Chapter 390 - 276: Damascus

More people had been killed.

Priest John said in a low voice, "The path to Hell is always flat."

But Faruk never appeared, not even when Robert’s army arrived.

However, as the Lord of the Arabs on Cyprus, he would not let the matter rest—not when it came to upholding his Reputation, nor sating his own hatred for the Christians.

His vengeance fell elsewhere.

...

「In the Shepherd Boy’s village」

A new body, a small body. The smallest in that field of death. His black, curly hair was matted with old blood, his eyes pecked out into dark hollows that still seemed to accuse all Normans. His fatal wound was a long spear, thrust through his back and out his chest. The dead included the Shepherd Boy’s younger brother and the Greek villagers from the nearby settlement.

Eric held the Shepherd Boy. He was like a little bird, his body wracked with violent sobs, as if his frantic heart might burst from his chest at any moment.

It felt awkward with the others watching, and Eric had no idea what to say to him; no one did.

So Priest John pulled the Shepherd Boy away from Eric and led him to a rushing stream to wash the snot and tears from his face.

The remaining Normans stood there—cold, exhausted, and uneasy in the faint light of dawn.

Mist clung like a witch’s hair to the farm, the mulberry trees, and the long-charred corpses. Crows perched in the trees, cawing their hoarse protest at having their feast interrupted.

Faruk must have sensed the approach of the large Norman army. He had headed straight for the column of smoke from the fires, but he didn’t dare to face them head-on. Yet after seeing what the Normans had done to his companions, he was unwilling to swallow the humiliation. So he had gone to the Shepherd Boy’s village instead.

And so, he had encountered the Shepherd Boy’s little brother. Like frightened prey, the boy might have run, his sturdy legs leaping and twisting, but he was ultimately no match for cavalry armed with long spears and bows and arrows.

"They spitted them," Belem said, gesturing in that direction. He whispered so the Shepherd Boy wouldn’t hear. "Then they stuffed the bodies into the Church, intending to burn it all to ash."

But Faruk and his men had left in a hurry. Soon after, the rain came, extinguishing the flames and saving the Church. The bodies, however, remained on the ground, mutilated and grotesque.

They were probably laughing in their grim way, tossing the bodies into the cinders as an offering to their own dead.

They rode away, leaving behind a small, bewildered soul in the clearing, who couldn’t understand why the world had suddenly become so cold, empty, and dark.

Priest John returned with the boy, his face now clean.

The boy sat, hugging his knees to his chin, his large, dark eyes fixed on Eric.

Eric gave him a small wave, and the boy raised a hand in response, though he didn’t smile. After a moment, he deftly snatched up a waterskin and offered it to Eric before anyone else could stop him. As Eric drank, the boy squatted beside him, silently gazing into the distance.

"I’m sorry about your brother," Eric said, handing the waterskin back. The boy stoppered it and sighed.

"My mother—" he began, but stopped. He wanted to be a man, but his trembling lips betrayed him.

"You should go back to her," Eric said, placing a hand on his shoulder. But when the boy looked up, his face was suddenly filled with a cat-like ferocity.

"I want to be one of you. I’ll swear an oath. I want to fight the Heretics."

Hook Eye overheard and sneered. "Go join another army, kid. War isn’t a game. A boy like you would just be a burden. Besides, we have no right to take you. Your fate is for your Governor to decide. And this army is leaving, never to return. Our destination is the holy city of Jerusalem."

He looked panicked. Eric saw a flash of disbelief on his face before his shoulders slumped in defeat.

...

「Southern Syria, Damascus」

Two Turkic soldiers stood at the grand entrance of the palace, having spent the entire day greeting the coming and going of Generals and Nobility. Shoulders straight, right fist placed over their chest, they would bow their heads slightly and respectfully say, "Selam olsun, beyim," which meant "Salutations to you, my Lord."

They had to repeat this motion every time an officer passed, and after a while, their backs began to ache. It was sheer torture, especially when they had to feign respect for some minor officer they didn’t even recognize.

Late at night, as the guests in the palace gradually departed, the two guards finally had a moment to themselves.

One guard was named Kan, the other Tur.

They looked at each other and began to complain.

Kan rubbed his lower back and lamented, "If I have to keep bowing like this, I’m afraid I’ll be permanently bent like a bow! I can hardly tell if I’m a Warrior or a stooped camel anymore!"

Tur quipped, "A camel? At least a camel gets to carry jewels and stuff! And us? We spend all day bowing and greeting, and the only thing I’m carrying is this backache!"

"We really have our brilliant officer to thank for posting us here! What a useful assignment—not fighting, not plundering gold and silver, but bowing! I feel like I’m becoming part of the hall, like a living statue!"

Tur sighed. "You know, these officers probably have no idea who we are. As long as they see a bow, they’re satisfied. They probably think we’re trained bowing masters, not Turkic Warriors!"