Siege

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Longo lay still under the bodies of two dead soldiers and waited for the last of the Turkish army to pass. The Christian crusade had been routed, and now the enemy marched around and over him, their boots squishing in the blood-drenched earth. He could just hear the distant horns of the scattered Christian army as it fled, followed by the cries and drums of the pursuing Turks. Finally the field fell silent save for the moans of the wounded and the harsh cries of the ravens that were arriving to feast upon the dead. One settled on a corpse near Longo and began to peck at the soft flesh of the face. If the ravens were here, then the battle was truly over. He had waited long enough.

He rose, stiff from lying so long on the cold, wet ground. He kicked at the raven, sending it flying away cawing in protest, and then drew his sword, a long thin blade of dark-grey steel. The battle might be over, but Longo was not done fighting. He scanned the horizon and saw a few distant enemy soldiers, pillaging amongst the thousands of dead. He ignored them; they were not the prey he sought. He was looking for one man: a Turk with pale-grey eyes and a gruesome scar stretching down the right side of his face from his temple to his jaw.

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