A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

However, just as the Turkic man was swinging his curved saber, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his armpit.

A sword sliced in from under his outstretched arm. The blade carved its way up into his armpit, stopping only when it hit his shoulder blade.

The Turkic man shrieked, his voice high and sharp like a woman in childbirth. He jerked back, and the blade pulled free.

Eric swung his sword again. The poor light prevented him from landing a clean blow between the man’s neck and shoulder, so his blade instead sheared off the left side of his opponent’s beard and jaw.

Blood and teeth sprayed everywhere. The Turkic man fell backward with a wretched shriek, slipping on the blood-slicked flagstones.

Eric thrust his sword into the man’s throat, then flicked the blood from his blade.

Belem had finished his fight as well.

The quiet Church was filled with heavy panting, the groans of those in so much pain they wished for death, and the gurgling from the throats of those so near death they could no longer feel it.

Of the five Turkic men in the Church, four were now dead.

A curse from a Nordic Warrior broke the silence; his nose had been split open, and a pool of blood was forming at his feet.

The others moved with purpose among the groaning Turkic men, mercilessly slitting their throats.

”Leave one alive,” Eric said.

Belem shrugged as if he’d just had a light workout. He hauled up a Turkic man with a wounded thigh, who was still panting and grunting.

”What a mess,” Belem said, patting the Turkic man’s face with his Sword Back in a show of dominance. ”I ought to teach you how to use a Sword, you Turk. You looked like you were chopping firewood.”

Eric went over to the barrier the Turkic men had erected. A pile of goods was stacked there. He smelled something different in the air. Crouching down, he opened the boxes and barrels one by one before looking over at Belem. ”Alright, stop showing off. He can’t understand what you’re saying. Look at this.”

Belem ran to Eric’s side. When he saw what lay before them, his eyes widened to match his grin.

The real loot was right before their eyes.

Inside the chests were rolls of fabric, from fine linen to coarse woolens. Some of the barrels were filled with small bags of what looked like dust and dirt.

There were yellow spices called turmeric, as well as black pepper, saffron, and cardamom—enough to last a long time for stews and roasts.

There were mountains of golden almonds, pungent black cloves, and brown powders—cumin and coriander—as well as barrels of instantly recognizable chickpeas.

”We’re rich!” Belem laughed.

A Knight opened a barrel and immediately sneezed. Golden powder flew everywhere, filling the room with dust that made everyone sneeze and their eyes water.

”Cinnamon,” Eric said, joking that the man had just sneezed away a fortune equivalent to half the value of his Armor.

A roar of laughter erupted.

That sobered the others, so they continued their search more carefully, discovering carefully packaged ingredients that were still almost fresh.

They also found a small, golden-yellow Fruit so sour it made their jaws ache.

Eric told them they were called lemons.

The treasures kept coming: barrels full of various olives, though many of the Knights had only ever seen one kind of olive in their lives—the ones they saw a few days ago in Greece.

There were also light and dark peppercorns, as well as Leather from the Nile Region.

Of course, there were weapons and Armor too—a batch of Long Spears, daggers, Greek Swords needing their hilts decorated, Turkic-style Scale Armor, and Shields—and three very exquisite Swords.

Eric picked up one of them.

The craftsmanship was exquisite. The surface of the blade seemed to tell a story, with patterns that rippled like water.

Lagman said it was of Northern European make.

These Swords were called ”Vaegir,” meaning ’wave,’ a mark of their outstanding quality. Their hilts and guards had almost no decoration, only sturdy Leather grips.

Lagman and Belem each took one. Eric gave the last one to Stephen. The man had been badly frightened by the castration scene in the hut, and since he was reluctant to join the Holy War to begin with, Eric felt he needed to give him a reward. It might prevent him from packing up and running off without so much as a goodbye.

As Eric and his men were carrying the goods out, the Priests exclaimed, ”By the grace of God! We are rich!”

Just then, Count Evler William and his men returned from patrol. They brought back a Turkic captive—or perhaps a Turkic slave, as his eyes were covered with a black cloth, suggesting he was blind.

Count Evler was a young man of about thirty. Although nominally Robert’s paternal uncle, in reality, he wasn’t much older than Robert, though he was a bit taller.

His hair had the bright hue of ferns in October, and his deep-set eyes were an indeterminate color, neither brown nor hazel.

Count Evler reined in his horse, his gaze fixed on Eric, who was directing a group of men carrying goods out of the Church.

He dismounted and hauled the blind Turkic slave from his horse with one hand. He shoved the man forward until he was right in front of Eric.

”They had no horses. Only boats. And their boats had nothing on them except this one. I’ve burned them.”