Thif Sectional Addendum are included Illustrations of the Author's Meaning.

    A Pointe Final must be made upon the Singular and Impressive Tactic of Warfare used by Our present Heroes. Though all Readers shall be aware of Thif Tactic, embroiled as we Humans are in the Act of War, it is never-the-less of practical importance to expunge upon Thif Tactic. Thif great and popular tactic of War has been called by the title of "Pike and fhot".

    At its Basest Form, the maneuver is a mere Combination of Four Armes. Upon each Winge of any Armed Host is placed a Cavalry force protected in three-quarters plate armor and with Lance or Match-lock side-arm to Attack. Within the Army Proper is a rank of men with Pikes of a length ranging between one score and two score Feet in length. Mingled betwixt these men of Pike are the men of Shot, who load their match-lock'd hand cannons with a Deadly black powder and round ball, which is fired from the Hedge of Pikes. When this Tactic is completed, these match-lock men retreat to a second Hedge of pikes, whereupon the contraptions are re-loaded. A Hedge of Pikes retains the fore-front at all times, giving a Helpful Coverage to these arquebusiers in their loading.

    The prime Strategy of War in Thif Era consists of luring One's enemy to the first Line of Pikes, three men deep, whereupon the match-lock men take aim and fire from this Wall of Steel. Upon the completion of this barrage, the match-lock men retreat in an Ordered fashion behind the Pikes to re-load Powder and Shot. As this Organized Retreat and Loading process occurs, the first Line of Pikemen keeps closing enemies at a distance whilst a second Line holds away any attacks upon the Rearward. Horse'd Hussars upon the Winges of the Host sally forth in light Tactics of Shock. Mixed in Good Order with the men of Pike are men of Rapier and Sword, protected in a Cuirass, to take Offensive Actions. When knowingly on the Offensive against a well-armored enemy, however, men of Mace and Axe are often employed in place of men of the Rapier.

    Modern Warfare seems to be conducted by the Civilized Nations in this manner, with few exceptions.

    Beyond the world of Europa, there are the Famed Turkish Janisfaries. These men appear to be of the greatest Skill in the handling of Weapons of Shot. Betwixt their own lines of fhot are often observed men of the Scimitar and men of Mace and Spear. Though it is a Primitive Form of conflict, this mixture of men appeares to have become Common and Successful within Turkish ranks. In addition to the Great Beasts called "Cannon", the heathen methods of infantry war are Devastational in Effect.

    Conclusion of the Epilogue and Addendum to the First Parte, and Conclusion Proper of the First Parte.

    Intermezzo

    Night in the Old Citadel.



    The head of Jean Parnot de Paris appeared in the window of High Tower, casting a glance upon the shattered city. The few errant fires which had been left burning after the bombardment were dealt with, and all that remained smoldering in this solemn night was the arbalestry. A small block of houses in the Lower City, next to the Turkish Gate, had remained untouched by fire brigades, for the Turks had taken to firing short, sharp bombardments at the Gate once every hour. The hourly "crack" and "thud" were a stark and sober reminder that the next morning would not come in joy, but in chaos, noise, and murder.



    Although his hands were clasped solidly in each others' grip behind his back, as was his custom when observing things, he perceived a quivering in his arms. The Syrian winter was not a pleasant season, and with little protection from the distant cliffs of the Anti-Lebanons, a cutting wind was blowing into High Tower. Another great bang was heard to resound in the Lower City, and the Hospitaller observed a small puff of white smoke being carried away on the wind far beyond the outer walls.

    "That's the fifth one..." he thought to himself. "Must be time for Compline." The poor monks of the city monasteries had been ordered not to sing Vespers, Compline, Matin, or Lauds, so as to avoid attracting attention from Turkish cannons during this tense and dangerous night. The distant gunners seemed to have ears which could sense the slightest drop of a needle deep from within the city, so all noise was kept to a minimum. Thankfully, the walls of the Upper City were suitably thick enough, and distant enough, from the Turks that several songs could be heard to emanate from the barracks below the Old Citadel. "I might as well let them have their fun before dawn... they may not see another." Another thought by the Grand Master was followed by a sigh, and a second puff of smoke beyond the city walls.



    Uttering a short and solemn prayer upon his private altar in the corner of High Tower, which had been made into a temporary office following a previous bombardment (in which a cannon ball had crashed straight into the Priory of Syria Head-Quarters), the Grand Master called down the stairs for a servant to fetch the Dukes von Augsburg and de Clermont, and the Viscount of Buckingham.

    Within the space of five-and-twenty minutes, during which time the Hospitaller stayed fixed inside the chambers of High Tower, always gazing upon the Syrian desert, all three men had arrived. A fourth man trailed in behind them, which irked the Grand Master. The Duc d'Orléans took his Marshal aside and spoke into Henry's weary ear.

    "Why on Earth have you brought someone with you? We need no lower captains until Prime, and I want to be sure there are no traito-" he began, but was interrupted by this new arrival. It was a heavy-set, but towering Scotsman with a great beard and moustache that seemed to droop around the sides of his mouth like two inverted bull's horns.

    "Good Master, I beg the service of your ear but a moment" came a very solemn and very Scottish voice. "It is a great insult to be called a traitor by your self, though I understand your caution. I am Baron Neil of McNalleigh, the commander of your artillery." The big man smiled in a warm and joyful manner, harboring a certain shining quality in his eyes. "I may pardon you for your ignorance in the matter, due to the hefty confusion weighted upon us the last few hours. Might I beg your ear, then?" The Grand Master had to sigh a second time and allow for this man's presence in the cramped room, despite his misgivings.

    "Well, perhaps you had better take another seat. Marshal, go down to the landing and fetch a second stool, will you?" the Grand Master non-chalantly ordered the tired Viscount. Henry bowed, and wearily made his way back down the well-built stone stairwell leading to High Tower's entry room and Citadel courtyard beyond. A few moments later, echoing footsteps ascending the stairs gave the signal that a War Council could now progress.

    All five men were seated upon creaky benches in the cramped tower room, surrounded by dusty books, an ancient bookshelf, and the solitary window. The Grand Master of the Hospital thence produced a small map from his scrip, whereupon he set it down on the table between the five men and dusted a bootprint off of its well-worn surface. "By the Grace of God and in His name, I declare that we open a Council of War upon this solemn night, in the name of our King, Baldwin VIII of Jerusalem, and of His Holiness, Pope Honorius of Saint Peter's Patrimony." All men nodded in agreement, and the council then proceeded.

    "As you can see from this pathetic little piece of paper," he began, nodding to Henry in thanks for retrieving such a vital thing, "you can quite easily see the desperation of our position." All five men sat in an awkward silence, irked by the dearth of possibilities for their defense. Only Philip de Clermont seemed unperturbed by the matter.

    "I would hardly call it desperate, Jean. The scouts gave signal to us, just after Dusk, that the Turks numbered eighteen-hundred. It's quite the small force, to be honest. That they would even presume to attack a village, let alone a city, with that host, seems rather stupid." The Duc de Clermont assumed his laid-back position, his rapier making an irritating scratching noise upon the cold floor. His quilted doublet looked unfairly warm and comforting to the other men, though they knew he deserved such fineries if he was to command the cavalry in his usual masterly way.

    Ignoring that the churlish Duke had just called him by his first name again, de Paris made a rebuttle. "You may see few men, but I observed their fineries and weapons. It is not some force of raiders and land pirates we are facing, Philip. They appear to be the best Janissaries that can be bought on the slave market, and their stony faces attested to this likelihood. Besides, a force of eighteen hundred can still wreak perfect havoc on this old town. We haven't gotten anywhere near modernizing the walls, and the star fort's construction was put on hold last week." This sobering report from the Grand Master put a certain frown on the Templar's face, though it was more one of irritation at having been beaten in solemnity.

    "I dare say we should just unstable the horses, throw on the saddles, and make way through the rubble for a charge. An early morning wake-up signal consisting of a lance to their sickening backsides would make our point quite clearly; should give them a nice shock, too." The Grand Master of the Hospital spoke back in his usual irritated growl at this suggestion. "Christ-God, must we hear of this stupid cavalry charge nonsense again? Your ideas never mature, do the-" began the Grand Master again, but was again interrupted by the calm and towering Scotsman.

    "Sir, I tend to agree with the advice of the Master of the Temple. If we might only sally forth with a third of our paltry force of nine-hundred, we could do damage and perhaps even capture one of their blasted culverins. The Scots and English could throw a few stone balls to confuse them while you sally out of the Postern Gate and circle 'round the east wall, about Pilgrim's Gate, to meet them in the field. Does this not seem a hale and hearty strategy?" Silence pierced the air after this interjection by the Scot. Jean Parnot, being rather stuffy, was personally surprised by this mere baron's interruption, but could not disagree with the idea. The idea was just about mulled over in everyone's minds when Hugo realized a problem.

    "Master Hospitaller, I must say that the idea put forward by our good Master of the Cannon is excellent..." he hesitated. "...but an unfortunate accident occured during the last bombardment, before Compline. A great ball from one of the Mohammadan artillery pieces flew straight into one of the minarets remaining in the southeast quarter, and... smashed the Postern gate's drawbridge before plunging into the water below." This bit of news widened the eyes of the Grand Master of the Hospital, and he sank back into his chair with a third, most exasperated, sigh.

    "Well... then. We can't fix the damned bridge of the Postern before dawn, and the portreeves are all dead anyway. I suppose that's that. We can't exactly have a charge out of Pilgrim's Gate, for we'd have to pull off a ninety-degree shift in direction. That certainly wouldn't be executed in time to avoid the inevitable Turkish fire as we turned north!" The Grand Master hit the table heavily with his fist, which caused the Grand Master of the Temple to quietly sniff at this companion and rival for being so abrupt with himself.

    Hugo interjected a second time. "Perhaps, sir, we need not make a sallying action after all. The star pattern has been completed over the eastern half of the Upper City walls, and this very Tower we sit in, despite the ill-lit rooms with our rationed candles, could house perhaps fifty arquebusiers. I see no reason not to commit to a defense in depth, using our predecessors' most excellent walls and ditches as barriers." The advice seemed sound to all but Philip, and all but Philip nodded in agreement, eyebrows raised.

    "Bah, what sort of ridiculous affair is that? Are we chickens, waiting about a coop for the next wolf pack to come along in the dead of night? I'm sick of this pussyfooting around; we need to make amends to God for allowing these dirty Turks to come near a city of the Kingdom of Jerusalem by driving them away this instant." A look of true frustration appeared on the Templar's face for the first time during the events of the last fifteen hours. He scowled, baring his teeth in anger, but soon realized his embarassing manner of acting, and sat back in his chair, disgusted. This event heartened the Grand Master of the Order of St. John.

    "I see that you have some of the spirit of God within you after all, Duc de Clermont." The Templar looked back up at the Duc d'Orléans in momentary surprise, then quickly looked away, squinting at the moon, which shone through the open window frame. "Perhaps it is not so bad to lead a defense from within the walls, then... but it must be aggressive. I shan't take anything less than that!" Philip acquiesced, for once, and the War Council continued deep into the night. Another short bombing began, marking one o'clock ante meridiem.



    ----

    After finishing up the act of scratching out a small, make-shift map, Jean Parnot de Paris looked up at the faces of the four other men, who were now quite weary from having slept so lightly during the hours leading up to their meeting. Despite this, he could see a stiff conviction and current of life within them that could not be matched by any men about to undertake so terrible a task. He stretched his back against his chair, facing the stairwell leading down to Court.

    Rubbing his tired eyes, Hugo, whose bench faced the Hospitaller's, looked up to see the first light of dawn come into view. Tiny rays of light pierced the ominous clouds which had not settled all night, and a certain heavenly radiance began to break out and cover the city in the twilight before sunrise.

    "Oh!" piped up Henry, who had nearly fell asleep in a niche beside the Grand Master's desk. "What of those tires and hoops of rubber that were imported from Mesopotamia last month? We had no use for such things, but I've only just remembered the tactic used a few years ago which saved us our fort on Rhodes!" The Grand Master remembered. "Ah... ah, yes! Now there's a good lad, Marshal; we drove the very same sultan off with those things. What was the process, again?"

    "I should recollect it well, for I was at the garrison! We would take out a small hoop of rubber, coat it with dreadful Greek fire - that horrid, sticky substance - and proceed to roll it down an incline after setting it alight. Yes! Those lines of advancing fools were cut down by the inevitable rolling tire. Yes, I've just remembered the process instantly." The Marshal now seemed quite lively, as if he had partaken of an Arabian tea service. "Oh, and a second thing, master. Do you remember the last hours of that conflagration on Rhodes, when the stables were hit by their infernal shot and they tried to overtake the German wall section?" questioned the vivacious Viscount.

    "Yes, indeed. You're not thinking of ... oh, yes. Yes, of course! Those pots of clay and fire!" recollected the Grand Master. The Scottish artillery-man now joined the conversation. "Aye, I also have a remembrance of those devices. We learned them from those evil naffatuns who fought us at Ascalon during the dash for Jerusalem." The conversation was now becoming spirited for the first time during the anxiety-ridden night. "Perhaps we can use them again!" called out the Hospitaller Master. "Thanks be to God for this; we may just hold the streets yet! Poll Master, please hurry down to Upper City and get into the remaining cellars of the Priory. I believe the old jugs and clay stores full, so find some men that would make good grenadiers and start stuffing those pots with Greek oil."

    Hugo von Augsburg was only too glad to make the request a reality, and picked up his steel helmet to leave, bowing before doing so. Within moments, his metal-clad feet and greaves were clanking in the courtyard, and he was soon gone beyond the gate into the Upper City. A round of rumbles and thuds began to resonate once more through the river valley east of Damascus.

    "What, is that Lauds bell?" Philip said sarcastically, idly looking out of the central window of High Tower. Without realising it, dawn had finally come to pass on the War Council. "My goodness, no; it is Prime!" Philip said this happily, stood up sharply, smiled the same smile he had drawn across his face the previous morning, and dashed down the stairs without a word, likely off to dawn his most expensive armor and rally all the knights and sergeants of the Order of Solomon left alive in Damascus. A cold wind blew into High Tower, and the Master of the Hospital stood up excitedly to close the shutters.

    "Sir," belted out the proud Scotsman. "It's time that I get going. We'll probably need to tow the poor mortars away from the Syrian Gate and into the Upper City. I'll have to get on the affair right quick, so I'll leave ye no-" it was now McNalleigh's turn to be politely interrupted. "Yes, good Artillery Master. Bring us everything you have and position it at the Upper City gates. Just remember to place those six cannon we talked about. This has to work just as we wrote it out!" The Scotsman nodded, grasped his map from the central table, and sprinted down the steps to rally the English crossbowmen, open the remaining arbalestries, and move the guns.

    Jean Parnot de Paris was now one man short of being completely alone in his cold tower room, and as he closed the shutters which looked upon the city, Viscount Henry of Buckingham stood up straight and prim. A new set of Ottoman guns began to open fire in the distant fields as the sun broke forth upon the battered city. "Now, Master, what shall you have me do?"

    The rumbles, thuds, cracks, and bangs from the distance did not stop at Prime hour. One more gun was entered into the attack, then a third, and a fourth. Various men began to awaken after their drunken revelries and celebrations of the night before, scrambling across the central courtyard as the Hospitaller watched from above. The sun exploded on to the horizon, wishing to get an early start to the carnage below.



    "I will have you win." A horn sounded in the distance.

    ----

    "First battery!" bellowed a loud and brave Scottish voice as his rapier was raised, glinting and shining in the morning air. "LAY ON!"

    The rapier dropped, and the Christians opened fire.

    Last edited by Ratbag; October 09, 2009 at 01:52 PM.
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  2. #2

    Default Re: [AAR] M2TW Kingdoms: "Crenellations": A Tragical Chronicle

    First Article of the Third Parte

    On the Siege of Damascus




    As the Scotsman's rapier fell, what sounded like one thousand bees droning a dread and terrible madrigal filled the desert air. Echoing across the eastern plains came the fizzling of ropes, gradual burning away of fuses, and, then, sudden tumult of sheer noise. The seventeen remaining operable cannon and mortars from the Langue of England fired nearly simultaneously, one shot just grazing the outer walls as it flew on to a Turkish head somewhere beyond. The morning air that should have been so quiet was lit up with the appearance of many bright suns, all flickering out and then coming to life again in spans of thirty seconds or less. Within five minutes, a forest of glowing destruction lit up the city and its surrounding environs with the most beautiful and eerie picture of death imaginable. The great drone of shot, explosion, thud, crack, boom, and bang filled the air in a terrible picture of Hell visited to Earthly realms.

    Twenty minutes into what sounded like the fiercest bombardment to ever befall a city and its countryside, the Turkish guns became silent. Wondering what foul deeds the Muslims intended to commit, and what deceit was in store, the Scottish baron ordered his guns silent and an observer sent up to High Tower. A lone squire of twelve, picked for his slim figure, good constitution, and perfect sight, ascended to the Hospitaller Grand Master's room - now empty, and with recently pinched candles leaving an elegant smoke trail - then managed to climb out of the high window and on to a ledge which stuck off of the conical roof. The boy heroically and bravely steadied himself while holding to one of the ledges. Peering out to the devastated Ottoman positions and then gazing across the city, smoldering in fire once more, the boy took stock of this situation. The entire city was deserted, as the citizens and soldiers who could not operate artillery were taking shelter in cellars and wine-holds.



    Yelling down to the Master of Cannon, the boy reported. "I see nothing, Master! All their ranks of shot have disappeared behind smoke. Our cannons have done a wonder!" There was indeed a great conflagration of fire beyond the walls of Damascus, and it was billowing out smoke and ash. Grass fires had apparently managed to stop the Ottoman bombardment. After some tense silence of perhaps one minute and a half, a new, lower rumbling was heard to come from the distant grass fires. Taking his gaze back up from the Citadel courtyard, in which most of the remaining cannon of the Order were entrenched, the boy squinted to see the horizon again. His triumphant smile, gained after having reported such grand news, quickly turned to a frown, and then his mouth gaped open; joy turned into fear. Attempting to scramble down High Tower, the squire stopped, mid-descent, and looked north again to confirm his sighting. Quickly and sharply flinching in total fright, he hastened towards the window by which he had gained entrance to the rooftops.

    "What is it, boy?!" yelled the Scotsman, but before he could inquire a second time, an indescribably massive shot was heard to erupt from the far foothills. In horrid and unmerciful slow motion, a cannon ball easily seen to be the size of a man's body appeared above the walls of the inner courtyard. Sailing on the wind as gracefully and terribly as could be imagined, the black mass of smoke and lead smashed squarely into High Tower. Brick-work and masonry showered on to the men of the Artillery squads, who quickly ran for the shelter of the Cloister, cursing despite themselves. Along with several stones, a small table, and innumerable pieces of paper, the broken body of a squire boy from the Malvern Hills fell beyond Inner Gate and into piles of rubble beyond the Old Citadel.

    "BOY!" yelled the suddenly exasperated and stricken Scot Captain, in great shock and anxiety. "Lay on, damn you!" he yelled at his cowering artillery men. "Get back here! Don't shelter like dogs in the storm! FIRE ON THOSE BEASTS!" came his voice, once more filled conviction, as he rushed through the open Citadel gate and into the streets of the Upper City.

    As the guns opened up again from the Courtyard, the Scottish baron turned Inner Gate Corner, running as fast as his towering body could move. Yelling a quick scream of breathless sorrow and anger, he turned a second corner to see the squire he had sent up to the now-broken High Tower. The immature and limp body of the youth lay upon a discarded garbage heap beyond the High Inn, covered as he was in broken rubble and cracked mortar from the disrupted stone work above. Losing his words, the Master of Artillery clenched his teeth, smashed his strong right hand into the lower wall of High Tower, and solemnly contemplated the ripped clothes and destroyed bones of the youth. The pounding of fist upon stone resonated in a tragic and pathetic utterance of wordless terror; of helpless agony.

    Before he could move forward to pick up the boy and find a hole for him, another great bang resounded in the river valley. Knowing the power of this unseen and evil machine, the baron tripped on the lawn, quickly picked himself up, and dashed into a hole that had been gashed through the back door of High Inn. Another ball of the very same material which had destroyed High Tower, and ended a life not yet in manhood, whizzed over the inn, shaking the walls of the hostel. Plates crashed upon the floor in the already scattered and disorganized ruin as a second explosive rumble was heard, this time from within the Citadel itself. Remembering himself, the baron made a bound out of the inn just in time to see the first cannon ball dislodge itself from the remains of High Tower and plummet several meters. With a sickening thud, the massive sphere landed upon the remains of the squire, creating an unfitting grave of still-smoking lead, stones, and putrid refuse. A single, sickened frown of an expression that cannot be adequately described in words stretched across the man's face, and he moved forward to stand directly in front of the massive ball.

    Sighing a nearly-defeated sigh, he calmed himself and recognized the calibre of this massive piece of leadwork, despite the constant firing of his battery. "The doing of a great bombard..." came the first thought to his grave mind. "Eighteen tons of solid iron... three thousand meters of cruel effectiveness..." he sighed a second time as he thought his last thought of the moment. "One hundred and fifty pounds of death." The Scotsman nearly shed a tear of remorse, but stole himself and ran back to the Inner Gate.

    The full Turkish array opened again.

    Christian guns answered.



    ----

    "Blood-stained Hell... Ugh, save me! Christ, save me! Agh!" a voice in sheer pain echoed quickly and severely in the vaults within the Old Citadel. A man of the Priory of Hungary had been hit by a piece of cannon ball fragment that had crashed straight into the citadel mere minutes before, following a first, great crash. "CHRIST, the pain! Silence it, Hospitaller... I beg you!" A trained Hospitaller of the Order of St. John was attempting to tend to his wounds in the customary fashion. Dozens of voices cried out in the dark, cool infirmary, each piercing scream and dull moan bringing sorrow to the disciplined infirmarians.

    "Silence yourself, I beg you; in the name of the Lord, don't utter such blasphemy! Bare it, man!" came the hushed voice of a second man who was tending to one whose leg had been crushed by falling brick-work. "It's... easy to... silence yourself.... without a smashed thigh! AGH, you monks! Just cut it off! END IT!" The voice boomed throughout the Hospital, the owner of those powerful lungs anxious to be rid of his leg so he might be of some use and not die of gangrene. "I might... just... be able to hold an arquebus, with a chair propping me up! Saw it, damn you!" The monk tending to the men began to visibly shake in frustration and ignorance of the proper course of action, whereupon a firm hand grasped his shoulder. Turning around quickly, the young man was face-to-face with Jean Parnot d'Orléans. He bowed, but was interrupted.

    "Not now, Hospitalier. Formalities may be observed when we aren't on the verge of being killed by a bunch of blasted Turks." This order came so peremptorily and in firm confidence that the novice turned back to his patient, not wishing to invoke the infamous wrath of his Master.

    Walking under the high, dark, and vaulted ceiling and down the central corridor between the columns, two each acting as doorways to make-shift rooms with two cots and curtains between them, the Grand Master of the Hospital paused. Another shot, and then another and another made nerve-cringing landings away in the streets of the Lower City. Despite the moans and cries of the wounded, the place seemed eerily calm.

    Glancing idly to his left, he saw a particularly dark cot, and within it a Hospitaller attempting to remove a bullet from a patient, but the poor novice was horribly incompetent. A large wound in his patient's exposed abdomen was gushing a torrent of blood, and the Grand Master rushed into the little cell, well aware of the moans emanating from the fully conscious patient. He appeared to be taking it well, as his Nordic features made no sign of intense pain despite the terribly painful wound.

    "Here now, you haven't even stopped the bleeding and you're attempting to use the extractor!" interrupted the Grand Master, who shocked the poor monk. "I- I'm sorry, Grand Master! It -" began the monk, before being pushed aside. "It's alright, boy; just give me that cloth. Yes, that one there!" interjected the Hospitaller, who then implored the young infirmarian to come back into the cell and observe a proper extraction. Stopping the blood with pressure and good amounts of cloth to soak up the scarlet liquid, the Grand Master then signaled at the table. "Hand me the extractor. Now! What's happened to him?"

    The novice moved to the other side of the bed, rounding the patient's feet, and reached down for a small metal device on the bedside table. As he picked it up and handed the thing to the Grand Master, his squeaky little voice intoned an explanation. "The guard was upon the crenellations, and a huge b-ball hit the gunnery stores a... above him! It seems that, in the resulting e-explosion, one of the balls used for our muskets shot straight out of the gun store and pierced his abdomen!" Nodding his understanding, the Grand Master began handling the extractor with care. It looked rather like a corkscrewing device, with a small screw on the top end and three small claws on the bottom, which opened outward upon twisting the screw. Having made sure it was not rusted into immovability, he closed the clamps and began the extraction process.

    Leaning over the man, who seemed delirious with pain and on the verge of passing out, the Grand Master apologized and slowly jabbed the closed pincers deep into the wound. Despite moaning in a painful way which mingled grotesquely with the shots that had not ceased falling in the courtyard outside the Hospital, the patient steadied himself. Jean Parnot de Paris suddenly stopped the descent of the extractor, having realized that he had reached something. Pressing his ear almost down to the man's stomach, he moved the device up and down three more times, each time hearing a distinctive clinking sound. "So, the bullet hasn't hit any bones of the rib cage. Praise be; I thought we'd have to open him up for a moment." The Hospitaller raised his head again and began to slowly turn the screw of the extractor, slowly lowering it into the man's heaving stomach as he did this.

    Having opened the extractor fully in the body, he moved it even deeper into the man's abdomen, smiled a triumphant smile, and began to turn the screw counter-clockwise. The device obligingly closed within the hole, and the Hospitaller quickly slid the extractor out. The young novice, quick of mind, reached for a tray on the table and swerved back to the bedside, just in time for the Grand Master to open the extractor again. A small lead sphere fell upon the tray, and the novice smiled in relief. "Now, you'll have to clean him up, becau-" started off the Grand Master, but he was interrupted by the sound of loud clanking of metal upon the inner corridor of the infirmary. Blinking, the Hospitaller turned right and peered out of the separation to see his Marshal sprinting down the hallway which led out to the Old Citadel's courtyard.

    "Ah, Master! Master!" came the breathless recognition of Henry, who stopped dead in his tracks. "The... Turks... have stopped firing..." he continued, breathing heavily to catch his breath in the heavy armor he had worn all night. "...and they approach the gates!" A great sense of urgency was caught and recognized by the Grand Master in his Marshal's voice, so it was easily seen to be a serious proclamation. The entire room fell silent, and even the patients with the most terrible wounds sat in an anxious silence upon the deliverance of this news. The Grand Master was looked to by all. "Well, then.... shall we meet them?"

    As the final cannon shots of the exhausted battery crews ceased in the Inner Courtyard, the sound of true war drums could be heard to echo across the burning city. Reaching the ears of all men within the infirmary, the Grand Master shot an anticipatory look at his Marshal. "Yes, lets!" came the Marshal's reply. Running away from his patient, the Grand Master yelled "Don't forget to bind it up!" to the novice whose work he had interrupted.

    They flung open the gates of the darkened infirmary, and the brilliant light of morning the sun came rushing in.

    Second Article of the Third Parte

    A deceptive and palpable calm seemed to lay upon the outer walls, having fallen a few moments previous. One day of constant, hourly, and successive bombing inflicted on the Turkish Gate had ended, leaving the area in complete ruin. Several large breeches had been opened in the wall, leaving dangerous gaps which the Turks might use to enter the city and outflank Hugo von Augsburg's position.

    Southeast of the main square, which sat just inside the Turkish Gate, was a large manor-house that had, at one time, been outside the old walls. Its great green lawn was been entirely covered in shot, cannon, and catapult fire, leaving a chaotic mess of dead grass and dark soil. The façade had been ripped open in several places, leaving a convenient set of ramparts within the window-frames, upon which arquebusiers of the Spanish Langue had been positioned. One man had managed to prop himself on a large waste-couch, his two legs having been entirely blown away the preceding morning. Sheer courage and tenacity ran through the veins of these remaining men, and the gravest of wounds stopped not one of them.

    Southwest of the main square was an alley which attached, half a mile down its length, on to Market Street. The alley-way sat between The Angevin Butcher and The Lazy Yarn Inn, houses which had traditionally formed the entrance to the Market District, but which now blocked the alley-way, having collapsed in on each other. Now that both shops were entirely destroyed, leaving yet another set of rubble and obstacles, arquebusiers from Parma had been entrenched on their floors and within their window-frames. On the exposed top floor (though it could not properly be called a "floor" any longer) stood Philip de Clermont in full battle array, having chosen a particularly striking set of armor made in Constantinople, of all places. Perhaps the irony was not lost on the Frenchman as he stared straight into the main square and, hence, the smoking desert fields beyond.

    Inside both flanks of the Turkish Gate - or what remained of it - stretched streets that twisted and turned off in various directions leading into the city proper, but were too small to be of any tactical use. Blocking the exit from Gate Square were twenty arquebusiers, five abreast, entirely filling up the remaining usable stretches of West Gate Street and East Gate Street. The entire town square that made up the north entrance to Damascus was thus secured on all flanks, with respectably tall (if not in the best of shape) buildings keeping any attackers hemmed in. A small stone fountain stood in the middle of this little square, showing a perplexing lack of scars or battle wounds from the unceasing bombardment. The water had stopped hours before.

    "So..." yelled Philip across the square, unconcerned with the troops' morale. "...when are the foolish brigands going to attack?" Hugo, standing on the last stable sections of wall next to the Turkish Gate, turned about, himself in full battle regalia, and yelled back across the fifty foot distance to the ruined Butcher's shop. "I don't see any motion! The grass fires have obscured all signs of movement, if there even is any." His voice echoed with great tension amongst the men who, despite respecting the Master of the Poll, were each desperate to end the silence and make a target out of some unlucky Muslim. "Hoh hum" replied the Duc de Clermont, yelling to no one in particular. "I don't suppose I shall have any fun today."

    As if on cue, and rather eerily, a great rumbling sound was heard in the distance, and the men swore to themselves unto their dying day that the very Earth shook beneath them. "Ah, the apocalypse arrives! Rather late, by my ca-" began Philip, before he was interrupted by the greatest thud he had ever heard from a cannon. Nearly falling back on to a shattered bureau which held his battle plans, he raised his eyebrows and blinked as a monster cannon ball flew directly over the main square and plotted its evil course straight for the Old Citadel. Every man who did not have a "roof" over his head twisted his neck and followed the ball straight to its destination - High Tower. A collective gasp was heard and a few men began to mumble to each other as a massive crash was heard, but Philip quickly silenced all thoughts of panicking at this unenviable situation.

    "Hear now, you lot!" he began, despite the fact that he could not see half of his men thanks to the rubble. "You know me well and well-through; I shan't, for the best of my life, allow you a thing that is less than a true victory. Now, stop your damned moaning and steady your guns and guts! Not one man who refuses to steel himself for this task that has been allotted us by God shall be given mercy by me. Stand at your post, and try not to die. The Turks are mere wastrels, and you can feel it in your bones and souls. No amount of Hellish fire from the Devil, out of whom they surely originate, can take down our wall. Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott!" came the uncharacteristically long-winded order of the day from the Master Templar. A small murmuring of approval was quickly turned into a great and confident nodding of heads after the Germans, who had stayed on the walls with Hugo, raised a spirited "Ja!" in agreement with this sop to their fervor. Their great feeling of oncoming triumph was cut short, however, by another huge rumbling from the distance.

    A second ball of some unseen cannon flew above, but this time the men did not look. A great crash in the distance gave those of a weak heart the chance to falter, but all men assembled around that little square kept watching the Turkish Gate. "Steady on!" came Hugo's calm, but confident voice. An awkward silence sat for a few moments as the Duke of Augsburg squinted in the now mid-morning sun.

    "I see them! Contact! The Turks are coming." The grins on the mens' faces became stoic once more, but they refused to lose their determination. "Let us hope that they are stupid enough to take our small number for something larger..." he whispered to himself, remembering their tiny force of two hundred. "Don't worry, you filthy German," came an unexpected voice on the ramparts. Philip de Clermont stood behind Hugo, having silently made his way up the gatehouse with such ghostly speed as to confound the poor Teuton. "we shall keep them at bay. Let us slaughter the heathens together, my friend." The Duke seemed almost... to smile. The two clasped their gauntlet'd hands together as men, perhaps for the final time. Out of their collective peripheral vision, though, they caught the Turks, who were now in full splendor.

    A great mass of green, gold, and white flapped in the wind. Stopping short of one thousand meters from the wall, the force looked grim and impressive. At least eighteen-hundred men stood in nearly perfect and unmoving discipline, awaiting the order to press on their hated foes. The Janissaries, those most formidable and fearsome men of the slave market, heard the shout of "çatma!" and cast off their ceremonial garb in a simultaneous and impressive display of their ferocity. Within moments of this display, an order was heard to resound throughout the Damascan valley. The noise dissipated into the Anti-Lebanon mountains like so many puffs of smoke into a winter breeze, but made a greater bite than any blizzard could.

    "Hücum! Saldırı!"

    The Turkish force began to move like some terrible serpent; first, the front ranks, then the second and third, and then the full force moved as one solid block of men. A terrible war drum beat a rhythm of the greatest intensity and passion upon the maker's part. The drum soon began to intertwine, like the dread organ of some distant cathedral, with the shouts of the Turks, in their tenacity and loathing. "Ölmek! Haçlılar, çek git!" came the boasts and jeers from their horde. "Die! Crusaders, get out! Away, Crusaders!"

    From his place atop the ramparts, Hugo excitedly bent down and picked up his favored arquebus, a new matchlock design with the bizarre name of 'musket'. He turned and made a signal to a man on the far end of the square, who nodded, mounted the unarmored Gartner (who, being the fastest horse in the army, had somehow managed to survive the attack), and made haste down what remained of Long Street to warn the second line at the Old Citadel.

    "Die Zorn Gottes?!" came Hugo's confident question to the Germans atop the ramparts. "Ja!" came the collective reply of the doppelsöldners, andsknechts, and arquebusiers. "Position yourselves; wait for my order!" The entire force of ninety musketeers, the very best Germans who could still be assembled to fight, straightened themselves behind the crenellations and took up good firing lines on the cramped walls. The Turks approached with nerve-stopping swiftness.

    Three hundred meters distant. "Hold!"

    Two hundred meters and fifty distant. "Hold the locks! Steady!"

    Two hundred meters and ten distant. "Take aim!"

    Two hundred meters distant. "Make it count, men!"

    An unfathomable lack of sound characterized the highly charged air around the ramparts, despite the rumbling of many thousands of feet. Several men were itching to touch their rosaries, but now that their arquebuses were raised, naught could be done.

    One hundred meters and fifty distant. "FIRST LINE, OPEN YOUR PANS!"

    The men, holding their muskets and arquebuses steady with the left hand, reached forward to open their pans filled with sulfur and salt peter.

    One hundred meters and thirty distant. "FIRST LINE, PLACE MATCHES!"

    The Turks were now nearly upon the gates, but were mercifully slowed by a set of ditches and northward-facing tree trunks with sharpened points that had been jammed into the ground. The men sweated as if the worst summer heat had over taken them. Drums pounded in their ears, and hundreds of approaching feet threatened to pull the world out from under them. The order came like a knife to the heart.

    Without realizing it, Hugo shouted his internal counting with the order "ONE HUNDRED METERS! FIRST LINE, FIRE!" He dropped his rapier.

    Ninety triggers were pushed back, ninety matches dipped into ninety pans, and there were ninety flashes in the pan. Ninety Muslims fell into deep ditch and upon sharpened stake. Smoke was ejected into the air like the furnaces of Hell.

    "FIRST LINE, RELOAD ON TIME! SECOND LINE, TAKE AIM!"

    The Turks had recovered from the initial shock of nearly one hundred musket balls crashing into their heads, stomachs, spines, necks, and arms, and were picking themselves up. A small battalion of engineers ran forward east of the Turkish Gate, and Hugo let loose.

    "SECOND LINE, LAY ON!"

    A second deafening crack filled the air, the furnaces of Hell that were the German arquebusiers let loose smoke and fire, and the whole world filled once more with the sickening noise of lead balls striking bone and flesh. Nearly one hundred Turks fell, pairs of them pierced by a single bullet at close range, and others holding their shoulders in excruciating pain, still pressing on to the wall.

    As the first line completed reloading, a great chaos of marching feet began to sound behind Hugo, thirty feet below in the crucial town square. Within seconds, he snapped out of the routine of orders he had developed in the last two years, and looked down to the breaches and holes in the wall below him. Philip de Clermont, pridefully mounted on his most powerful destrier, shone like a lonely sun of his own. His men of pike and shot were placing themselves in the breaches, some of which were walled up with wooden palisade fences. Behind each fence was a small cannon filled with satchels that carried hundreds of tiny cannonballs. Hugo knew the plan. Lifting his visor, Philip looked up to the walls and gave Hugo a glare of such arrogant confidence that Hugo lifted his rapier in triumph.

    Turning back to his men, he yelled a quick "fire at will!", ran to the gatehouse door, and leap't down the stairs in such a furious movement that he barely heard the Turks yelling and crossing the final ditch just beyond the wall. Another round of shots resounded behind him as the full force of arquebusiers made good their point-blanc range. The gatehouse door shut high above him, and he ran into the morning light of the town square.

    Five large cannon sat just behind the wooden palisades and gabions that had been erected in the largest breaches. "Just enough to cover them and give our enemies a good surprise, eh? The Hospitaller isn't too foolish after all!" yelled Philip over the dense, thick noise of resounding arquebus shot, clashing of pikes, and the screams of wounded Turks beyond the walls.

    "Now, men!" he turned his horse, and attention, to the cannoneers that had managed to hold their itching matches until this moment. "Give them something they're liable to remember as they fry in the depths of Lucifer's realm! Send them back to their Master! HAH!" Philip's adrenaline-soaked laugh resounded as loudly as any gun could, and it was many a gun that had opened fire. "DROP THE PALISADES!"

    Upon this order, a huge host of ropes and levies was heard to give way, and the same palisades which had covered up holes in the inner wall now fell forward, crushing several Turks.

    "FIRE!" yelled Philip.

    The five cannon all opened up on the company of Janissaries that had managed to close in on the breaches. Having reached the base of the outer wall despite near constant fire from arquebusiers atop the ramparts, the Turks were hit with such force and brutality by this surprise that not less than fifty of them were killed instantly. Several of the back ranks fell, wounded, but no time was spared to pity them. Another fifty Muslims had filled the ranks, and were already through the biggest breach before the Christian gunners could reload.

    The pikes were lowered.

    The battle of Damascus had commenced.
    | "I don't suffer from insanity, I enjoy every minute of it." |

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