Chapter 62
A Quarrel Retrieved
Cyn descended the tower stairs and pushed past Alexios and Issacos Angelos as they held their mother and cried. Wrapped in a cloak, she swatted at their heads and berated them as cowards. Out past the gate sat the battering ram, its penis shaped tip askew on the dirt. Bodies of the dead and dying littered the ground - bolts in the neck and guts, sword in the face, arm mostly severed. “Never had a chance to roger the gate?” Cyn asked of one of the men who lay gurgling in his own blood. “Get your prick cut off?” He kicked another who was down.
The soldier he had ridiculed whimpered in agony. A crossbow bolt had entered his side and driven downward towards his bladder. Only the notch and a few feathers remained outside of the wound. Cyn stepped out of the way of the returning light cavalry, drew his dirk, and moved to the fallen soldier.
“No, please,” the soldier begged. “I yield, please let me live.”
“Your wound is mortal. Perhaps you will die tomorrow or the next day in screaming agony. I hope you were shriven before setting out on this pointless attack. This way is easier, no?”
“Mercy, back at the camp there are army surgeons.”
“But they won’t return my bolt to me, will they? My father made that one. It is my lucky bolt.”
Cyn’s mercy and Brian’s were delivered in the same instant. Across the field the Verangian and Pons were having a chat as the flag bearer planted his banner. Cyn pulled on the notch of the quarrel. It came out of the dead man’s side too easily. The head had broken off in the body. The feathers were ruined anyway. Mal fortuna. He was running low after the previous evening's foray.
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Another nearby body had staggered a few steps before collapsing from a bolt in the neck. This one came free easily and intact. It was a lucky bolt too. Any bolt which dropped an enemy was lucky. In the middle distance lay the bodies of two archers. Cyn made his way to the fallen forms. Retrieving bolts was easier than making new ones.
The two archers lay near a hummock with a shrub growing from it. Both had been making for cover when Cyn dropped them. Fortunately they had gone down for good. He disliked delivering the coup de gras.
From the direction of the enemy camp came a gaggle of dignitaries led by the tall purple-plumed fork-bearded imperial gander. Was he in range? Cyn had brought his smaller crossbow and it was slung across his back. He had six quarrels in a quiver at his thigh plus the lucky one from the neck of the poor fellow (may he rest in the arms of Mary) who had tried to hide behind a naked domina as he assaulted a free city (may he burn in Hell). The wind was against him, clouds to the north, perhaps rain later. Much too far for the words of the party to carry and a white flag up in any event.
Looking to the task at hand, he set about to extract the bolts from the dead Mohamadeen archers. Both had been hit in almost the same spot - a hand span below the left armpit. Both had fallen within a few meters of the other, and both had broken the shafts of the quarrels. Damn.
Looking about he saw the boy walking back to the city. The dead archers' bows and quivers would not go to waste in Nicea. Cyn whistled to the kid to get his attention. The lad was the barracks mascot and go-to dogsbody of the west gate militia. As the boy was trotting over Cyn cast his glance at Pons and the imperial party which had not moved from the fallen horse. In the distance on the hill by the camp where the gaggle of robed geese had come he saw her.
Cyn handed the boy the bows and quivers when he drew near. The lad was about to return to the city when Cyn motioned for him to stay. He began to disrobe the bodies trying to keep the garments free from the blood. He unwound a turban and head scarf from a body.
“What do you want with all that?” the lad asked.
“That my boy,” said Cyn bundling up the garments, “is a disguise.”