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July 29, 1565 - Medina

As Von Stark was going through his own speech to follow up the Lieutenant, Cosimo cared not for the Company rules. He followed his own code and it had worked well for him over the years. There was little need to describe what virtue was - it had been his creed for all his life.

Rather, all Cosimo could think of was how glad he was to be in a city again. The days on board the ship and then the landing - guarding the unloading in the hot sun, unable to even take his own shirt off because of his armor.

And then the march. None of it was new to him...but the heat was. He did not recall England, or even Germany ever having such a hot sun, even if it was the very same star.

He knew King would be pleased too, if anything to see a new city and new culture. It had always been his greatest pleasure while serving de Perugia.

He was snapped back to attention at the sound of a young woman,

"Mario Chen! You owe me an explanation right now! It's been one whole day since I last saw you. Are you so busy that you can't even spare me a few minutes of your time!"

He was shocked and looked over to one of the other pikemen. "What - Chen gets to bring his own woman? No one told me.”
 
July 29th, 1565 – Medina


The trains were trickling in still. All the critical stores had arrived and most stored, much due to the help of the mayor putting local teams and men to the task. The remaining supplies arriving were tradable materials for the craftsmen; a costly loss should something happen, but one that could be replaced locally for a price.

Taking advice from the envoy, Nathaniel had his apprentices move to a loose daily tally for all but the most critical supplies. The effect had been nearly immediate. They would use more stocks, but the ease in handling the transactions relieved tensions for all. He'd built a heavy cushion into his numbers at the beginning, and so far was running positive. Another lesson in this grand schooling of the Company at war.

Space was limited, but not overcrowded. Two cisterns had been allocated, as well as a third with a turnstile pump system to create a flow. The smiths and barbers had laid immediate claim to it. Their work areas were already coming together, and the smithy and leatherworkers had a few repair jobs in the wings already. The stabling area had it's own water source, and the stablers had a near fanaticism with keeping the place clean. Which was essential, as a number of the Company's animals had developed festering black sores during their time on the boats. So far the sores had defied attempts to cure them on ship.

"Hi Nathaniel, Anything you need me to help you in?" Nathaniel turned away from his ledgers to find Wei. He thought for a moment, and smiled.

"In fact, I do Wei. It's not as exciting as being with the cavalry, but it's just as important. Can you find the gypsies? I need to know if they have everything they need, and also see if they have someone that is experienced with horse husbandry." Martel paused for a moment as Wei turned to leave. "Wei! If you please, see if you can find the man Yussuf. He was with Richard at last I saw him. Ask him if he knows anything of horse care."
 
The men stood in the hot afternoon sun on the small square in the centre of the Free Company quarters. In front of them Diego stood and looked long and hard at them,

“Men, the drill on the beach was easy work despite the sand, but you are unknown to me, and I am not known by you. I need to see that you can more than look pretty and fire your guns.”

He smiled, and the men chuckled a bit.

“If that was all you could, I would send you to the Reiters.”

The men smiled broadly now,

“However, I need to know I can trust you. Trust you to follow orders, to stay in formation, to hold your fire until I say so, and then make every ball count. There will be no swift horse to save your sorry asses on the ground, and when I say we will be fighting where it is hottest, I mean not only the sun.”

He turned his gaze through the front ranks, and tried to get contact with the second and third rank.

“Lack of discipline in your officers’ choice of formation, and lack of trust in your officers was what got your comrades killed in the crucial moments.”

The men sobered quickly at that and he saw a few reluctant nods.

“Don’t worry lads, once I am done you will walk with straight backs and not need the horse lovers to support you.”

He turned to Rodriquez,

“Today we will do some simple musketeers’ drill I want to make sure you all know the same basics so we are in step so to speak.”

The men nodded reluctantly, but Diego persisted,

“What will happen if my men are two steps ahead of you in a drill? What will happen if the Russian over there do things in a different order during an attack? It will break our formation.”

He nodded to the drummers, who began beating a slow cadence,

“Once we agree on the sequence, we will increase the tempo, and finish of with some very basic formation drills to change the shape from five by five to ten by two and a few directional changes. Start by following Rodriquez here in the musketeers forty-eight step drill.”
 
July 29, 1565 - Bringing Up the Rear

Dudley eyed the knotting on the culverin for the sixth time in the last minute. Was that rope stretching a bit? Too taut? He shook the thought out of his head. No no, one of the men said it was a double…or was it triple…something or another knot. He coughed, the dust ruining his fine tunic. This was ridiculous, how could they be expected to perform their duties under such conditions. Dust and cursing and men…well, there was no point in mentioning it. Pulling this culverin up the cliff side had been sheer agony…watching the men do it, that is. Adelmar assisted in guiding the barrel in this direction or that, but certainly the others were much more stronger than he. It’d be a waste of muscle if he would attempt such labor. No no, better that he stand back, in a supervisory role. And so he had oversaw the raising and reassembly of the gun and carriage at the top, and here at last they were in motion, if a slow plodding through dust clouds could be considered motion.

And then there was the thumb. Dudley visibly shuddered at the memory. That man, cursing, spitting, grabbing his arm involuntarily. Llywarch forcing the man down, shouting something at him, forcing Dudley to help him pin the man while he…while he…Dear God, the man’s thumb! How could a man’s thumb become something so red, so mangled. Adelmar coughed at the thought. They had buried the thumb somewhere on the cliff top behind him – without honors. A pity, that.

Llywarch started talking to him, clearly probing about his background. ”I marched for the King”, he murmured in subtle reply, though clearly the Welshman wanted answers. ”I was in a…how would you call it…a gentleman’s company in Calais for a year. We tried to make life difficult for the French…and, well….” Adelmar shook his head, a small grin on his face. ”We weren’t very good. There were only twenty or so of us, and the French garrison ran us off. I suppose it was the thing to do. Our families were gone, and we couldn’t just leave it to him.” He sighed, listening to the Welshman’s speech about poxy horses…and women. He shuddered, putting the thought from his mind. ”These Turks…hairy fellows, yes? Ever run into some? The French have less hair, well at least on the outside. But they can smell, if you catch them in the right situation.” Adelmar quickly noticed the rope shifting slightly to the left, and pushed it back into place, just before it went taut again. This was ridiculous, he told himself.
 
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July 29th, 1565 – Medina - Artillery billet

"Llywarch! Dudley! Stop fondling the gun and get your asses out here!" Gunshy cursed at the two as they left the small warehouse where the guns were being stored.

The artillery gathered in front of their billet, motley at best. The stood on the dust covered cobblestones of Medina, feeling the heat of the sun burn their necks, and the the gape of the sky above their heads. It was interesting, the artillery had no formation as such, no real organized group drill. Yet, they instinctively grouped together by gun crew, as if the brutal weapons of cast bronze were more than tools of mayhem to the gunners.

Each gun crew had a distinct, flair, for lack of a better word. Dai the Death's crew which was led by Llywarch, was commonly regarded as the best of all of them. Though, the crew of De Bloomfield's Revenge was known for it's speed in loading, and The Belle D'Ancona for accuracy. All the gun crews, Organ guns included, were good, Gunshy drilled them endlessly so during those crucial moments, the Free Company would have support just where and when it needed it.

"Alright you worthless lot, listen up." Gunshy bellowed over the chatter. "Campaign law is in effect, you veterans know what that means, but for you recruits Ill repeat it." The stocky gunner was standing atop an overturned cart, glaring at his mentally handicapped gun firing progeny. "Campaign law means no stealing, if I or a sergant catches you with your fingers in someone elses belongings I will strongly lobby Captain to let me personally toss you off one of the plentiful cliffs on this island. No raping, the punishment for this will involve being tied to a cannon, guess what happens then. And finally, no killing. Even if their cavalry."

The artillery gave a weak cheer mostly made up of curses and shouts of derision toward their leader. Still, they would obey. Gunshy was their leader to a man, he wasn't afraid to aim, load, and fetch water during the heat. He took care of them, making sure their wounds were looked after, making sure they got their pay, even writing letters to loved ones on occasion for those who lacked the skill.

"I'm glad you maggots all understand." Gunshy cursed his men. "Everyone make sure you've got somewhere to pass out tonight, you get half an hour to find some water and insult reiters. After that, we start drilling again, the long break you disgusting pack of mangy dogs got on the boat is now over."

It was an interesting dynamic, respect laced with mockery and insults. Everyone knew that when Gunshy stopped cursing, stopped grousing, and stopped complaining, that's when you got out of his way. The vets, if pressed, would tell stories of how he had taken a nasty leg wound in a brutal melee around the guns several years ago, until Captain himself, the old one anyway, had led cavalry around the lines to rescue them. He took the wound because he would not retreat before his men, and he'd die before he let the enemy take a gun.

"Sergeants, to me." Gunshy hopped off the cart as his gun commanders formed a loose half circle. "Get the men drilling, I'm going to check in with Captain, the other officers, and have another argument with Martel about releasing the powder to us." The sergeants nodded, and a small conversation seemed to be starting among them as Gunshy headed out.
 
July 29, 1565 - Medina

Von Stark was in the middle of his speech when Mei Feng's high pitched voice cut him off.

"Mario Chen! You owe me an explanation right now! It's been one whole day since I last saw you. Are you so busy that you can't even spare me a few minutes of your time!"

There were a few muffled snickers that were silenced at the look from their beleagured lieutenant. His frown was truly awesome to behold. He turned back to the fuming girl and grabbed her arm.

"Mario," she gasped," What do you think you are doing?"

"Taking you a bit further away from my men," Mario hissed," If you don't mind! I have to maintain discipline and you are not helping!"

"Which part of I've been waiting more than a day for you to see me did you not understand?" MeiFeng snapped.

"Do you not comprehend the fact that the company is on campaign?" Mario retorted hotly," I am busy! I have responsibilities! I do not have time to spend all of my time with you!"

"After I traveled all this way to see you!" MeiFeng screeched, her voice rising dramatically.

"Damn it, MeiFeng!" Mario nearly shouted back at her," You are supposed to be back at the village! Not here with the company! It's dangerous!"

"You're here," she snorted," How dangerous can it be?"

Mario rolled his eyes," You have no idea. When the bullets snap by and the blades of our foes are licking forward to take a life it is indeed dangerous!"

"Fine! Whatever!" MeiFeng threw up her hands in disgust," You could have at least come to see me!"

"You aren't even supposed to be here!" Mario groaned," I have duties right now. Could this wait until later?"

"So I can wait more days until you deign to see me?" her eyes flashed dangerously.

"It won't be days, MeiFeng," Mario shook his head," I'll come see you tonight. If I can. I can't promise anything. I don't know what the Turk will be doing. If we are attacked I won't be there. I'll be busy trying to make sure we aren't all going to get killed."

She snorted," You'd better show up tonight. Or else!"

Mario grimaced as she spun about and stamped off, her skirt flouncing as she stalked away. He turned back to the men, some of them wiping smiles off their faces when his eyes lit upon them. His thunderous appearance made it clear that he would not be taking questions. Folding his arms he nodded to Von Stark to continue speaking. Von Stark raised an eyebrow and turned back to the men...
 
July 29th, 1565 – Medina - Artillery billet

"These Turks…hairy fellows, yes? Ever run into some? The French have less hair, well at least on the outside. But they can smell, if you catch them in the right situation." Llywarch smiled as he listened to Dudley.

"Nay, I've never killed a Turk," he replied, "or - to my knowledge - a Frenchman. Spent most of my time fighting the Emperor's wars in Italy. Siege of Siena was my big show. Caught a few eyes there, got sent to University at Freiberg to study my letters. Anyway, got a bit bored up there and decided to go to where the action was. But I ended up in Malta instead."

Gunshy's voice boomed from outside. "Llywarch! Dudley! Stop fondling the gun and get your asses out here!"

The Welshman sauntered out slowly. "Ah, Gunshy, you're just jealous that our lady won't let you fondle her. Just like all the other girls, right?" The string of curses in reponse was its own reward.

He listened with half an ear to Gunshy's usual rant, then gathered with the other sergeants. "One question, m'lord Gunshy," he asked. "Can we do some live drills, or do we have to work the ladies over cold?"
 
July 29th - Rangers

Andrew takes the cord from Arpad, and nods. Not what he would have planned, but a good plan all the same. It is very hot. No wonder that Saint Paul deserved his title, to be stranded here for months and yet remain true to Christ. Monks go to remote places to found their monasteries, and the warrior monks of St John appeared to be no exceptions - and where was lonelier than a small isle spitting in the Turkic eye? He takes a moment to just see the lie of the path, and then he smiles.

With a quick grin to Arpad he takes shelter behind two rocks that seem to lean together, leaving a small hole at their base, the ground dipping the other side of the path leaving him a natural place to lie. The space is not large, but large enough for him to site his bow. Taking out a scrap of cloth he covers the front of his bow, so no glint of metal will betray him, and settles down to wait.

He does not have to wait for long.
 
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July 29th, 1565 - One Mile North of Medina - First Blood, Best Blood

His comrades were coming this way...but Arpad counted only four. So, they had lost one already. He could no longer move his head to try and compensate for his depth perception problems, as the risk of detection was too great, and so he simply closed his eyes and felt the ground move beneath him. The Rangers were moving quickly, and so they stirred the earth...but only barely. The Turks, apparently not so specialized in stealth, rumbled the dirt beneath the Magyar, and as they got close, he pulled.

The cord yanked taut in his hands as the first Turk struck it, and it was all the Hungarian could do to hold on against the strain. He heard the dull thud of flesh crashing to earth, and the yelps of surprise and pain as the Turks behind the leading men came to a sudden halt. The weight was too great a strain, and Arpad released the cord and leapt to his feet, flinging a handful of throwing knives into the compact crowd of startled Turkmen. The razor-sharp shards of metal twisted through the knot of men, leaving only red in their wake. He briefly saw an arrow sail out of the rocks from some hidden place...probably Andrew...and tear through a heathen throat.

With a quick flick of the wrists, the handles to a pair of combat knives appeared in the Ranger's hands. He gave them a twirl, and the blades were out, screaming for blood to slake their thirst. Leaping into the fray, blades gleaming in the noonday sunlight, the Magyar felt a feral cry rising within him, and it was all he could do to keep from screaming like a madman. The nearest Turk never saw what killed him, only an arc of steel and the red spray of his own blood spattering the rocks. The other Rangers descended on the throng as well, hitting those Turks still lucky enough to be standing first, then moving on to the ones that had fallen prone or dropped weapons.

When the numbers in the fight rapidly evened, the skill of the Rangers took over, and the Turks stood no chance. Arpad moved from throat to throat, and had no idea how many he'd cut. Each kill took mere seconds, and with his comrades attacking from the other side, the Turks were not only being rapidly torn to shreds but were also boxed in.

One finally managed to face the Magyar, scimitar drawn, and swung. Arpad felt the contact on his left arm, just below the shoulder, a glancing blow that tore through his cloak and shirt...but no blood came. Instead, several rows of chain links showed through the hole in the cloth, and they were the last sight the eyes of the Turk would ever take in. Raising his blades high above his head, Arpad struck downward, plunging a knife into the flesh on each side of the man's neck, down past the collarbones. Drawing them out, he crossed them over the Turk's neck, and received a fountain of blood for his efforts.
 
July 29, 1565 - Medina, Artillery Billet

”Ah, so you’ve had some hands-on experience with these things, then.” Though he didn’t show it, Dudley was impressed at Llywarch’s service at Siena. He’d studied the siege from what reports he could glean. ”Was hoping to go to Cambridge, myself. Alas, things got in the way, French things mostly. But I did manage to serve briefly at the Arsenal at Woolwich. Enough to make me familiar with these things…” he smacked the barrel with a bit of paternal pride.

"Llywarch! Dudley! Stop fondling the gun and get your asses out here!" A voice shouted, causing Adelmar to jump involuntarily. He’d rarely been around Lieutenant Gunshy, and from what he’d heard about and from the officer, it was a good thing, especially for his eardrums. He followed Llywarch, trying his best to ignore the foul epithets the soldiers hurled back and forth. Around him, he took in the sights of the settlement of Medina, if it could be called such. This was certainly nothing compared to the infidel holy city. The dust seemed to rise from the town like a blanket, and Adelmar suspected that this was a permanent fixture, not just from the passing of the cavalry. Bringing up the rear, most of the good billets had been taken, which annoyed Adelmar. Such common scum as the infantry taking up perfectly good bedding. He sighed, deciding he’d better camp out near the gun anyhow. His thoughts continued along this vein as he ambled along after Llywarch, approaching the bellowing officer.

His eyes kept flickering over and around Gunshy, unable to meet the man’s stare directly. It was safer that way, he thought nervously, though his ears pricked up at Llywarch’s mention of “live drills”. ”I’ve not seen this gun in action, so a live drill would be most helpful if we can spare the ammunition, sir. These culverins have a mind of their own sometimes…it’s all a question of craftsmanship, materials, the shot itself. It would be good to know its actual range, behavior, and so forth. Certainly you can see the logic in this…yes?”
 
July 29th, 1565 – Medina – Late Afternoon

David Robertson and Henri Taylor stood at the edge of the town square and watched several Knights Hospitallers practising sword work. Even in the blazing heat, they were outfitted in chain mail covered by their trademark white tunic with emblazoned red cross.

“They show spirit.” Henri observed. “Far cry from when I first arrived.”

“I think we’ve given them a solid reason to fight.”

“I’d say more like 2,600 solid reasons.”

Captain laughed. “You know what? All this watching has made me thirsty.” He turned about and started walking. Henri hurried to catch up. “There’s a tavern in our sector. We passed it on the way here.”

“Of course. What’s the Company without a tavern to call home?”

“An ale less Company, for sure.” They continued along the narrow cobblestone streets, dusty with the dry, arid air. The buildings were at least two stories high on either side; the majority reddish orange in colour.

Finally they turned a corner and stopped at large building. The entrance was fronted with a lazily swinging sign.

Henri raised an eyebrow. “’The Randy Porpoise.’ You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

“The tradition goes back a long, long way. Come on, I’ll stand you a drink. We’ll charge the rest to Gunshy and Glory.”

They entered into a wide room with dozens of empty benches, complete with bored innkeeper and idle staff. They sat at a table by the rear wall. The innkeeper clapped his hands and the barmaids swarmed into action.

Captain commented, “This place hasn’t seen coin for some time.”

Henri asked, “What about the men?”

“Don’t worry. They’ll smell this place out in no time. Now, what do you want?”
 
July 29th, 1565 - One Mile North of Medina

“Alright boys, just a bit further.” Renault said to encourage his men and he fired off his last pistol. This time the ball embedded itself into horseflesh and the stricken horse threw his rider. Putting the pistols back Renault pulled his blades once more.

The men around him were making good account of themselves. The Turks were being held back from overwhelming them but they couldn’t keep this up. They were being pressed hard and were about to be in serious danger when they passed through the trap set by Arpad and Andrew.

The cord yanked taut in Arpad's hands as the first Turk struck it, and it was all the Hungarian could do to hold on against the strain. He heard the dull thud of flesh crashing to earth, and the yelps of surprise and pain as the Turks behind the leading men came to a sudden halt. The weight was too great a strain, and Arpad released the cord and leapt to his feet, flinging a handful of throwing knives into the compact crowd of startled Turkmen.

It was the crashing to the earth and the twanging of a bowstring that alerted Andre that the ambush had been sprung. He followed Renault back into the fray, the blade in his left hand darting out to take one of the struggling Turks on the ground in the throat. Blood gushed out, staining the blade briefly, only to be flicked away as he blocked a blade descending upon him.

His right hand blade licked forward to skitter off the armor of the man before him. Renault casually slashed the Turk's throat with his own blade and nodded to the embattled Ranger. Andre smiled briefly as he blocked another blade, this one aimed at Renault and watched as the sergeant blocked another viscious cut to the head and responded with a quick slash to the leg that took the Turk down.

Andre parried another thrust and used his other blade to force his blade under the armpit of the man facing him. Blood bubbled out of the wound as he pulled out his blade and ducked a wild swing of a Turk tripping over his fallen comrades. Arpad was a whirling dervish among those who had already fallen and Renault was almost a blur of movement.

I'd better step it up, Andre thought to himself, More Turks seem to be coming! Surely there weren't all in the barn?

With a grunt he blocked another blow and slipped it aside, backswinging with great speed to take off the hand of the blade that almost had an opportunity to kill him. He stepped forward to stand near the Ranger sergeant, his blades crimson as he saw more Turks approaching rapidly...
 
July 29th, 1565 – Medina - Artillery billet

"One question, m'lord Gunshy," Llywarch asked. "Can we do some live drills, or do we have to work the ladies over cold?"

Gunshy had been about to stomp away, but paused at the welshmans comment. "Well, for the moment keep them cold, I'm going to need to have a minor scuffle with martel before we get the powder for a live drill. And, I suppose I should check with Captain..." Gunshy trailed off, David might say no.

God damn it. Captain. Captain might say no.

"Bring out your lady Llywarch, run some cold drills to shake to rust off your boys." Gunshy waved them away, his eyes narrowed. "Got to be a tavern in this town somewhere, anyone with the blood of Robert Brandon can smell 'em." Gunshy turned in a slow circle, examining Medina. "Got to be one somewhere..."

He ambled off, thinking dark thoughts about the fate of a quartermaster who wouldn't let his boys get some live practice in before they met the turk.
 
July 29th, 1565 – Medina – Late Afternoon

"Did I hear my name and charge in the same sentence?"

The door to the tavern banged shut as Glorious made for Captain and Henri at the bar. Turning away from the reiter, Captain rolled his eyes.

"Barkeep!" The English cavalryman clapped Henri and David on their respective shoulders. "Two mugs for these fine fellows, and another for myself. And if you keep it away from the squat little toad with the dirty fingers who comes in here later, I'll buy the cask." He ducked his head toward Captain. "You'll help me with that one, won't you, sir?"

Half smiling, David looked taken aback. "Me, get between Gunshy and his cups? Why, after his cannon, I don't know what he loves better, except perhaps tweaking your nose." He sniffed dramatically. "Besides, a Captain must be above such disputes."

Glorious took mock offense. "Sir! Why, I could swear it was me who took you to your first bar, some years before your father would've preferred you to be drinking with the men -- and now you would deny me this little favor?"

"I seem to recall having to carry you back to your bunk that night, Glory! I think I already repaid that debt."

"Well, I never." Glorious sniffed and hefted his newly delivered cup of wine. Glancing over his shoulder as the door swung open, admitting the first of the Company men, he clinked his mug with Captain and Henri's. "It's gonna be a good night, Captain," he said with a grin.
 
July 29th, 1565 – Medina – Late Afternoon

Von Stark had the men well in hand. Mario needed a drink. Or more than one, actually. MeiFeng showing up had not been a good thing. But he didn't need to be all over his sergeant's toes while they got the men back into shape after the sea voyage.

He stalked away into the streets looking for the place that David would choose as the company tavern. He looked at various names, but none were pulling him in. Not yet anyway. A sign with an obviously excited sea mammal caught his eye. The 'Randy Porpoise'. Finally!

Mario sighed as he walked into the place, seeing David, Henri, and Glorious all at the bar drinking.

Great Mario groused to himself, That blowhard is here already. Oh well. I need the drink anyway.

"Captain," Mario nodded to David," Henri. Glory. Barkeep. Ale."

"Lieutenant," Captain nodded in return," Things shaping up with the infantry?"

"So far, so good," Mario grimaced.

Glory snorted," I hear that there was a stowaway. One that was attractive. One that was very eager to see you."

Mario frowned," Let's not, Glory."

Captain frowned," What are you talking about?"

Glory had a wry smile on his face. Mario gave him a look that he of course didn't even notice....
 
July 29, 1565 – Medina – Late Afternoon

There were only so many ways to waste time. Adriaen had tried most of them so far today. He had done his best to listen carefully to the English lieutenant's stern prohibitions... the older reiters had laughed through it, but he had no desire to make the slightest misstep. He nodded at the appropriate time, had followed dutifully to get carrots for Alarik, and then suddenly found himself at an impasse. There was nothing left for him to do, despite his efforts to do something until someone told him to do something else.

There were no other orders besides care for the horses... or had the foppish lieutenant said more? For the dandyish sort, he seemed the rarity to keep such discipline. But he had told them their responsibilities. Adriaen had idly dreamt of a bizarre encounter that involved him finding the man taunted by the lieutenant and gaining the respect of the Englishman by cutting the other man to ribbons with his wit. Then he grimaced. Reality was far different. Here he was in the stables, out of carrots, absentmindedly brushing Alarik's red dun flanks. The poor bastard needed some care. He had some of the same black sores that appeared on many of the other horses, and Adriaen wondered what they were, and more importantly, if anyone could cure them. "You deserve it, you bastard," he accused Alarik. "I'm here because you won't startle at the sound of a pistol, and now I know no one here but a sick horse."

He considered trying to find someone who could care for Alarik's sickness, if that was what it was, before purging the idea from his head. The lieutenant would know the man. Adriaen didn't know a soul. He set aside both the brush and the thought of wasting more time on a fool's errand. The sun was getting low, and here he was, playing stableboy on a miserable rock surrounded by hundreds of men of every nation while not knowing a single one. Feebly coughing in the dust of the stable, he decided to seek friendship in the one place it was guaranteed across the world. The bottom of a mug.

Wandering unobtrusively through the nearby streets, he gazed upon the foreign buildings of Medina. He took no pleasure in seeing the style that was far different from that of Flanders, the occupation serving only to keep himself busy while he meandered. "Finally," he murmured, seeing a tavern. He felt for his coinpurse. "If they don't use reales, then the Turks have already won," he mumbled.

Stepping inside the near-empty building, he caught a glimpse of his lieutenant sitting with several other men. Several others, finely accoutred. Officers. "Maecht van Enkhuizen," he muttered, wheeling about on his heel as he prepared to find more hospitable venues.
 
July 29, 1565 – Medina – Late Afternoon


The heat of the mid-day sun was at its apex, sweat poured from every man in the muskets. There were always grumbles of work at noon, as if beliving avoidence of that time would some how countermand the workings of nature and of the afternoon. Or perhaps they just wished to avoid the whole bloody time. But here they were, on those godforsaken rock, in the godforsaken town, with this godforsaken heat, and the godforsaken humidity that clung to them making Bexhet wonder if he would ever feel dry on this island. The heat, humitidy, and realization that it would continue caused him to unleash a torrent of curses and rambelings in his inner monolouge as if in some way the mental attacks on the heat, humidity, the town, and ever increasingly his new Sargent would allow him some respite from it all.

Bexhet looked around, the activity of the early day and the arrivel had waned, most of the Company men were absent from sight and work by now, he assumed, occupying the Tavern. He cought a glimpse of Diego as they passed. One more time, or I swear to god I'm breaking rank. One time passed, he didn't break rank. Ok, Maybe this last go round. The march with Bexhet in it continued. He screamed at his Sargent in his mind, what good would the Muskets be if they couldn't stand from the spasims of heat stroke? Perhaps we can shoot the shins of the Turk? Yes that sounds like a wonderful idea! Son of a bitch. The sarcasim of his inner monolouge continued to grow, but he continued to drill unwaveringly. He no longer minded the sweat flowing into his ever open mouth, by now it tasted almost sweet.
 
"Well, Captain, it's funny you should ask..." Glorious began, somehow managing to speak through his wicked grin. Fortunately for Mario -- or perhaps not so fortunately, depending on how thoroughly Captain cared to interrogate him -- the reiter lieutenant caught sight of one of his new men, Adriaen, enter and then attempt to skitter off. "Be back in a minute," he said, wending his way out from among the assembled officers. On the way, he clapped Chen on the shoulder. "You got lucky this time," he whispered, "but next time you're dancing around waving your muskets at my men, you'd best fire if you expect me to hold my tongue." A wink and a nod and the cavalryman was gone.

Heading for the door, Glorious whistled and waved the newcomer back. "Adriaen," he said, taking the lad by the shoulder, "I hear your horse has those sores I've been hearing about. Rotten luck." He began leading the unwilling Dutchman toward the bar. "I called in a surgeon and a priest from the Knights. They know a good bit about medicine, and tending to horseflesh to boot."

"But a priest?"

Glorious shrugged. "I've been on enough battlefields to know that, if medicine doesn't work, prayer might." The beginnings of a smile tickled his lips. "Whichever church you might follow." He clapped Adriaen onto the stool on the far side of the Free Company commander. "Barkeep! A cup for my young man here." He turned back. "Disease among the horses is a nasty business. Why, I remember one time when we were in Russia -- weathered the winter, hard as it was in that barbarous land, with a treacherous employer who'd barely feed us -- and at first thaw, we lose half our horses to some bleedin' disease! Of course, the enemy attacked the next day -- figures. I got to walk home from that campaign, 'cross half of Europe..."
 
July 29, 1565 - One Mile North of Medina

As they fell back towards the ambush site, the Turks trickling towards them had turned into a full fledged swarm. He had counted no less than 30 before he was distracted by the crash of a horse and the twang of bowstrings as the ambush was struck. Fortunately for the rangers, the Turks were coming down upon them in a steady stream, piecemeal rather than all at once. Saito was prepared to die, today would not be the day.

The skill showed by his comrades impressed him. These men were very effective with the blade, even if their elegance left a bit to be desired.

Suddenly a very large Turk appeared from behind the crest of the hill and he slashed down on Saito with a thunderous blow. Saito deflected the blow, but was knocked down and dropped his blade. He quickly rolled left and drew one of his yet unfired pistons.

Saito had never trusted the powder weapons. In his fighting days in Japan he watched as scores of musketeers were ridden down by cavalry whgen their weapons failed to fire. He had vowed to never let his life depend on anything but a sharp blade. But now was not the time for sentiment.

He aimed the pistol quickly at the lumbering Turk, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The shot blazed from the gun and impacted the infidel square in the middle of his face, just slightly to the left of his nose. He fell into a heap and was still.

Saito got up and scampered trying to find his weapon among the thick underbrush he had rolled into. Pulling his 2nd pistol, he chose his target and fired. The shot glazed the Turk in the right arm and he turned to face his new threat. Saito drew his dagger and charged the bewildered Turk. He dodged the first thrust of the Turk's scimitar, spun to the left and slashed the Turk at the elbow of his sword hand. The scimitar dropped to the ground and before the Turk knew what had happened, Saito was upon him from behind slitting his throat.

Covered in the blood of his victims, Saito located the Golden Dream, and backed up forming a loose line with Rennault and Andre. He looked up to see even more Turks coming straight at them...
 
July 29, 1565 - Medina, Artillery Billet

”No, no, you misunderstand me,” Adelmar said, shaking his head at the disbelieving bombardier. ”Two wipes a day, with a relatively clean cloth, considering the circumstances. Believe me, this was a common malady in schooling and…” he looked around at the dirty campsite, ”common on campaign. I’m quite sure the Romans had the same troubles…uncomfortable as they are.” He breathed a sigh of relief as the bombardier blinked, apparently accepting his explanation at last. With a snort, the burly man stood and walked off, snatching a scarf from one of the teamsters. Adelmar could almost smell the improvement.

He sat down, grateful for the chance to rest, his voice hoarse from the evening drills, and his arms aching from helping to maneuver the culverin around. The men…well, they were adequate, if the Turk stood still and everything was calm – no wind, no haze. They might hit something then. It was nothing like Woolwich. Now that had been an artilleryman’s dream! The place which planted this foolish notion in his head…that he could command guns on the field of battle. Then why not join the royal army, an inner voice asked? Money, you fool, responded his instinct. Money…to retrieve his fortunes and that of his family. Yet was it just that? His homeland was at war with…well, nobody. The bloody Scots were acquiescent…the French suitably stuffed…with his Calais! No, prospects were dull at home. If he was ever to make something of his circumstances, it would have to start here…with a team of idiots, a smelly bombardier, and an officer and Welshman, their tempers in competition.

Absently, he plucked his crossbow from his haversack and began to idly wipe it down, even though it had picked up no sediment from the day’s march. From town, he could hear the occasional roar of laughter drifting in on the wind, no doubt the rest of the company gearing down for drink. Well, he would pass on that. With a tired sigh, he leaned against the carriage of the Dai, and finished wiping down the crossbow. He then replaced it with the rock Llywarch had thrown at him. Now this was worthy of his time, he thought with an interested smile, running his finger over the stem of the ancient creature.
 
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