The duel was forced to end.
During the confrontation between the two armies, the King’s ssenger ca before Saladin with a fervent deanor, accusing him of casting a disgraceful shadow over this duel of honor.
But Saladin’s response was impeccable.
He said that it was the holy fire that bestowed a warrior with power, and he was by no ans a monster; it was rely that when using this power, he would montarily maintain a half-dragon form.
It didn’t seem unreasonable.
"But people will only believe what they see with their own eyes."
Losa’s lips curled with a sarcastic smile: "Kurs, you’ve worked hard tonight."
The shadow behind him bowed and vanished without a trace.
His plan was already in motion.
...
He bid farewell to Kurs.
Losa then turned to Hans, who was not seriously injured, but Losa still apologized, saying: "Hans, you’ve been wronged today."
Hans was actually a young knight renowned in Jerusalem, as the leader of the Royal Knight Order, he had defeated many challengers.
"It’s nothing, just a matter of skill inadequacy."
Hans quickly shook his head, saying: "If I had the strength to defeat that guy under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have turned out this way."
Losa routinely patted Hans on the shoulder.
Hans hesitated for a mont, but still said: "It’s just that I saw Sir Stephen again today, and he has yet to be punished."
Sir Stephen was the brutal lord previously responsible for nurous evils and civil unrest.
Losa nodded, saying: "Duke Raymond wants him to make ands... Actually, the likelihood is that he hopes for his demise in this war."
That was understandable.
What is the greatest advantage of a feudal lord?
Being able to wage war, and promptly lead troops when the lord demands.
Other than that, personal character requires no more than loyalty.
"If you can’t stand it, throw a glove in his face."
Hans was silent for a mont, then shook his head, saying: "Sir, I won’t cause you trouble."
Losa let out a gentle sigh.
Hans was a knight who was upright and candid.
He was different.
Even though his image was better crafted than Hans’s, he was gradually stepping into the role represented by his position.
Gazing at Hans’s back, Losa murmured softly:
"His Majesty was right—the transformation of the body affects the spirit, and one’s seat affects the mind."
Losa sighed lightly, thinking of lords like Sir Stephen who commit all kinds of evil deeds—not few in number, though not everywhere across Europe or the Saracen World—and not every ruler weighs the pros and cons.
Aristocrats who boast nobility and regard commoners as re livestock are simply too many.
"Even though that’s the case, you are still the most enlightened and benevolent ruler of this era."
"Soon it won’t be the case."
If the plan goes smoothly, after this battle, he will march into Egypt, and by then, many will die.
...
Morning at Eira Port.
A light mist shrouded the sea.
The town guards were already fully ard, standing tall at Siegfried High Tower.
Andreas took a bite of a hard wheat cake, glancing at Mueller whose eyes were bloodshot—last night, this old Saracen man was roused after only two hours of shallow sleep.
There was no choice; after all, he was a parachuted guard officer, and the port’s defenses couldn’t be detached from Mueller’s cooperation.
"Sir Mueller, how are you?"
"No problem!"
Mueller, not wearing armor, rubbed his wrinkled face, relaxedly said: "Don’t worry, young man, I’m a knight personally appointed by the lord. Haven’t you heard that aged wine grows in fragrance?"
At this mont, a servant handed over two glasses of wine.
"To victory."
Mueller clinked glasses with Hans, savoring the wine comfortably: "Heavenly Father is indeed magnanimous, allowing every Christian to freely enjoy such a delightful liquid."
Andreas thought inwardly that actually, the Great Orthodox Church also advocated temperance, and drinking excessively was among the Seven Deadly Sins, known as "gluttony," but without donations to the monasteries, they had to be self-sufficient, thus developing various "wine industry monasteries."
Consequently, drinking beca a tacit secret among the monks.
At this ti.
The horn sounded from Siegfried High Tower, with such urgency that Mueller stood up abruptly: "Sixteen large ships are coming. Counting the rowers, there are at least three thousand enemies!"
Andreas also felt tense; three thousand was sowhat of an underestimate, and if they were large paddle-sailing ships that could carry four hundred people, this number would double.
Yet, at present Eira Port lacked elite soldiers—all had been drawn by Losa, leaving only four hundred town guards and three hundred troops urgently drawn from nearby, along with civilians fulfilling their duty to defend the town.
...
The urgent sound of bells rang in the town hall.
Every town resident picked up a weapon, ready to fight.
Old Hasan was among those recruited to guard the town.
He and his tribe were positioned between the Alandler Bishopric and Eira Port, making them the furthest soldiers that could be hurriedly supported from nearby.
Though elderly,
he held a wooden long spear, with three short javelins for close-range throwing fixed to the shield in his hand, and wore a rusty iron helt, topped with a stalk of crop—this was to ensure his tribesn could spot him instantly.
A middle-aged Kurd with weathered, dark skin looked guilty: "Sheikh (Clan Leader), it’s all my son’s fault for wearing your armor."
A set of armor significantly increased a soldier’s survival rate in battle—this was known to every Kurd warrior.
Old Hasan said casually: "If us old folks dying can keep the young alive, what reason is there to stop us? Prepare for battle, Mosi, to safeguard our hard-won new beginnings."
Old Hasan was uncertain whether migrating his tribe to Marquis Losa’s territory was right or wrong; initially thinking himself reckless, then foresighted, now worrying whether the tribe would vanish after this battle.
"Where are the enemies?"
Soone craned their neck to look.
"Fool, you’re getting old—are your eyes failing too?"
Old Hasan snapped, pointing toward the horizon where the blue sea t the sky; atop the rising mist, faintly visible were white sails: "Dig the fence deep, these guys are coming from the sea. They’re unlikely to have cavalry or armored soldiers. We just need to hold, and once reinforcents arrive, we can head ho with rewards and embrace our wives."
A group of old n chuckled.
"Don’t worry, Sheikh, let’s show these youngsters that old dogs still have teeth."
Old Hasan looked at his old comrades who once fought alongside him, so missing an arm while others lacked an ear. The long nomadic life in the desert took its toll on their bodies prematurely.
Yet, compared to the fully ard town guards, heavy with helts and armor, Old Hasan trusted his old comrades more.
"Shayue Tribe, fight with !"
Old Hasan’s hoarse voice echoed along the wooden fence that ford the town’s defensive line.
A chorus of aging warriors howled in response: "Ho!"
"Ho!"
"Ho!"
Drawing sideways glances from town guards making their ergency preparations.
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