The Free Company and the Last Bastion of Empire: Book IV

WARNING: The following passage is graphic. Reader discretion is advised.

15 July 1430, Night, Somewhere in Constantinople

The Kruschovic Bey's eyes flashed with rage. "You deny my mercy? Then feel my wrath!" The tip of the Bey's curved blade raked across the man's eyes. The Russian cut off his ear and then carved a chunk out of his cheek. Another metallic flash and the man had nothing below his left kneecap. Crying out, he dropped to the ground. The Russian pushed his victim over, forcing him to his back. The Bey ripped his victim's shirt open. Pulling out a long dagger, the Russian sliced the man's midsection open. Then he thrust his arm inside the man, slowly pulling out his internal organs. Finally the poor drunk called out, "You are my god! You are my god!"

The Russian smiled. "Very good, and as my loyal subject, you shall receive my mercy." The scimitar crashed down into the Greek's face, silencing his cries. The Russian turned and looked back to his men.

"Another convert."

Suddenly feeling very sick, Hasan was forced to look away. The lamp in his hand shook uncontrollably as he tried to stop his body from convolsing. Sinking to his knees, he finally gained enough control to choke down the rising bile and breath again. He simply isn't human. Such wickedness, such depravity... A low, demonic laugh cut into his thoughts. Hasan turned just in time to see the Bey toss part of the Greek's body by his side. It was the stomach, with part of the intestine still attached. A sickly liquid began to seep out.

The Voice continued to laugh as Hasan emptied his own stomach. "Come, now. It is not your turn yet. Right now, we have more unbelievers to... persuade." The Bay approached the kneeling Azeb and gestured to the lamp with a blood-stained scimitar. Hasan's body moved against his will. He seized the lantern, stood up, and fell into his place beside his new god.

***

Later that night

The group reached the Seraglio with little further incidents, and Kruschovic soon grew bored. The exstacy of his latest carnage had faded, and so he had picked out one of the few Azebs (not Hasan, however) and tossed the unfortunate man one of his own finely-crafted swords. "Defend yourself!" The Azeb looked dumbfounded for several heartbeats. Slowly, he bent down to pick up the blade. It was, indeed, a masterpiece of metalworking, supremely balanced with a fine cutting-edge, but the wretch hardly noticed. He did notice that the grip was caked with dried and drying blood. Almost immediately, he dropped the scimitar, as if contact would poison his soul. With a glare of deep hatred, the Azeb drew his own sword, and then quickly turned it in his hand to run himself through.

Moving with unnatural speed, the Russian swept forward and, with one slash, sent the blade flying into the corner, along with most of the man's hand. The man screamed in agony, but even his cries were suffocated by the bellows of the Russian, "Fool! I was willing to give you a quick death, but now feel my full malice, pathetic mortal!"

Hasan turned away, knowing full well that the Russian was just warming himself up to Hasan's punishment. The victim's screams filled the enclosed space, shaking the walls with their volume. The shrieks grew more and more hysterical, the breaths coming irregularly, and the pitch rising until their heads were about to explode from the noise and the pure terror inherent in every fresh yell.

Suddenly, the cries stopped. It was eerily quiet. Soon, however, came the crack of bones. The Russian was removing the man's still feverishly beating heart. The Turks dare not look. Retrieving his other sword, the Bey stepped over to the window to enjoy the view and his midnight snack.

Without warning a small man in an absurd hat appeared at the entrance. The Bey barked an order. After months of training (mostly whipping), Hasan instictively pulled out his own sword. The thought occured to him that if he died here and now, he would be spared the grisly treatment at the hands of the madman behind him. So he ran at the man, only to be greeted by the heads of a dozen pikes. The next thing he knew, Hasan had dropped his sword to cover the large, fatal gash on his left side.

He cursed. He cursed the enemy for killing him. He cursed his countrymen for not saving him. He cursed the Russian for stopping him from looting, bringing him here to his death, and making his last hours in this world hell on Earth. He cursed the Sultan for attacking this god-forsaken city. He cursed his sister because he always did when he was in this mood. He cursed his parents for bringing him into this wretched life. Finally, he cursed Allah for making this life so wretched.

Allah, if you had only given me wealth or power, even a little. Then I could have drunk myself stupid or bribed more girls into my bed. But no. Now this waste of a life is over, and good riddance. You never let the sun shine on us poor, and so I never believed in you. I spit at you! An arc of pain blazed through his body. He could feel his last vestiges of strength leaving his body, and terror took root in his heart. No, wait! Allah, have pity on a poor wretch! I have not lived by the Koran, and so I deserve what I have received. Give me another chance! I have seen the light! I can change my ways! Oh, dear Allah, give this sinner one more chance to be forgiven! Allah, be merciful! And so Hasan's soul left his body, unforgiven.

The Acropolis

Russian now stood, with both scimitars drawn, ready and waiting. The cruel mouth opened, his blood-stained teeth flashing in the torchlight.

“And what have we here? Another worshipper?”

The Swiss commander charged.

Metallic blurs streaked through the darkened sky and met with loud clang. The sick Russian bared his teeth. “It doesn't have to be like this, little man. Bow and confess me as your lord and god almighty. Only then will I grant you a merciful death.”

Roos replied with series of attacks. Such speed. Such power. This one is skilled. He will make a fine addition to my collection.

“Perhaps instead of devouring your soul, I will make you my servant. What do you think about that, little man?”

Roos's blade cut through the air, just missing the Bey's head. “Perhaps not. But tell me, how do you plan on contending with a god?”

The Russian launched himself forward, both scimitars raining down on Roos. The Swiss parried desperately, surprised by the savagery of the counter attack. “I tell you, little one, you will die by my hand today, and then you will be mine for all eternity. But before I send you to my land of never ending torment and misery, I will make your last moments on this earth seem like Hell, a small taste of the real thing.”

The Swiss saw an opening and thrust his blade forward. The Russian demigod twisted away and the blow glanced off his breastplate. “I believe I will eat your heart first. My last one was quiet delicious. Or maybe your manhood. But don't worry, I'll share a taste with you.”

The Swiss sidestepped the Russian's powerful swing, slowly positioning himself. Roos then countered, the tip of his blade slicing the Bey's right arm. “Yes. Could you do that again? Every scratch you give me shall be revisited upon you a hundred fold. Your resistance will only make my ultimate victory that much sweeter. And after you die, then I will have your friends. Consider yourself lucky, you will die here and now, but I have three days, three days to judge them. In the end you will all be mine until the end of time.”

The Bey swung down, nicking the Swiss armor. Roos flashed his blade forward, cutting a new wound on the Russian's bloody face.

July 15 - Night - The Docks

In the dark, sparsely lit by torches Lochlan could see Captains wife cross herself. She has the right idea, but I think I'll leave the praying to those God would listen too. It wasn't that the ranger didn't believe, it was simply that God and Lochlan didn't get along so well, things like what Lieutenant Renaud Roos was being forced to do as Lochlan's boots hit the deck of the Athene made the ranger less inclined to view God in a good light. Still, that was a line of thought for another time, there was still work to be done.

"Maria." He said softly, but his voice carried, cutting through the night. "When your ready."

Maria nodded. "Were just about ready now." It went unspoken that there were still obstacles betwen the ships and the open sea.

"Alright everyone, you heard her." Lochlan said. "Were not out of here yet." He said calmly. "Constance if you'll go below decks please. Captain would toss me overboard if anything happened to you."

"How did you know he's alive?" She asked, as she moved to go down.

"Because your standing up here." He smiled slightly, and she nodded, for a moment her grief receded, then she spun and went below. Lochlan watched her until she was out of sight, then shook his head. A brave woman, and a clever one.

"So." He said, turning back to the leaders of the company. "Who one the pool on the day the city would fall?"

The Docks

Charles smiled. Now he could leave. He had slipped through the gate a while before, but was waiting for a good chance to board one of the many vessels headed away from Constantinople.

Charles walked onto the ship. One of the crew spotted him.

"What are you doing here?"

"Getting out of this death-trap of a city. What else? May I see the captain of this ship? I would like to make sure that he is... properly compensated for bringing me along."

July 15, 1439 – evening – the Seraglio

Roos calmly countered the latest flurry of blows, trying to turn his face to mimic a mask of fear that he knew, now, would further feed the Bey’s frenzy.

He’s clearly insane….

Their blades crossed one another again and Roos used his stature – or lack thereof – to slip to the side and send a slash under the Russian’s guard to open a wound in his arm. The would-be God barely registered the hit, although blood began to flow liberally from the wound.

Not quite enough…almost got the artery…

The Russian continued his ranting, but Roos paid him no heed. Instead, he reached deep within himself to draw upon the last reserves of energy. He had been fighting non-stop for almost the entire day, and he realised that he could not continue to do so forever. He was getting old.

A talker. He’s a talker. Let him ramble on…he’ll only end up distracting himself and leaving me…

Roos barely managed to catch enough of the Bey’s blow to defect it harmlessly off his armour. His enemy overbalanced, slightly, rocking back on his heels, and Roos managed a quick return that the Russian only barely countered in time. The tip of Roos’ blade scored deeply through the twisted mask of the man’s face.

I can kill him.

He knew it with utter certainty. In single combat he could kill this man. Given enough time…but time was a commodity he didn’t possess. Already the sounds of fighting had almost ceased behind him. Had any of his men survived they would be here to help him by now, so Roos knew that he, and he alone, remained to finish the task. Any moment now a sword or an axe or whatever would strike him from behind and he would fall.

It must be soon!

He tried shifting and pivoting to the left, hoping to draw the Bey into circling him or into opening his guard….but the demon wasn’t biting, wasn’t falling for his tricks. Somehow, somewhere beneath his madness, the Russian must have known – perhaps only in his subconscious - that he must stay between the deft Swiss swordsman and the rope.

He heard a slight footfall from behind him and at the same instant that the next sweeping attack came raining down from the scimitars. Knowing that he was doomed if he wasn’t lucky, Roos stepped neatly to the side and launched a vicious reverse that clanged heartily off the Russian’s backplate and sent him spinning forward to become, for the merest moment, entangled in his own soldier.

Roos pivoted on his heel to see the Bey withdraw the sword from the Azeb’s crumpling body. He was amazed to see that only one other of the enemy – a severely wounded Anatolian by the look of him – remained. His heart filled with joy, realising that although all of his men lay dead, they had achieved a miracle that the poets would have crooned over for decades…had any been there to witness it. The Anatolian stood well back of the frey, obviously too afraid to come within either combatant’s range. ‘Let the master’s fight it out,’ he could imagine the poor slave thinking. ‘I want no part of it.’

And so it seems there is time after all…and now I am on the right side of you. All I need is enough time to cut through the rope at my back and then…

A new face appeared behind the Bey, reaching the top of the stairs with sword in hand. Even in this light Roos could see the droplets of red blood dripping from the blade. His heart sank once more. It was the other enemy commander. The Janissary. And behind him came a mass of men…scores and scores of them. Even the one in the rich robes who had been watching from the horse had come. To Roos’ shock, the Janissary commander saluted him once more with his blade.

The Russian, though, was oblivious to this new audience. Having recovered, he swung on Roos with a new savagery, spouting words in a language that Roos neither knew, nor cared to understand. The scimitars flashed towards him with blinding speed and struck with devastating force, and yet each blow was met and each attack was turned. The Bey overextended again, and Roos instinctively drove his dagger for the man’s heart.

For an instant he thought he had succeeded.

Then the clang of metal on the flagstones shattered that dream. The blade, having withstood attack after attack from this mighty foe, had snapped as it encountered the heavy breastplate that covered the Bey’s chest, and Roos was left with only the one sword in his hand.

The stunned Bey took only a moment to realise his good fortune. Rather than being dead - as he surely should have been - he was alive and now facing an opponent armed only with a single blade. Both men knew that the tables had turned and victory lay in the hands of the Russian.

“SEE MY POWER!” the madman screamed in a booming voice. “I AM IMMORTAL! NO BLADE MAY PIERCE ME. NO BLADE MAY EVEN HARM ME! KNEEL TO ME NOW AND ACKNOWLEDGE ME AS YOUR GOD! I SHALL BE MERCIFUL TO MY SLAVE!”

Roos shook his head even as he dropped the handle of the shattered dagger. He knew, then, that he had only moments left to live. But in that moment he could do something that even a God could not undo. Even as the Bey launched his next attack, Roos turned his back on the man and made one last desperate lunge.

Time stopped.

Renaud saw a procession of faces. His wife…his children…his friends…his brothers and sisters…Viktor…Erik, Frederik and the other honourable men of the Free Company…Captain and Constance…LeClerc and Annette…and lastly the face of Lochlan. All the faces smiled at him…smiled with a compassion and an expression of thanks. In his mind he nodded to them... smiled in return and then doffed his ridiculous hat in salute.

Time resumed.

Even as he felt the devastating pain of the Bey’s swords slicing into his flesh and knew for a certainty that he was dead, he retained a firm grip on his sword as it slashed in its downward arc…

…and severed the rope. The Keil was redeemed.

“SEE MY POWER!” the madman screamed in a booming voice. “I AM IMMORTAL! NO BLADE MAY PIERCE ME. NO BLADE MAY EVEN HARM ME! KNEEL TO ME NOW AND ACKNOWLEDGE ME AS YOUR GOD! I SHALL BE MERCIFUL TO MY SLAVE!”

Kruschovic Bey paused to smile, a twisted, revolting smile covered in blood. It was time for the killing blow. Another mortal about to be humbled before a god. The little man didn't even raise a defense, instead he lunged away from the Bey.

You disappoint me. I did not imagine a coward's death for you, little one. The scimitar came crashing down on the pike commander's spine, embedding itself deeply. The Bey smiled as he heard the little man gasp. Now you are mine. As Roos fell to the ground, he guided his blade through the rope, slicing it cleanly.

The Bey's eyes roared in anger. How dare he! You, little man, will experience pain like no other. The fabled Pit's worst torment will pale in comparison to what I will inflict upon you daily. His eyes cast down towards the still body. He walked around to Roos's fallen head. With is boot, the Bey lifted the mercenary lieutenant's head. The Russian stared into those eyes, and he could see something in them, as life slipped away from this man. Pride. He saw pride.

“Smile now, little one, but I knew you would grovel before me. 'To me, every knee shall bow, every tongue shall take an oath.' I am forever your god.”

Suddenly the Bey heard a lone man clapping slowly . . .

July 15th, night -- the docks

Bernard staggered down the stairs, stumbling on the next to last and badly twisting his ankle. Still he ran on, hoping beyond hope that he was not too late.

Soot covered his already bloodstained features, a souvenir of the fire he had sprinted through. He didn't know how he'd made it -- the Turks were bolder than they looked, and followed him in. Only by the grace of God had a section of the ceiling collapsed on them just as he reached the other side.

And then he was free of the burning palace, running along the wall by the Golden Horn, running in the hopes he could catch the last ship out.

He couldn't.

Bernard skittered to a stop at the end of one of the emptied docks. At the far end, torches and moonlight reflected off the dark shapes of the fleet as, Athene in the lead, they set out for freedom, for safety, for home.

And then behind him, the gate from the Catalan Quarter splintered with a great crash, sending Turks swarming into the docks.

Bernard spared them a long glance before turning back to the Horn. He knew he couldn't catch any of the ships. He knew there was no hope.

He ran anyway.

Despite the lances of pain shooting up his leg from the ankle, he turned and barreled down the dock as quickly as he could. Somehow he managed to dodge the odd warped board here, the twisted nail head there. He was nearly to the end. I can make it. I can swim -- maybe one of the ships will see me and pick me up. I can...

Bernard never saw the arrow that killed him; he merely heard a faint whistle, and then a burst of pain from his back. He looked down at the bloody arrowhead jutting through his chest without comprehension. He didn't understand how it could have ended like this, after all he'd been through that day, after all he'd seen; he couldn't understand. He wanted to, but the darkness was closing in, and he found he couldn't breathe.

Bernard stumbled forward two steps and pitched headfirst into the Golden Horn.

On the Athene

Charles sat back. The ship was moving. Perhaps the Turks would take the boat he was on... Charles wasn't worried. He could talk his way out of any situation, using everything he had at his disposal. It was how he had gotten so far in Maurice the elder's confidence.

He could just barely see the city still though his rapidly closing eyes (it was a tough day). The Turks were still attacking... He could just picture the slaughter in his mind. A broad smile came across Charles' face. The two Maurices were avenged.

Charles fell asleep, still wearing his unnerving smile.

July 15, 1439 – Evening, The Seraglio, Constantinople

Ishak left the dead Swiss at the Acropolis gate and quickly climbed the steps to the Seraglio. As he neared the top he could hear the rapid, staccato and violent clashes of steal upon steel and quickened his pace. Behind him came the whole host of Janissary – many of them wounded from their recent fight with the incredibly resilient pikemen. It had taken the full weight of his masses to drive them from the gate, surround them and destroy them.

Close behind him, much to the Pasha’s relief, Sulyman dismounted and followed.

It is time.

As he reached the top he paused to take in the amazing sight. A pile of bodies lay immediately before him, a tangle of limbs and corpses – most of them Turkish – lay strewn about a handful of Swiss. Only three living beings remained at the summit. Cowering to the side was a badly wounded Anatolian, a man barely clinging to life. The figure with his back to them was immediately recognisable as the Bey – his blood-soaked armour glinting in the torchlight and his wild matted hair flying about him as he raged, screaming something in his native Russian. Third man, though, was the tiny Swiss commander.

Ah…I wish I had been here to witness all of this. I think, my dear Bey, that you may have met your match.

Ishak saw the small man glance briefly in his direction, now aware that he was no longer alone with the monster. His expression barely changed, but Ishak saw a slight slump come suddenly to his shoulders. Not wishing to disturb the valiant and worthy enemy, Ishak brought his blade to his forehead in salute.

By all means, little man. I will not interfere and I will even grant you the boon of life if you do this for me.

Ishak watched in fascination as the Russian delivered a savage flurry of blows which the Swiss, with blinding speed, parried and countered. The was the slightest fraction of an opening and suddenly the man’s hand flew forward to jam the dagger straight into the Bey’s chest.

A perfect blow!

And then the sad realisation that the dirk’s blade had snapped. Ishak gasped involuntarily, cursing the fickle fates that governed war. Now the brave man would die - painfully – as he fed the monster’s gluttonous appetite for death.

“SEE MY POWER!” the madman screamed in a booming voice. “I AM IMMORTAL! NO BLADE MAY PIERCE ME. NO BLADE MAY EVEN HARM ME! KNEEL TO ME NOW AND ACKNOWLEDGE ME AS YOUR GOD! I SHALL BE MERCIFUL TO MY SLAVE!”

As the Bey leapt forward to renew the attack, Ishak saw the most amazing thing: the enemy commander smiled, his eyes at peace, and turned his back to his foe, using his last moment on Earth to sever the rope. It happened too quickly – far too quickly. It was done even before Ishak could cry out a warning or even begin to move. Even as the end of the rope sped out of sight and the gears that held the chain across the mouth of the channel spun wildly out of control, the Bey’s scimitar had already crashed deeply into the man’s back, severing his spine.

Kruschovic, still oblivious to all, moved to kick the limp body over. The eyes were still open, and Ishak could see the pride in them as the man slipped away into the eternal night. The Bey spat into that face. “Smile now, little one, but I knew you would grovel before me. 'To me, every knee shall bow, every tongue shall take an oath.' I am forever your god.”

For his part, Ishak could only admire the sacrifice…the will and honour it had taken for the man to sacrifice his life for his comrades. It was clear to the Pasha now that this had been the sole intent of the man. Everything else had merely been leading up to this moment. Ishak couldn’t help but feel glad for him…happy that he had achieved what his heart had so obviously desired.

As for the Bey…

Ishak brought his empty left hand together with his right – that held his sword. The leather-gloved hands made a first sharp retort…and then another…as slowly he began to clap.

The Bey spun at the unexpected noise, his eyes wild and almost unseeing as Ishak took two paces towards him while motioning the other Janissary to stand back. He stopped, then, and bowed mockingly.

“Lord Kruschovic. It appears that you…” he looked pointedly at the tattered end of the remaining piece of rope, “…have failed.”

Fury blazed in the Bey’s eyes and spittle formed at his mouth. He took an involuntary step towards Ishak before stopping and reaching back to yank his scimitar out of the still warm corpse of the dead Swiss commander.

As he turned back towards Ishak, the Pasha reached into his cloak and pulled out a sheath. The Bey froze as he saw it…saw the gem encrusted handle that Ishak now wrapped his hand around and pulled, saw the glistening rune-engraved blade as it flashed into the night. He knew that blade. He had seen it before.

Revenge Ishak whispered to it in his mind.

“ISHAK!” the Russian roared, the deception now revealed to his bulging eyes.

There was a sudden gasp from the men on the stairs and many began to draw their weapons.

“HOLD!” The authority in the voice held them all as its owner, Sulyman, stepped forward. “Hear now the words of His Most Glorious Majesty, Murad Khan. ‘I hearby revoke the banishment of Ishak Pasha – who is as a brother to me. He may walk where he will and do whatever he wishes within my realm. He has done a great service for me and endured many hardships. Any man who gainsays him - or lays so much as a finger on him – will suffer the full furry of my wrath.’ So saith Murad Khan. I, Sulyman, did hear it and will bear witness to it.” He bowed, then, to Ishak. “My lord Pasha, you are welcome, now, to finish your labours.”

Ishak turned back to Kruschovic with a slight smile on his lips. The Russian appeared to be choking on his own tongue.

“You see, my dear Bey, it was all a ruse.”

With an incoherent roar, the madman charged. The twin scimitars flashed through their deadly arcs, eagerly seeking fresh blood. Ishak barely moved as he easily turned aside the attack, sending the Bey reeling back with a blistering counterattack that opened a slight gash in his neck.

“It was all planned from the beginning. Murad needed your cruelty and your…particular talents to succeed in this siege. Talents that I, thankfully, do not possess. I have no wish to sink into your particular brand of insanity…or to damn my soul as you have.”

Again the northerner leapt forward, goaded by the blasphemous words. Again he was thwarted and narrowly avoided the Pasha’s deadly slashing return as the blade scraped across his armour. He shook his head, as though disbelieving that such a thing could happen. Now he circled in more carefully, using his size and reach to rain a hail of blows down on the lesser man’s defences.

Except this was no lesser man. Ishak Pasha had been bread for war. He had, some said, been born with a blade in his hand. Calmly, methodically, easily, he turned the steel aside. He rarely bothered to counter, now, content to lecture to the madman.

“And so, you see, I had to allow you to usurp me for a time. I allowed you to shame me. I allowed you to humiliate me before all – and before my master. I allowed you to slaughter my men with your childish, insane games. I did all this, watching and never forgetting, dreaming of the day when I would finally be granted my revenge.”

Revenge. The short khanjar in his hand craved the blood of revenge. Soon, he crooned to it. Soon…

“And so, you see, I had to allow you to usurp me for a time. I allowed you to shame me. I allowed you to humiliate me before all – and before my master. I allowed you to slaughter my men with your childish, insane games. I did all this, watching and never forgetting, dreaming of the day when I would finally be granted my revenge.”

“Lies! Control your silver tongue lest I cut it out for you. You always knew I was the better man. You tried to hold me back, to keep me from becoming what you see before you. I am a god of infinite power. You are a mere mortal, a speck before the universe. I don't know what conspiracy you and Murad's pathetic lackey have cooked up, but when I finish with you, I will cut out his heart as well.” The Russian pointed at Sulyman with a blade, forgetting Ishak was still in striking distance.

It was then that Ishak struck. The Bey parried the first blow and the second, but his response was becoming slower and slower. Then Ishak's blade found flesh. Just above the Bey's kneecap, Ishak tore away a hunk of flesh. The Russian howled.

His howls turned to laughter. “You honestly believe you can kill me? Of course you do. You have not seen what I have become. You do not know what you face. Let me show you.”

The Russian raised his own scimitar and then dragged the tip down the left side of his face. This was no scratch. The Russian cut his own flesh deeply, grimacing and smiling as the steel edge ripped him open. Only when he reached his jaw, did the lunatic stop.

“You see pain means nothing to me. This robe of flesh is expendable, renewable. Your meager efforts only amuse me. I've longed for this day, dreamed of it. If I were a more gracious man, I would thank you for saving me the trouble of finding you. What madness must possess you to seek me out, to confront me. Your mind is truly trouble, Ishak. Surely you know when a mortal rails against the Almighty, there can be only one end.”

The Russian lunged forward. He attacked but not with the same vigor. This was a moment to be savored. It would be wrong to end it too soon. Then again, once it was over, he would have Ishak in his grasp for all eternity. The Russian's eyes flashed and he smiled as he blocked a savage blow from Ishak. Then the Bey winked. Before Ishak could guess as to what the meaning was, Kruschovic crashed his bloodied skull into Ishak's face.

The second vizier went reeling, blood spewing from his nose. The Russian stepped forward, knowing he could deal the final blow, but relented, choosing to taunt his most hated enemy.

“Did you feel that? Does the pain roar through your body? Remember this moment, for all the rest will make this pain seem like paradise.”

The Russian rushed forward.

July 15, 1439 – Night, the Seraglio

The maniac smashed his bloody skull into Ishak’s face, sending him reeling backwards. Blood spewed from his nose and, for a moment, his vision dimmed.

No! This cannot be the end!

Miraculously, it wasn’t. Like a cat playing with an injured mouse, the Bey withheld what could – what should – have been the death blow.

“Did you feel that? Does the pain roar through your body? Remember this moment, for all the rest will make this pain seem like paradise.”

The Russian lunged forward then to finish him off. In Ishak’s eyes it was the movement of a massive blurred object, a dark, shadowy shape looming out of the darkness with demonic blood red eyes. As had happened before, when he was hardest pressed, time slowed for him. The swooping scimitar seemed to move as through deep water. As it arced towards him it seemed like child’s play to bring his own blade up to counter it…to send it sliding harmless by him. It seemed so very simple to bend his other elbow and angle his wrist just...so…

The Russian’s momentum carried him forward until their bodies met, the Bey clutching Ishak in a bear hug and his hot reeking breath stinging the Pasha’s face. Insane eyes bulged, his lungs exploded in a ear-splitting wail. Then Kruschovic sagged to his knees clutching desperately at his breast. Ishak released his grip and stepped back.

He looked down with disdain, pressing his sleeve to his nostril to stem the flow of blood. There, embedded to its hilt in the Russian’s still-beating heart, was Ishak’s gem-encrusted khanjar. Ishak watched impassively as the dying man clutched and clawed desperately at the weapon with fading hands and then slump over to fall heavily on the ground, his chest heaving.

“Shall I tell you a secret, Kruschovic?”

The Bey moaned incoherently.

“Murad knew. He knew all along. In fact, he and I discussed it before ever we left for the east to put down the rebellions. You were too sorely needed to kill, and yet too dangerous to let live. I begged him to grant me leave to dispatch you then…to put you out of the world’s misery. Instead, he bid me wait…bid me grovel like a worm as I carried out our deception. He promised me, though…he promised me that I would have my revenge.”

The Bey’s legs kicked feebly as shock began to overcome the body.

“And he gave me a token of his word. He gave me Revenge, for that is the name of the blade that now sucks out your life’s blood. It was a treasured heirloom of my once great family that had come back into the Khan’s possession. And so I carried my Revenge until this day…and on this day I count myself repaid in full for my suffering.”

The blood-stained lips moved as though the Russian was trying to speak…trying to pronounce some last hate-filled curse. Taking care that no weapon lay within the Bey’s reach – for Ishak still feared that some hidden strength might yet remain – he leaned in close to hear them.

The Bey whispered something faintly and Ishak placed his ear almost against the madman's mouth. In that instant, drawing strength from some unknown depths, the Russian struck. His right hand clutched Ishak's steel collar, and the left flashed forward, to press a blade against the Pasha's throat.

“Your blood shall renew my spirit.”

But it was not enough. As Ishak tried to draw away the Bey's grip still held, but he lacked the strength to draw the blade across his last intended victim's throat. The unholy light slowly faded from the madman's eyes and the hand holding the dagger finally opened, it's burden clattering to the stones. He sagged back once more...and this time he fell into death.


* * * * *

After a time Ishak straightened - a hand pressed to the red line across his neck to stem the flow of blood - and faced out to the sea. A dark, troubled expression was etched upon his face. With effort he schooled his features into unfuffled calm and then turned back towards the others.

“Come Sulyman.” He tried to say it lightly. “I have a pressing need to bathe and wipe this filth off my body…to sleep on a soft bed once more…to right many wrongs. But first we must report our glorious victory – both of our victories – to our Master.”

“And what of the Free Company?”

Ishak turned back to the waters and sighed. In a whisper that sounded much like a prophecy, he answered the noble.

“I have a feeling that we have not seen the last of the Free Company…”

“Shall I tell you a secret, Kruschovic?”

Fool. You think this is the death of me? My heart still beats, and I still yearn for your blood.

“Murad knew. He knew all along. In fact, he and I discussed it before ever we left for the east to put down the rebellions. You were too sorely needed to kill, and yet too dangerous to let live. I begged him to grant me leave to let me dispatch you then…to put you out of the world’s misery. Instead, he bid me wait…bid me grovel like a worm as I carried out our deception. He promised me, though…he promised me that I would have my revenge.”

Come to me, and I will finish this. Come and receive your judgment..

“And he gave me a token of his word. He gave me Revenge, for that is the name of the blade that now sucks out your life’s blood. It was a treasured heirloom of my once great family that had come back into the Khan’s possession. And so I carried my Revenge until this day…and on this day I count myself repaid in full for my suffering.”

The Bey's lips struggled to form his words. A hoarse whisper was all he could manage. Slowly, the Russian's fingers wrapped around the hilt of his dagger. Ishak leaned forward, curious to here what he thought would be the Russian's last words.

The Bey whispered faintly. Come closer, just a little closer. Ishak placed his ear almost against the madman's mouth. In that instant, the Russian struck. His right hand clutched Ishak's steel collar, and the left flashed forward, ready to deal one last death.

“Your blood shall renew my spirit.” The blade pressed against Ishak's throat. As his strength faded, the Russian began to pull the sharp blade across his last victim's throat. Ishak pulled away, but somehow the Bey's dying grip held him in place. As the Bey's life slipped away, Ishak desperately turned his neck away from the blade, trying to protect his vulnerable jugular. Then it was over.

The madman's hands fell to ground, forever still. Ishak touched his neck, tracing the gash. It stopped a hair's width away from his vital vein. At long last the demonic Kruschovic was slain. It was over. As he looked down, Ishak saw his own blood on the demon's lips.

Epilogue: July 22nd, Rhodes

On a hillside in Rhodes, the Free Company buried their dead.

When they returned to Rhodes, Grandmaster Jean de Lastic greeted them warmly, in spite -- perhaps because of -- their defeat. His own defeat at Antalya, and the loss of so many of his fellow knights, weighed heavily on him, and he felt a natural sympathy for the mercenaries' plight. He granted them the same tract of land they had camped on before their campaign began, and gave them a little tract of land to bury their fallen adjacent to the graveyard of the knights themselves.

The sailors had buried their own losses at sea shortly after the fleet ran the blockade, as was their fashion. As soon as she had the opportunity, Maria had collapsed, physically and emotionally. No one had been able to verify that Jonasz was killed, but with the Bey set loose on the City there was little hope for anyone. Frederik had been Maria's sole comfort on the journey south, and had taken to consoling her in her cabin, alone, and according to the rumor mill, with shocking frequency.

The Cyprian was not the only one, of course. Many had been left behind. The number of corpses to be buried was quite small, mostly those who had been well enough to stumble or be dragged back to the ships but who had eventually succumbed to their wounds. Now, however, the officers of the Free Company, in the company of de Lastic and Thomas Paleologus, stood around one particular grave.

"I don't understand it," said Lochlan. "He found this body, demanded it be loaded, and then rode off without saying another word?"

Landen nodded. "That's what the marine fellow, Janos, told me. I guess we'll never know now, though." He shot an apologetic glance toward Maria. "Sorry."

She shook her head. "I don't know what went on, either." She paused, and a silence came over the party.

It was finally broken by the deep rumble of Shur'tu. "He died bravely," he said, staring icily at Maria. "Many more would have died if he had not stopped lo Grato when he did."

de Lastic nodded. "An honorable death for an honorable man. He was… how do you say it? The right man in the wrong place?"

Jaeger cut in. "Honorable indeed -- but I hold out hope that he may have survived." He bit his lip; he knew all too well how unlikely such a thing was if the Russian had survived the battle.

Maria shook her head ruefully. "You knights and your notions of honor. He didn't have to be there at all, and could have saved even more people." She looked to Captain, who, looking pale and drawn himself, was still staring at the grave, looking lost in thought. "Did you show them the letter?"

"Hmm?" The mercenary leader looked up. "Oh -- no, I didn't. I meant to do that this morning, in fact." Moving slowly with the stiffness of his bindings, he produced a piece of parchment from his belt, which the officers each examined in their turn. It read:

Jonasz,

My friend, how I wish we could have crossed paths again in happier times! The days of our youth were like heaven compared to this hell we're living in. What's worse is that I know you can't see it. You're too trusting of these Latins. I tried to make you see, tried to make you understand that they will abandon us in our hour of need, but I have failed. There is only one thing left to do, Jonasz, only one way to save our people, and that is to let the Sultan take what he wants.

I do not make this decision lightly, nor do I make it willingly. The Venetian you brought with you is not who you think he is. He will admit the Turk at the height of the fighting, and all will be lost. He has threatened my family if I do not aid him. In truth, I want to help him. Perhaps it will save more Greeks.

I hope you understand what I must do, Jonasz. It is out of long friendship that I write these words, though they mean I will be forever remembered as a traitor. It is out of long friendship that I beseech you -- take your Latins and flee now. Let the City fall.

Niklos


Each of the readers chewed on the contents for a moment. Frederik shook his head slowly. "I can't believe… Niklos…"

Thomas looked up from the parchment. "If we had received this letter sooner…"

"Jonasz wouldn't have died," Maria interrupted. "We could have put guards at each of the gates and kept a watch out for lo Grato. We could have saved the City…" She looked evenly at Thomas. "Your Empire… Highness."

Thomas had been hailed as the new Emperor since he had first appeared on deck the morning after the City fell, and all of the surviving Greeks had pledged their fealty to him. Even now, Mikhail and his small host of Varangians stood just apart from the officers, keeping watch over Thomas and his Strategos. No one had been able to find Constantine when roll had been taken, though Dimitris said that he had appeared at the height of the battle along the southern walls, and fallen in the thick of the fighting. As stories were passed, it was discovered that even those who had been with Dimitris through the entire battle couldn't substantiate his tale. Others, though, could, and soon the warriors were alive with recitations of the Emperor's heroics. In truth, though, no one knew what had become of him; perhaps it was easier to believe that he had fallen in the fighting with his people.

If he had fallen, he was not the only one. The losses the Free Company and their allies had suffered -- both during and after the battle -- were appalling. The Swiss, and the Greek partisans who had fought so valiantly at what was already called the Battle of the Breach, had ceased to be, with the exception of a few wounded survivors who had been evacuated early in the fighting. The marines that had accompanied Maria were also no more, and of the Varangians who had fought alongside them, only a few dozen had survived to form the new Emperor's honor guard. His army was little better. The once-invincible Byzantine army was now reduced to fewer than a thousand men, rescued off the south docks in a daring midnight operation.

The reaper had visited all of their commands. The Moors had lost two-thirds of their number -- and their commander, with Yusuf succumbing to his wounds a day into the journey. Jaeger, too, had only about a third of the men who once followed him. Shur'tu had lost half his force, as had Lochlan, including faithful Alv. The plucky Norwegian had clung to life until they made landfall in Rhodes, and only succumbed to his wounds once he knew his comrades were safe. Jacques and the Welsh had been more fortunate, though each counted well over a hundred losses -- and no one knew what had become of Lt. Owyn.

All told, only one of three of the Company men who had set foot in Constantinople escaped with their lives.

Each of the survivors had lost someone they knew, but they carried their memories with them as trophies rather than as burdens. It showed as they walked -- the confident if careful gait of a veteran, but bursting with pride. Each had known men that had died as heroes.

But Captain had survived, and with him, the Free Company. He had vowed they would rebuild, that there was unfinished business to attend to, and the fire in his eyes as he said as much left little doubt that he would see it through. Though many of their number had died on the walls of Constantinople, the Free Company would live on.

And they already had their first new recruit. A day out from Constantinople, the fleet had intercepted a merchant convoy, which had hailed them for news. They were surprised to find among the passengers a living Frederick Pohlman bearing a wild tale of escape from the Turkish camp. The old engineer was happily reunited with his son and Otto. The reunion was tempered by the inkling the troops possessed -- quite correctly -- that Frederick had overseen much of the pain and death they had suffered. But, Captain had pointed out when a soldier had brought it up, think how much worse things would have been had the second cannon not exploded.

The reverie the officers were enjoying was interrupted by the soft cough of Father Falkenberg, with Father Holmes at his elbow. The group turned, and the monks bowed, first to Thomas, and then to Captain. "The burials are mostly complete, Captain. I believe this is the last one that needs to receive the rites."

Captain nodded, and the group opened to make way for the holy men. Holmes crouched next to the grave, examining the charred body. "Who was the poor soul?"

"We don't know," Captain replied. "I suspect we never will."

"There is no sadder thing than to be lost and forgotten." Falkenberg looked down at the grave, his eyes despondent. He blinked, and looked up at Captain. "If we may…?"

Captain nodded. "Of course, let's get this over with. There's work to be done."

"Wait." It was the Strategos, Dimitris. He left the Emperor's side and approached the grave, his long strides carrying him quickly. "I have a request, Captain, if you will permit it."

"Of course, Strategos… anything you might desire."

Dimitris bowed his thanks, and drew something out of a pouch. When he spoke, he addressed the assembled officers, and, perhaps for a moment, the world.

"I carry a token of the Empire with me." He held up a signet ring bearing the arms of the Paleologos, glistening gold in the morning sun. "This ring belonged to the Emperor Constantine, who gave it to me the night before we met our enemy for safekeeping.

"The Emperor is lost to us now, but the ring remains. The Empire is lost to us, but it too remains -- in the hearts and minds of those who fought so bravely for it. Perhaps someday we will reclaim it. Until then, I entrust this memento to this unknown soldier who died fighting for his home and his people."

Dimitris genuflected to the grave while the other officers nodded their approval, muttered prayers, or crossed themselves. The Strategos searched the corpse with his eyes, saw it had only nine fingers, and was sure. As he bent down to place the ring on the body, no one saw the faint, sad smile play across his lips. He rose, and motioned for the monks to proceed.

Falkenberg gave the general a half-bow and turned back to the grave. "…ashes to ashes, dust to dust…"

And so that was the fate of the last Emperor of the Byzantines, Constantine XI -- to lie forgotten, buried in an unmarked grave far from home, on a tiny island that would one day be ruled by the same Turks that slew him.

And so ends Book IV of the Free Company.