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August 7th, 1565 -- On the slope

"Rally! Move forward to live!" Venkata waved his pistol high in the air, his voice straining to encourage the men.

It was all he could do.

The leading guard of the Janissary were killing those who were too slow to their liking before they had climbed half the slope. Towards the center several of the Cat's men had succombed to the ghastly air they breathed as they struggled up the hillside. The Sultan's Chosen had quickly and silently cut them down, and returned their focus towards the crest of the hill without a word being said. If they intimidated him before, they frightened him now. They were trapped between two scourges, neither caring whether they lived or died so long as their opponent fell.

"Get up! Move!" A man coughed violently and fell to his knees. Venkata grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck and shoved him forward even as his stomach exited his mouth. "Don't give them the satisfaction! Keep moving! If you fall this day, let it be with three of the heathen's on your blade!"

Somewhere above the thunder of cannon ripped through the air. A gaping hole filled with red mist appeared where before half a dozen of his men had walked. Venkata silently said goodbye to his beloved Sreena, and tried to hold his stomach long enough to reach range of the infidel.
 
August 7th, 1565 -- Behind the Cannon

Nathan sat quietly on a rock. He was a picture of peace in the midst of the uncontrolled chaos that surrounded him. The man whose mind never slowed had stopped thinking. He had a decision to make.

Normally, Renault would have been the one to approach. His men were weary, having scouted their way at the front of the column, then cleared the ridge of guards long enough to allow the Company time to take up position. Then they'd skirmished the Anatols and Azebs halfway up the slope, buying time for the cannon and corsairs to break their lines. Now they were down at least a third of their already small number. Even if they would have been at full strength, Renault would bristle at using them for anything but defense with the Janissary approaching.

The Hand would be ideal. His corsairs would have been ideal for the task at hand. But there was the problem of explaining why, and worse there could be reprecussions for their involvement. Nathan had no illusions about Saul being blind to his efforts to locate the missing crew. The man would wait until it was to his advantage to introduce it as a topic for discussion. He could only hope that would be on good terms when it happened.

That left Amina. He could already half guess the story behind her bodyguard. They were a human scythe. And as delicate as their abilities could be at detail work, she would not give them over to him without making a negotiation of it. This wasn't the time or place. Worse he doubted she would allow him to complete the task without inserting herself into it.

Nathan stood and stretched before walking over to one of the ready groups helping erect something resembling a defensive barrier. He tapped a small, wirey man on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow. Three times more he repeated the action with other clusters of men. Finally he led them into the lee of a rock formation where the noise of the slope was minimized. "I have a task for you."

"You made it nearly a month Master Martel."

"He's neglecting us."

"No. It's all those mercenaries. Maybe he doesn't need us any more." The men laughed, Martel included.

"All right, all right! What a bunch you are. One would think you've been sitting around being waited on hand and foot for a fortnight." More laughter followed before he continued. "What I need is for you to to bring me officers from the fleet. Alive."

The men quieted, and one whistled low. "How do you propose we do that sir?"

"Yeah. There's a big difference between asking another captain to make a deal and taking part of his crew."

"You don't have to really 'go' get them. They're coming to us." Martel used his boot to etch a series of lines on the ground. "We're up here obviously. Down here....are the Janissary. And in between....are about 20% of the crews of every corsair, pirate, privateer, and cutthroat clan in reach of the Sultan. At least half of whom we have .... arrangements with. What we need to do; what I need you to do....is assist a few representatives from the various clans to meet and discuss things."

"So we need them alive. And functioning." The scrawny one frowned. The other men quietly looked at the lines, and shifted uncomfortably. Finally a tall, muscular man with a number of scars spoke.

"It should be managable. We just have to get the attention of the live ones, and make a sweep for wounded between waves. I can't imagine that they would refuse a chance to walk away alive in the face of an honest to God field army." He grinned. "Even if they are mercenaries."

"Or to escape a blade in the back from the Janissary," Nathan continued. "The only thing to be sure of is to prevent them from seeing the Red Hand. Maybe use blindfolds if you can arrange it. Once you have them clear, bring them here. Give the usual courtesies. Pick one or two of the others from the groups and have them stand guard. And under no circumstances let Amina or her escort in to see them. They'll be no use dead. Everyone up to the task?" Martel looked at each of the men in turn.

"Yes sir."

"Aye sir."

"Aye."

"Yes sir."

"Aye Captain!" The wirey one grinned before being playfully shoved and smacked into laughing submission by his peers. "Aye Mr. Martel!"

Nathan laughed. "For that Ribs, you'll get the honor of stables if we ever get back to M'dina! Get out of here you reformed pirates!"

The men laughed and Martel turned to leave when the muscular one stepped closer. "A question, if I may sir?"

"Of course."

"What happens sir, if the Janissary succeed in breaching the line? All this won't be worth a lead sinker."

Nathan paused. "Frankly, I'm more worried about what will happen when the Raven learns what I've done."
 
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August 7th, 1565 - Evening

Captain was of two minds about the Janissary advance. Unlike the previous two waves, this was slow and methodical, it’s precision and discipline designed to throw fear into the hearts of their opponents. The upside was the extra amount of time the advance gave his men to recover and reform. Virtually all of the wounded were recovered and evacuated, and the men resupplied with water and ammunition. All except the cavalry, who remained occupied guarding the flanks and nibbling at the enemy’s left wing.

Captain had to admit he was nervous.

The men had performed admirably all day, but they were tired and hurt. The Janissary, no doubt riddled with dysentery (if the rumours were true), was relatively fresh. And they were screened by men who were at once fearsome, yet strangely reluctant.

He saw it as the classic maneuver of hiding an attack behind a shield of disposable troops.

It was obvious the center was the target, with the cannon receiving only a cursory feint. The tactics of the Turkish commander were simple. Rout the infantry, and the rest will fall.

Captain looked to three messengers. He pointed at each. “Go to the infantry Lieutenants. You Roy, you Dunbar and you Chen. Tell them I’m taking the last two rows from each square.” He looked at a fourth. “You go to Diego. Have him bring all his men back here.”

The messengers ran off.

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “A reserve, sir?”

“You catch on quick.” Captain pointed. “The Spahis have reformed and will likely tie up our cavalry. We’re in danger of being outflanked. The reserve will anchor the right wing, but be refused and out of eyeshot. If the Turk tries to swing past the flank, they’ll be in for a rude welcome.”

“Devious, sir.”

“I hope so.” Movement on the far left wing caught his attention. He watched as several men broke away from the vicinity of the cannons and approached the enemy skirmishers. They began to exchange shouts. “Now, what is that all about?”

The banner suddenly snapped. The sound was as loud as a musket shot. Captain looked at it. The wind had picked up. Beyond the banner, thick gray clouds rolled crossed the Mediterranean toward them. The sky dulled.

Captain looked over at Stiles. “Now this should prove interesting.”
 
Diego moved up the hill as the last man, the Turkish corsairs close behind. As Bexhet and his man stumbled and fell he levelled his musket and fired at the first approaching pirate before handling the musket to the messenger boy,

“Run, seek the formation and stay there,”

Discarding the Halberd the small Spaniard pulled his blade, the silvery grey of the Toledo blade glinted in the light as he stepped forward confronting the corsairs. The deceivingly slim blade darted forth and took the live of the first corsair unaware. The second had seen the speed and raised his weapon to no avail as the sharp edge of the sword tip reached out and delicately sliced his throat. Bexhet and the other man were up now, stumbling towards the lines. Diego moved backwards his sword easily whipping through the hastily erected defences of the Corsairs.

However, time was not on his side and soon the single frontrunners would be replaced by the massive mob of the corsairs. He did the only sensible thing, lashing out one final time he turned and ran.

Winded but unscathed he reached the main formation and received his musket back just as the orders came from Captain. Nodding understanding to the messenger he sent back a question to the glorious leader,

Who is to command the reserve?

Then he picked up his men and the musketeers sidled through the ranks of the pikes to gather again at their back for fresh water and munitions.
 
August 7th, 1565 - Malta

Sergeant Diego and his men joined the elements that Captain seconded from the infantry, forming them into a reserve and placed under the nominal command of Diego.

On the left wing the advancing screen of corsairs faltered as words were exchanged with men Captain assumed to be from Saul’s command. It was hard to tell for certain, but it appeared many of the enemy corsairs were switching sides.

This threw the Janissary commander into a rage, and the Turkish soldiers quickly lowered their muskets and fired, dropping many of the pirates, and no few of the waiting Company men.

Moments later Gunshy’s cannon lit up, and great swathes of blood and bone appeared where Turks once stood. They charged the last sixty paces.

“Pikes!” The Company lieutenants screamed, and the wall of steel dropped to face the infidel. The clash of arms was deafening.

For an hour the two sides swayed back and forth in a grim dance of death, neither side gaining, nor losing ground.

As Captain suspected, the Janissaries attempted to flank the Company on the right wing, but were rudely repulsed by Sergeant Diego’s counter charge.

Meanwhile, the light cavalry and the Reiters fought off a final, half-hearted attempt by the rallied Sipahis cavalry, driving the enemy back deep into Turkish lines, almost threatening the great cannons themselves.

And then the skies opened up, and the deluge of rain turned the blood soaked ground into a quagmire of red mud. Footing soon became impossible, and the muskets and cannons were soon silenced.

Finally, as the sky darkened to night, the horns of the Turks sounded the recall, and the Janissaries, bent, but not broken, retreated begrudgingly. Rallying around Pasha, they were promised another go at the dreaded Company at first light.

*​
Around midnight, after the flash storm had passed, scouts returned from the heights with puzzling news. It was news that sent Pasha into a murderous frenzy.

The Free Company was gone, and the heights were theirs.

But the cost for such a hollow victory. The cost.

*​

Sept. 15, 1565 - Medina

Captain stood on the battlements with Henri and the remainder of his officers. They were grim to a man.

Chen spat. “Damn those Spanish. All of that bloody work on our part so they could send an army and drive the Turk away without so much as raising a sweat.” He spat again. “And to betray us!” He faced Henri. “Is that not so?”

Henri sighed, shrugged. “I’m afraid we were duped.”

Captain crossed his arms. “So, no gold.”

“No gold.”

He faced the men. “Well, I for one am sick of this place. Once we are healed, Saul has agreed to provide us passage to St. Malo. It’s time we returned to the home of our ancestors. And maybe, in time, we will be in a position to make the Spanish pay for their treachery. But for now, I’ve had enough.”

Captain strode away, leaving the men to stand silent on the parapet.


THE END​
 
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