A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

”Cyprus was originally administered by the Lycia Army Region, and I am its Governor. The failure at Manzikert led to turmoil in Constantinople—Emperor Michael was overthrown, and a host of ambitious men have appeared, all coveting the throne.”

”John Doukas, Russell, and the former Emperor Nikephoros pulled all the battle-worthy armies to Constantinople for the civil war, leaving us powerless to resist the offensive by the Turkic People. The entire Lycia Army Region fell three years ago, and I fled to this island with a dozen of my Personal Guard and my Commander.”

”This place now operates as a remnant of the Lycia Army Region. The soldiers here have never experienced war; some have never even killed a man.”

”Without cavalry, I dare not risk leading these poorly trained farmer-soldiers on an offensive. We can only remain on the defensive.”

Constantine pointed to the Centurion at his side, and behind him, thirteen clearly battle-hardened veterans. Their presence was completely different from the surrounding soldiers. Although they wore the same Armor, the others looked as awkward as children in their parents’ clothes, hunched over and not daring to look directly at Eric and his men.

Eight of them were probably North People, and two were Russians.

...

Robert agreed to Governor Constantine’s request. A few days later, he took a contingent of Knights and, guided by two of the governor’s North People Personal Guard, headed toward the Arabs’ stronghold.

Leaving the olive and carob trees behind, they entered a land of limestone cliffs, scattered pines, dwarf oaks, and tall trees that resembled cedars. The air here was cool, fresh, and humid.

Eric came across a few shepherd boys and greeted them.

He used a few pieces of bread to win them over and asked about the surrounding area.

”The Monastery ahead is collapsed,”

the Shepherd Boy said proudly in his passable French, pointing ahead. Though Eric had already given him a spare Cloak that nearly swallowed him whole, he still chose to wear his own tattered robe.

Fortunately, the weather was mild.

The Shepherd Boy introduced his younger brother to Eric. The two children looked like twin figureheads on the same ship, both with black hair, olive skin, and black eyes.

He proudly told Eric that he was the elder, nine years old, while the other was only eight.

Their mother was a stout woman wrapped in black clothes who covered her mouth when she laughed to hide her missing teeth. She was a laundress and occasionally mended clothes for the townspeople.

Belem was fond of the two shepherd boys. They were like two little grinning puppies, and they had been following him around ever since they came asking for laundry work. Their father had died of a fever a few years ago.

”Oh, right. You haven’t told me your name yet, have you?” Eric said, ruffling the boy’s hair.

The boy took a deep breath, puffed out his small chest, and proudly recited, ”John Phokas Angelos Palaiologos Raoul Laskaris Tornikes Philanthropenos Asanis.”

He finished, enunciating every syllable, and broke into a brilliant smile. No one spoke, while Belem grinned off to the side.

”His name is bigger than he is,” Belem said with a loud laugh. ”I still prefer to call him Shepherd Boy. I’m not making the same mistake twice. What’s your brother’s name?”

”He’s called Flasio,” the boy answered, then watched, confused and angry, as everyone roared with laughter.

Then, the two North People brought the delivered Long Spears, Round Shields, and Leather Helmets. The rest of the half-baked Greek soldiers formed ranks and set out with the Norman Knights, carrying waterskins, dried meat, and bread, venturing into the island’s heartland.

It began to rain that day.

「Three days later.」

The rain and the accompanying cold wind showed no signs of stopping.

Eric had Robert make camp while he, Belem, and a small party detoured east, climbing to high ground near Katorlevkara and the larger Lefkara Town, which was said to be Faruk’s main base.

The rain was like a mist, forcing them to constantly wipe the water from their faces and eyelashes. Yet the day was still warm, and the Knights were sweating profusely inside their battle gear.

Even though it was late September, the weather remained hot.

The scouts returned from three different directions. One of them, a Knight, came forward to report to Eric.

Everyone called him ”Hook Eye” because his left eye was cocked inward toward his nose—yet, cross-eyed or not, he could read paths and tracks as easily as a monk reads Latin.

He was one of the surviving members of Eric’s Warband, an expert hunter and tracker named Nude. He had once made his fortune selling slaves—captured from the Estians and Livonians north of the Baltic Sea—to merchants bound for Dublin and the Isle of Man.

After a dispute with his partners over an uneven split of the profits, he was knocked unconscious, bundled up, and sold to the Norwegians on the Isle of Man.

He approached with the easy, solid gait of an expert tracker.

”A domed place of Jesus, Lord Gloucester. The Shepherd Boy was right,” Hook Eye replied respectfully.

He had become a Knight after Eric won him his freedom.

”It’s called a Church,” a Frank priest beside Eric sighed. ”How many times do I have to tell you?”

The priest’s name was John. He was an assistant to Archbishop Anselm of Canterbury and was representing Anselm on the Eastern Expedition.

Eric didn’t dwell on it for the moment.

The remaining two trackers, kneeling on the ground, pinched their noses to blow out snot and reported that they had seen nothing but rain, rocks, and distant hills.

”There are no living creatures here,” one of the Danish trackers said in frustration. ”Though I saw goat droppings, so something is alive in this Christ-cursed country.”

Then, like a good Christian, he apologized to the Frank priest and simultaneously offered a prayer to Odin to ward off evil.

Eric cautiously led twenty Knights toward the domed Church. He urged the fully armored men to be as quiet as possible, but with little success.

They crossed a bare hillock, descended a shrub-covered slope, forded a swollen stream, and climbed the opposite hillside to the location of the Church—or rather, its three blackened walls and partially collapsed dome. The sun was a pale white disk, hanging distantly in the sky without casting any shadows. The air was filled with the faint smell of burnt wood mixed with damp earth—and a sweet, nauseating odor like spoiled mead.

”Heh,” Belem grunted, pinching his scab-covered nose. ”There are dead men here.”

There were indeed dead men. Now that Eric looked closer, it was as if a deer had suddenly stirred in the woods, causing the whole picture to snap into focus.

Bodies were everywhere, collapsed like emptied waterskins, with grass growing up through them.

Eric saw the tattered remains of robes revealing yellowed bone. When Belem pulled at what he thought was a brown stick, he tugged out a bone attached to a clump of brown, maggot-ridden flesh, releasing a pungent stench that made the eyes water.

Eric moved carefully around the place, which had clearly been sacked and burned.

Eric immediately posted sentries, even though the signs of destruction were clearly months old. Priest John knelt to pray while the others rummaged through the ruins. The rain began to fall again, fine as tears.

”This place is strange,” Belem muttered, ”even for a Christian Church. Why are there so many wheels?”

The area was littered with shattered, charred pieces of wood and scattered Metal parts. Fragments of burned wheels and spokes were everywhere.

As he said, even accounting for the eccentricities of the Greek Christians, this was a novel sight.

Belem suddenly sensed something and looked up at the sky. A few small black dots were circling.

”Crows?” Belem murmured.

Eric shook his head. ”Red Kites. They’ll tell our enemies where we are. They smell the decay here and think they’ll find fresh corpses to feed on.”