A battle that had been fought incompetently since the very start, with the choice of a totally unsuitable battlefield … “One does not line up one’s own cavalry in a bog, hell!” Hanno had emphatically said when he had come back from the leaders’ meeting, where he had clearly and squarely stated that there was no hope of driving the Catalan infantry off the top of the hill even with five thousand knights, let alone with the five hundred German and English that Pisa had managed to scrape together.
Despite this he had lined up his men. When their turn had come, they had charged furiously, sweeping away the Hispanic and Moorish horsemen as a plane shaves the bark off a young birch tree … but they had had to stop in front of the stockade of sharpened posts behind which the Catalan infantry had lined up. After just a moment and a signal with the iron glove from Hagen and his English colleague James of Cork … leaving the horses in the trusted hands of their squires, the mercenary knights had dismounted and had set out towards the fenced camp brandishing axes and maces. The iron-covered men had opened a way for themselves through the posts under the terrified eyes of the infantrymen and of the archers, coming finally into contact with the Catalan infantry … in the fearsome melee that had ensued, the infantry cohorts had been decimated by the fury of the dismounted knights, but the infantry masses, ten times as numerous as the knights, had started tightening around the mercenaries. The old Hagen had gotten his men to close ranks and signalled retreat. The German mercenaries had passed through the furious Catalans as a metal wire in an ironsmith’s extruder, leaving bloodied shavings on the mud field.
Hanno, hit in the head by the mace of a Hispanic infantryman, had been one of those shavings. He had been carried for a while on the shoulders by Valdemar, a scarred Saxon … then they had been intercepted by a squad of Occitan cavalrymen and the last image that had impressed itself on Hanno’s frightened eyes had been Valdemar’s axe cutting through the shanks of a horse, bringing down the enemy lancer … then everything had disappeared into nothingness.
Now those strange hairy soldiers were carrying him to safety … and this was enough for him. They were climbing up a small valley covered by tangled, meagre shrubs, when a group of Balearic irregulars armed with dagger and falchions came out of a ravine: they were hauling the corpses of many fallen men. The soldier that was carrying him put a knee on the ground and unloaded a sore and panicking Hanno … it was not yet over then! He was able to pull himself up to see the clash starting out vicious and frantic and quickly end. One of the small men drew two short swords out of the crossed sheaths on his back and confronted the Balearics hopping like a dancer … the swords swirled and in a flash two enemies fell on the ground dying with their heads split and their throats open … another enemy tried to disembowel him with his dagger by sliding down on the ground, but the guy jumped nightmarishly high, spinning around on himself and landing past the line of his enemies, mowing down two more with a frightening ease.
Leaning on his elbow, sore, Hanno looks astonished at the leather-covered men mercilessly massacring the Balearics. “We learned to jump so high when we fought against the bird-men … quite a long time ago” a cold voice whispers in his ear in a harsh and hissing, but otherwise perfect, German. “Pull yourself up, German, let us not linger on with this select society …” A man, his gray hairs weaved with bronze and gold rings and an iron collar appearing below his gray mantle, helps him up … hobbling, they leave the furious slaughter behind them.
Despite this he had lined up his men. When their turn had come, they had charged furiously, sweeping away the Hispanic and Moorish horsemen as a plane shaves the bark off a young birch tree … but they had had to stop in front of the stockade of sharpened posts behind which the Catalan infantry had lined up. After just a moment and a signal with the iron glove from Hagen and his English colleague James of Cork … leaving the horses in the trusted hands of their squires, the mercenary knights had dismounted and had set out towards the fenced camp brandishing axes and maces. The iron-covered men had opened a way for themselves through the posts under the terrified eyes of the infantrymen and of the archers, coming finally into contact with the Catalan infantry … in the fearsome melee that had ensued, the infantry cohorts had been decimated by the fury of the dismounted knights, but the infantry masses, ten times as numerous as the knights, had started tightening around the mercenaries. The old Hagen had gotten his men to close ranks and signalled retreat. The German mercenaries had passed through the furious Catalans as a metal wire in an ironsmith’s extruder, leaving bloodied shavings on the mud field.
Hanno, hit in the head by the mace of a Hispanic infantryman, had been one of those shavings. He had been carried for a while on the shoulders by Valdemar, a scarred Saxon … then they had been intercepted by a squad of Occitan cavalrymen and the last image that had impressed itself on Hanno’s frightened eyes had been Valdemar’s axe cutting through the shanks of a horse, bringing down the enemy lancer … then everything had disappeared into nothingness.
Now those strange hairy soldiers were carrying him to safety … and this was enough for him. They were climbing up a small valley covered by tangled, meagre shrubs, when a group of Balearic irregulars armed with dagger and falchions came out of a ravine: they were hauling the corpses of many fallen men. The soldier that was carrying him put a knee on the ground and unloaded a sore and panicking Hanno … it was not yet over then! He was able to pull himself up to see the clash starting out vicious and frantic and quickly end. One of the small men drew two short swords out of the crossed sheaths on his back and confronted the Balearics hopping like a dancer … the swords swirled and in a flash two enemies fell on the ground dying with their heads split and their throats open … another enemy tried to disembowel him with his dagger by sliding down on the ground, but the guy jumped nightmarishly high, spinning around on himself and landing past the line of his enemies, mowing down two more with a frightening ease.
Leaning on his elbow, sore, Hanno looks astonished at the leather-covered men mercilessly massacring the Balearics. “We learned to jump so high when we fought against the bird-men … quite a long time ago” a cold voice whispers in his ear in a harsh and hissing, but otherwise perfect, German. “Pull yourself up, German, let us not linger on with this select society …” A man, his gray hairs weaved with bronze and gold rings and an iron collar appearing below his gray mantle, helps him up … hobbling, they leave the furious slaughter behind them.
(continues)
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