A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

”Hahahaha, who cares about him! If we were in Normandy, I’d sew his mouth shut if he dared say a word.”

”Next time I see him, I’ll wash his filthy mouth out with goat piss, right in front of that pretentious Bishop.”

”I’ve never had any respect for those Priests. While others are fighting, they’re hiding in their Churches.”

”A bunch of idiots who can’t even recite their Latin prayers properly. Not worth wasting our energy on.”

Eric waved his hand. While being lauded felt nice, he disliked this topic of conversation.

Because no matter how much evidence they produced of the other counts’ stupidity, it wouldn’t change the predicament he was in.

However, the Knights clearly didn’t get Eric’s hint and continued to ramble on.

”But he deserves a little hardship, just to make him understand that God isn’t on his side. I mixed castor beans into his rations and horse feed. I bet he’ll smell like shit all the way to Jerusalem.”

”The Lord will never let him enter Jerusalem. He’s the real Judas, a curse from God.”

The Knights clamored on, incensed on Eric’s behalf.

”Judas?” Leif had heard a familiar word. ”I’ve heard that name and his story countless times from Christians. He seems infamous, but I’ve never understood something. Your god is your savior and had to be nailed to a Cross, yet you call the man who made it all possible a traitor. I think you should worship him as a Saint, not brand him a betrayer.”

Leif’s words instantly silenced the boisterous Knights.

It seemed none of them had ever considered the question. Their loud discussion turned into hushed whispers.

The day was drawing to a close. The few clouds began to drift west, shrouding the distant lands in deep shadow, while the earth to the east still glowed in the fading light.

Eric could see the smoke from three villages. At the same time, he noticed low hills on the northern horizon, marking the end of the plain. Beyond them lay a world where desert and mountains intertwined.

After a while, Eric heard the sound of water.

Eric signaled to pick up the pace.

Soon, a wide, fast-flowing river appeared before them, a mix of mudflats, sandbars, and channels, where water birds roosted among thick reeds.

The river before them was the Orontes, the lifeblood of Syria connecting north and south. They had deliberately avoided the river’s main course to steer clear of Turkic Cavalry Archers from unknown factions.

Looking across the river, in the faint light of dusk, they could see the tightly packed huts of a village not far from the eastern bank, along with two towering minarets and their loathsome—at least in the Knights’ eyes—oval domes.

The Knights quickly dismounted and rushed to the river’s edge, eagerly splashing water on their faces and drinking their fill of the cool river water.

Although Eric had provided them with enough water, they knew how precious a water source was and had forced themselves to be restrained.

Of course, the Longbowmen and half of the Knights remained disciplined, staying back to keep watch.

”You see, my lord? Hama is quite a prosperous place. Among Suleiman Shah’s domains in Syria, Hama is truly the pearl. We can rest in this village tonight.”

”Tomorrow, after a bit more travel, we’ll enter Hama City, and the Fortress Lord will receive us.” Turandot had clearly breathed a sigh of relief, but he hid it well, feigning an air of knowing it all along as he boasted to Eric.

Those Franks at Shazha Castle had looked like they were going to eat him alive, which had scared him half to death.

’His wonderful life had only just begun.’

Eric didn’t respond to Turandot, instead staring intently at the village ahead. Thanks to his Eye of Reconnaissance, his vision was 30% deeper and wider than a normal person’s.

He could just barely make out the village’s condition. Even though the sky was already dark, he saw no lights from any fires. Furthermore, the spaces between the huts were a mess, cluttered with debris. Some huts even seemed to have collapsed, yet they didn’t look old—it looked like man-made destruction.

Soon, Eric noticed a dark shape approaching them.

”My lord, my lord, Lord Eric!” When Eric didn’t answer, Turandot’s heart sank.

Turandot raised his voice, ”Lord Er—”

”Draw swords! Prepare for battle!” Eric shoved Turandot behind him and roared, drawing his Thrusting Sword as the Aachen Scale Armor materialized from thin air.

The Knights by the river instantly fell back, while the vigilant Longbowmen and Knights on guard surged forward.

”My lord, how many?” a Knight standing beside Eric asked.

”About one or two hundred,” Eric said, unable to resist a joke.

”Then we’ll each kill six,” the Knight said seriously.

The Knight’s name was Reyno. He was one of Eric’s personal Knights and quite young.

Reyno had been younger than seventeen when he set out on campaign with Eric. He was the only son in his family, and his mother had begged Eric to look after him, to not let her reckless child charge at the front, and to bring him back alive.

Eric had granted the poor mother’s request and made Reyno his Personal Guard, even though Eric had no need for one.

Reyno was an easygoing person with a round, innocent face. Despite his youth, he had already proven himself to be no less capable than his elders and needed no one’s care. He had performed exceptionally well in the battle against the Turkic Cavalry Archers in Cilicia.

He had recently earned a new nickname among the men: ”Hairy Reyno.” It wasn’t because he was particularly hairy—in fact, he wore the standard short hair of the Normans, even shorter than the average Norman Warrior—but because he wove the hair of his dead enemies into thick Sword Belts.

’I hate touching other people’s hair, but her father promised he’d let me marry her when I have ten Sword Belts. I really wish all Heretics wore long hair like the Saxons,’ Reyno had complained once during the sea crossing.

Because among the Heretics, only the Nobility wore their hair long.

Smoke appeared purplish-red and gold in the twilight. Crows flew toward their nests, and a herd of cattle could be seen wandering in the distance.

The figures gradually became clear: six armored adult men, holding Longswords, still fifty paces from the Knights.

”When a man returns home,” Turandot shouted in Arabic, ”he does not expect to be greeted by a sword—”

But before Turandot could finish, Eric’s voice rang out.

”Who are you?” Surprisingly, however, Eric did not speak in Arabic, but in Frankish.

Turandot froze, looking at Eric in disbelief.

The Knights thought this was Eric’s signal to attack. They tightened their grips on their Longswords, about to charge, while the Longbowmen aimed at the enemies ahead, their Arrows nearly flying from the strings.

Not until a reply came from the other side, also in Frankish: ”We are wanderers from Normandy, unknown lord.”

The speaker’s Frankish carried a heavy Norman accent, which brought everyone’s actions to an immediate halt.