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

[The_Hawk]

July 15th, night -- the docks

Maria stood in the middle of a swirl of chaos, her injured wrist held close to her body to prevent its jarring, and attempted to bring some order to the mess.

"Janos, they'll be coming soon. Are you ready?" A sailor barreled past bearing a crate of some unknown substance.

"We're well-rested, fed, and equipped. We're ready. And," he added, "we've been waiting for a fight all day."

"Good. Get your men on the prows of the ships and ready to fire."

The marine nodded and turned away as another messenger approached. Maria winced as she brushed her wrist against her stomach in turning to the newcomer.

"Cap'n, Spartan is fully loaded."

Another messenger stepped up. "Corinthian, too." There was a scream of pain from the ships as an arrow was removed from a wounded soldier.

Maria ignored the sound, nodding to the two messengers. "Good, get them out of port and into the Horn." She waved the messengers away as Constance approached. In the distance, Maria could see Kent's men heading into the Catalan Quarter. She looked at the older woman incredulously. "You're not sending them back out there, are you?"

"Not them, just their horses."

"And they agreed? I'm surprised. We have room for them..."

"Room, perhaps, but no time. We can't have men dying on the docks because we're loading horses." Constance stepped aside as a wagon rattled past, and looked around. "Where's Jonasz?"

"He... didn't make it. Captain?"

"Injured, but I think he'll... he'll be alright." Constance sniffed, then examined the lady pirate. "You're injured yourself," she said, gesturing at Maria's wrist.

"It's nothing." Another messenger appeared, and Constance waved him forward, only to see he was dressed in an Imperial tabard. "What news?"

"Lady, I bear greetings from the Right Honourable Lord Admiral Leander Mourtos, Count of Didymoteichon, Count of..."

"Get on with it."

"Of course. His Lordship offers you the services of the fleet. It is rumored that Prince Thomas is wounded and is in your care. His Lordship wishes to provide what aid he may to the Heir."

Maria shared a glance with Constance. Word travels fast, it would seem. The older woman nodded to the messenger. "Fine. Have him bring his ships into the berths here as we clear them. He can load the Greeks from the south end of the wall." If any of them survive.

The messenger nodded. "His Lordship also wonders if the... mercenaries are moving to lower the boom?"

Maria looked northeast, across the darkened water. Shit. "We'll see what we can do," she said darkly.

The Greek bowed and headed back west; when he was out of earshot, Maria shouted "Messenger!" She pointed to a pale-looking young German who had stumbled up, his arm in a sling. He looked at her finger, and looked crestfallen. "You! Go find Lochlan. Tell him we're moving along here, but that someone needs to do something about lowering the boom."

Fritz looked to Constance in the hopes of winning some reprieve. She only shook her head.

"Move!" shouted Maria. Fritz turned and shuffled off dejectedly. Maria grimaced in pain as a quartet of men brushed past bearing a litter, and bit back a cry.

"Maria, let me take a look at that." Constance reached for Maria, only to have her twist away, injuring herself further as her wrist bumped Constance's fingers. Maria cried out in pain and sank to her knees.

Constance knelt beside her, looking at the swollen wrist that Maria now presented without argument. "Come on, let's get that set."

 

[Valdemar]

Frederik looked down from his dark vantage point as the first group sped into his first trap. Then a commander appeared to control the urges of the troops. No headless pursuit? That man is smart, I wonder how long he can hold them together though.

He watched in silence as the Turks scaled the walls, bows in hand, and the infantry collected whatever shields they could find. Two can play that game, he won’t find the pits that easy to bypass. He send another messenger to let the men know that there were archers on the roof.

My pits will kill your foot soldiers just as easy, unless you go through the houses, there is no way across. He watched with detached aloofness as the Turks scared up some slaves and citizens as shields. Better not let the Company men know that, they will just avoid firing into the group.

He wondered how far he should let the Turks advance before springing the next surprise and how far the Turks would advance, before they would fall to the temptation of the seemingly unobstructed alleys and side streets.

 

[Craig Ashley]

Outskirts of the Catalan Quarter

Shur'tu turned away from the strange messenger. There's something familiar about him. Shur'tu shrugged inwardly and lead his men towards the docks. Good timing, Lochlan. Our quivers are nearly empty. We've been using arrows designed for fire attacks for the last half hour.

Shur'tu turned to his nearest man, “Tell the Rooster we must retire. Our arrows are depleted and Lochlan has ordered us to the docks. Tell the Rooster it has been an honor to fight alongside him.”

Shur'tu thought of the Swiss commander and his men. Earlier, much earlier, back at the old company compound, Shur'tu dismissed the Swiss as good group for a parade, but not the battle field. In the Free Company's first battle, the steppelander realized his error, but it was not until now, that he recognized the awesome and lethal power the Swiss pikes possessed. The wall of steel they formed shredded the Turks time and time again. They were truly an amazing force. Clearly here, they were in their element.

Shur'tu rode forward, hurrying towards the prepared killing field of the Catalan Quarter. Only moments after the last of his command rode through the gate, the Turks appeared. The small band of defenders hid in silence. Shur'tu couldn't help but admire Frederik's work. This was a fine ambush, one worthy of the Khans of old.

Finally the Turks broke down the gate and slowly poured into the empty square.

Shur'tu signaled his men and the Mongols rode out, firing two quick volleys into the sapahis assembled before them. That's the last. For many those were the two last arrows. The Mongols rode away in full retreat down the main street. Before the Turk could follow, Shur'tu lead his men to a small, parallel alley. Quickly they moved the empty boxes to block the path.

In a few seconds, the screams of man and horse filled the air. The archers had done their work. Satisfied, Shur'tu led his men slowly towards the docks. When they reached them, they found a woman waiting to greet them.

“We don't have time to load the horses. We'll have to leave them behind.”

Shur'tu stared hard at the woman, the Captain's woman. Does she know what she asks? These horses are our life. Without his steed, a rider is dead. Without his rider, a steed is dead. This is our way. These horses have saved our lives and the lives of our brethren time and time again. We could not be here this very moment, if not for them. And to just leave them? Now, when safety is so near? It is a disgrace. A dishonor. Some would rather die.

Shur'tu's eye stretched passed the woman and over the docks, filled with the wounded. His jaw tightened, and he traced the scar on his forehead. She's right. Damn her, she's right.The steppelander's upper lip twitched. Through clenched teeth, the Mongol spoke. “Very well. I shall inform the men.”

He turned to his men. Men that had served him across three continents, and he gave the hard news. No one spoke. Slowly, one by one, the Mongols dismounted and began to remove their gear, weapons, tools, keepsakes. Their lives were in those saddles.

A lone Mongol rose back into his saddle. Ba'ta had been with Shur'tu from the beginning. From home, to Rus, to Poland, to Egypt, to Hungary, to now, Ba'ta was always there. Shur'tu knew this was no act of insubordination. This was a personal decision, one that every man had to make for himself.

Shur'tu extended his hand. Ba'ta clasped it and for a long moment, neither man moved. They stood staring into each other. Slowly, nodded almost without moving his head. Ba'ta let loose and turned and rode back into the city.

Shur'tu turned to the woman. “We will load our gear and then help with the wounded.”

 

[HolisticGod]

July 15th, Constantinople
Late Evening-The Golden Gate

Dimitris could see the flickers of torch light as they streamed off in the distance, chaffing away from the short, beleaguered army that still faced him across the smoldering trench. It had begun just before twilight, and it took him three messengers and a personal trip to the Italian wing to discover just why. What appeared to be a strategic withdraw, not unlikely given the pace of the battle and the defender's advantage in the dark, was on the face a tragic defeat. Sir Robert, Captain, had fallen as the northern front collapsed, and now these men were, not retreating, but filling the breach.

He had kept it from his troops and ordered them to extend their line as far di Bartollo's section, in order to hold the southern front as long as possible. There was a slim chance that the center-north could make a run for the Catalan Quarter if the Turks were reduced to street fighting in the narrow corridors of the imperial and merchant roads, but not if they were outflanked.

He was confident the Romans could outpace the beleaguered Azebs and Anatolians through the wastes on the Mamara side. There were a handful of churches along the coast, but otherwise, loot, even hard fought loot, was more promising the closer one got to the palaces. The Sultan's orders, almost certainly, were focused on halting the main retreat to the Horn.

And they had decimated the Infidel. At a margin of five to one, they inflicted enormous casualties that could only demoralize the four or five thousand not redirected to the Blacherane. Even if he opened the gate for them, he doubted any pursuit would extend across the river.

But it was grim. All the reports he could get indicated that the remnants of the center were taking heavy casualties on the way out, and the provincials were beginning to search for spoils. It was only a matter of time before they crossed into the range of his army and cut off the clean escape route around the straits.

"Now or never," he breathed, turning to face his assembled lieutenants.

As they watched him, cautiously, he could recognize admiration, respect, absolute trust fermenting in their eyes. Over the past weeks, with the senior officers as well as the troops, he had, from upstart and hero, become General, Commander, Lord and Sovereign. In absence of the Emperor, and with Thomas ensconced by the Company, and now missing, presumably dead in the rubble and fire of the Theodesian Gate, he was their only hope, their only hope of any future at all.

He had been born to lead men, his father knew, his wife knew, Captain knew, but this he owed to their desperation, to their fear. They called him Strategos not for his exploits or his investiture, but because, like them, he was desperate and he was afraid. For a moment, he basked in it, the camaraderie of common doom. And then his gaze hardened and the shadows in his face vanished beneath the fires, and he resolved. He would get them out.

"The north has crumbled, the city is open. I'm ordering a full retreat."

There were gasps all around, except from two of his ablest commanders, Jason, the Colonel of the Cataphracti, who was at present presiding over the Italian section, and a Domestic of the Varangian, Linus, reinforcing the extreme right. The rest shouted questions and exhorted violently against God and Fate. He calmed them.

"We don't have time for this. Later, when you've made it to the ships, there'll be many moments for your grief. Nicoli, I'm placing you in charge of the..."

"Sire!" The messenger, hanging off his hours in the rigors of death, shrieked a shriek that seemed too much for his wounded frame. "The Catalan Quarter has been closed. There's no way through!" Dimitris nodded grimly, and gestured for one of the commanders to help the dying man.

His options had just closed off, leaving one, spare possibility.

"Nicoli, organize the fourth, seventh and ninth regiments into six even units. Take three of them to the Lycus and prepare to cross, just in case. The others, under Balasi, will secure the harbor. Light whatever fires you can, on the towers, on the fishing fleet, on whatever boats you can find, and launch them. There should be a small fleet of cutters, send messengers as far as you can around the coast. Get the word to Captain Jonasz and the Admiral, whatever it takes. Cenon, Cetus and Giles, move the leftover battalions to the harbor wall and run continuous scouting parties as far as the gate." They nodded, and began to carry out his orders.

"Linus, Jason, scrounge together your own men off the wings and cover the center until the main army is away. Then do whatever it takes to escape."

He started away, off the wall, but the Varangian stopped him.

"We knew, my lord."

Dimitris started, then relaxed. The city guard had come from the northern front, the Cataphracti were holding the Italian line. Of course they knew. He felt pride well up in his breast, for these Greeks who fought on with the certainty of defeat.

"We've discussed it with our men. We want to stay."

"Absolutely not."

"Sire," the Domestic bowed, slightly. "I feel as though everything is lost. As though we've failed, in our only task." They shared a long look. "There's nothing for us across the sea or in the city."

He nodded.

"And you, Cataphract?"

Jason shrugged.

"Someone has to do it."

"All right. Only your men. Only the Gate. At Midnight, send half of them to the harbor, including," he narrowed his eyes at the Varangian, "the Ikion. Stagger the rest when it's safe, and then make a full retreat."

They noticed he left it open, but said nothing.

Dimitris Mataxas, the last Strategos of the Roman Empire, watched as they returned to their positions. He knew it was less courage than hopelessness that kept them there. Most of the Cataphracti had families who would never leave the city. The Varangians, it seemed, were more perceptive than was their credit.

They had no more than five hundred between them, and he guessed at most a fifth would make it to the harbor. That left eleven hundred with a chance. They had been lucky.

Facing tribal levies, poorly trained and equipped compared to the standing army, under a lackluster General. It could have been much, much worse. It could still be much, much worse. But there was nothing more he could do.

Like the Cataphracti, he would not leave Constantinople. He reared his horse, and made off for the river. His family was out there, somewhere.

 

[unmerged(6777)]

July 15, 1439 – evening, near the rear of the Catalan Quarter

At the first sound of hooves, Fritz decided to space himself the agony and suspense of finding out just when he’d be bowled over and simply threw himself to the side to cower in a mud puddle until the rider had-passed. Peeking cautiously, he recognised one of Shur’tu’s men. His face was very grim indeed…almost as grim as Fritz’s.

Picking himself up - and muttering a prayer to Saint Thomas - he walked towards a growing cluster of men who were talking in the torchlight.

“…see to it that everyone gets on board the ships first.” Roos finished, hands planted firmly on his hips.

Lochlan looked down at the Swiss lieutenant with a sceptical expression. “And then you’ll come?”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me, sirs” Fritz ventured.

They ignored him, or perhaps they simply hadn’t heard his timid voice.

“You promise?” Lochlan insisted.

“Excuse me, sirs!”

“Yes, I promise. Now hurry up and get them loaded. As soon as the last of Erik’s men get back here with Frederik I’ll try to jam the gates shut with something and then retreat to the ships. Just make sure you leave enough room on the last one.”

“SIRS!”

Lochlan turned a puzzled face towards the injured man. “No need to shout, lad. What’s the matter?”

Fritz sighed wearily. “Message from Mistress Maria, sir. Things are progressing well at the docks and the men are all boarding.” Everyone, of course, except for me! “But she says something needs to be done about lowering the boom.” Boy would I every like to lower the boom on someone!

Lochlan froze, then looked down Roos. The two officers exchanged a dumbfounded look.

“Shit!” they said, simultaneously to one another.

“Err…if that’s all, sirs, I’ll just be off now…”

“Wait!” Lochlan’s command brought Fritz to a dejected halt. He turned back to them to learn his fate. “How are we going to do it?” the ranger asked his counterpart.

“I don’t know. How far is it?”

Lochlan considered this for a moment. “Too far,” he said shortly.

“Then?”

“Then what? None of us gets out of here alive unless it’s lowered, therefore…”

“Someone’s got to do it,” Roos finished for him. “I’ll volunteer.”

Fritz couldn’t believe it. The lieutenant almost sounded happy about it. He silently whispered a prayer to Saint Jude.

“No. I’m the commander. I’ll go.”

“Err…can I go, Sirs?”

Roos looked up at Fritz. “No offence, lad, but I don’t think you’re in particularly good shape to cut that rope. It’s quite thick I think.”

“Oh no, sir!” Fritz was aghast. He hadn’t meant that at all. “I meant can I go back to the ships, sir?”

“Oh.” Roos looked at Lochlan.

The commander shook his head. “No, lad. I need to get word to Frederik and Erik. They’re up there somewhere.” He gestured into the Quarter. “Find them and tell them to delay the Turk for as long as they can. We need them to buy us some time to think. Hurry now.”

Fritz muttered a brief prayer to Saint Cecilia and plodded off sadly down the street.

* * * * *

Roos and Lochlan continued their discussion.

“Where were we?”

“I was about to go to the Acropolis and lower the boom.”

“No, Roos. I’ll go. It’s my duty. You stay here and guard to docks until the last of the men are on board the ships. Do it exactly as we discussed earlier.”

“And how many men will you take with you to die?”

Lochlan shrugged. “I’ll ask for a hundred volunteers. I’m sure some of the men will be wiling.” To die, he finished to himself.

“You’re wrong, Lochlan. No, no. Not about the volunteers. I’m sure you’ll get plenty. But you’re wasting too many lives needlessly – not to mention your own.”

“I’ll gather them now and set off immediately. Who knows, maybe I’ll even have enough time to do it and get back? Frederik’s pretty resourceful.”

Roos snorted. “You and I both know that he won’t be able to hold them for more than the hour it would take to get there and back.”

“And I suppose you have a better idea?”

Roos bit back a retort at the commander’s sarcasm. “Yes.”

“Well?”

“We wait here – or rather, I wait here…with every one of my men who is still able to wield a pike.”

“And how, precisely, does that help our situation?”

“You get everyone else on board. When Frederik and Erik get here, get them on board too. I’ll hold off the Turks until you’ve cast off and are far enough into the Horn that they can’t get at you. That way nobody else has to stay here and guard the docks while you’re loading.”

“I fail to see how that solves the problem. In fact, it makes it worse since by then there’ll be an entire army between you and the Acropolis. What do you plan to do then?”

“Simple,” Roos said in a tone that conveyed his utter confidence. “As soon as you’re clear, I fight my way over there and cut the rope. It won’t matter, particularly, how long it takes…it just has to be cut. Then you’ll be free.”

Lochlan stood poised to deny him. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Roos could do it. He just couldn’t bring himself to order another man to certain death.

“Time’s a-wasting,” Roos pressed him. “Make the decision. You know it’s the right one.”

The ranger shook his head sadly and leaned down. “Tell me one thing, Roos. Why are you so eager to die?”

If Lochlan had expected anger in response, he was mistaken. The short man sighed quietly to himself and then looked into the taller man’s eyes. “Do you remember that first night I joined you in the tavern in Florence?”

“Vaguely.”

“Do you remember the story I told you?”

“Oh. The one about the battle in that pass near Zürich? Yes, I remember.”

Roos nodded. “And do you remember what I told you then? I told you – told you all – that a Keil never withdraws. It fights and it lives, or it fights and it dies. There is no withdrawal. On that day, in that pass, our general shamed us. My men and I have lived for too many years with its taint. Here. Now. This is our chance to regain our honour. Do not, I beg you, do not force me to cast aside what little of it that I have left. Do not deny me – or deny my men – our chance for redemption.”

“But who will live to see it?” Lochlan whispered. “Who will witness it?”

“You will, my friend. And if you ever find yourself in Lucern, on the main street near the market, and you happen to see a house with a painted blue wall and bright yellow trim…and if you happen to see a woman about my age there in the yard, with some young ones, perhaps you could do me the honour of telling her that I died well…that I was redeemed.”

The two clasped arms for the last time. “I’ll tell her, Renaud. I swear it,” Lochlan promised, then turning his back he walked down to the dock gate with his men.

 

[unmerged(6777)]

July 15, 1439 – evening, the Catalan Quarter

“I don’t care what it takes. I want that down NOW!”

It was all Ishak could do to stop himself from embedding his sword in the man. Instead, he grabbed an axe from a nearby gawker and began chopping into the from of the building himself. Each powerful blow sent shards of wood flying in all directions as the blade bit deeply into the wood.

Nearby, men continued to throw as much refuse as they could find into the pit. The doors from all the adjacent houses were neatly stacked beside it, and a chain of men were handing out pieces of furniture to fill the deep trench that traversed the street. A hail of arrows and crossbow bolts continued to fall, but not nearly as many as before. It didn’t matter. He could afford to lose the men. Nevertheless, apparently his own archers were beginning to make themselves felt.

“Couldn’t we go around it?” asked another of the Janissary.

“Of course we could,” Ishak retorted between blows. “But that’s what they want us to do. That’s what they expect us to do. No. We go over it.”

“But the horses…”

“Forget the horses. They’ll be useless to us anyway. Send them around the outside and have some of them go down the alleys – just to make the enemy think their plan is working. The rest of us are going over this.”

Soon the structure began to creak ominously as yet another of its supports was severed.

“Watch out!”

Men fled in all directions as the entire face of the building suddenly collapsed and fell with a massive crash into the street – followed almost immediately be the rear and side walls crumbling in on themselves. There were screams from beneath the rubble, but Ishak was beyond caring. What mattered to him was that there was now a path over the pit - a treacherous one, admittedly, but a path nonetheless.

“Get moving! Same formation as before.”

Let’s see if you’ve anticipated that one, Ishak thought. He expected a few more snares or attacks, but his revised deployment would blunt the worst of it.

The Azebs and Anatolians began to clamber over the detritus of the house and then fanned out across the street to continue along the street. More of them fanned outwards to plug and guard the side alleyways, leaving room for the ranks of the Janissary to march forward, well protected. The number of men he was losing to the archers was and annoyance, but not a significant one. Not with the number he possessed now.

They rounded another corner and stared down a long street that ended in a gate - a gate that was partially closed. In the one open side of it he saw the one thing he had been dreading to see in the flickering torchlight: a large formation of Swiss pike.

He turned to the soldier he’d been talking to earlier and said, conversationally, “I guess those are the gates to the docks.” The soldier didn’t reply. An arrow had, at that very instant, embedded itself in his neck.

Ishak shrugged and moved on.

 

[Lord Durham]

July 15, 1439 - Night - The Harbour

Constance watched the Mongol ride off into the Catalan Quarter. She shivered. Such pride! I wish this wasn't necessary. She faced Shur'tu, a look of helplessness spread across her features.

The Mongol's fierce visage softened for a moment. "I shall explain it to you sometime." He cracked a smile, distorting his face into a death mask. "We Mongols hate water as much as our mounts." He dismounted and began to shout orders in his native tongue. The men quickly obeyed.

Constance stepped back. There were so few of the steppelanders now, as there were so few of many of the men who had landed in Constantinople a life time ago.

Kent's men-at-arms waited on the docks as several full ships pushed off into the Golden Horn. Oars slid out and they moved to join the growing fleet. The ships were quickly replaced by empty transports. The men-at-arms began to embark but, to a man, they gripped their weapons, staring back into the lost city.

Maria stalked back and forth along the dock, clutching her bandaged wrist. Many of the sailors had heard the rumours of Jonasz' demise, and now they looked to her with absolute devotion. There was no one to challenge her authority over the fleet, and even the Greek naval commander had long decided to let the fiery woman direct operations.

Further to the north, an ever growing group of refugees poured into the harbour. A cordon had been erected to hold them back, guarded by some of the fiercer looking men. Those who could, found passage on Greek ships.

Sadly, many would be left behind.

However, Constance had no choice, and steeled herself to that realization. She would deal with it later. Captain's wife walked over to Maria, forcing the woman to stop pacing. "Who's left?"

Maria closed her eyes, as if reciting. "Kent's men are starting to load. The Mongols are next. Di Bartolloa is already on board, as is LeClerc's men. Otto's men - some of Lochlans and Jaegers - most of the Welsh. None of Roos', though. I haven't seen any of Mataxis' men, either."

Constance glanced back to the burning city. In the distance she could hear screams and cries of terror. Closer she heard the clash of arms. "They may have been cut off. We'll wait until the last of the Company comes through, then we bar the gate. That should buy us enough time to launch the last of the ships." She raised a delicate eyebrow.

Maria nodded. "Agreed."

Constance left Maria, and passed by the Mongols to the Gate of Eugenius. Several men waited there. She sought out their sergeant. "What's you name?"

"Ah, Sergeant Batista, Countess."

"Well, Sergeant Batistia, once the last of the Company men pass by this gate, I want you to close and bar it. Understand?"

"Yes, Countess. Er, how will I know when the last man passes through?"

"Are you a betting man, Sergeant?"

"Er, sometimes, Countess."

"Then bet that the last man through will be Lochlan." With that she turned and walked away, her eyes drifting to the massive chain that blocked their escape...

 

[Craig Ashley]

Somewhere in the City, Near the Acropolis

Hasan scurried to catch up to the Russian, who was now many paces ahead. A furtive glance showed that the Bey still wore that ghastly, evil grin on his face. Soon. Soon we will be there. Soon the defenders will be mine. Soon the Germans will be mine. Soon Herr Jaeger will be mine. This frail one beside me, soon he will receive his sentence. All in good time. I have three days to carry out my sentence on this city.

The Russian made his way swiftly through the city. The mere sight of the Russian Bey, stained red from head to toe, was enough to keep any citizens of the city from opposing his march. As he passed the occasional fleeing citizen, the Bey smiled. Soon their time will come. Eventually all will face my judgment.

At this moment the Bey's small party came across a lone figure with sword in hand. The Greek wobbled, clearly intoxicated.

“You filthy Turks! I'll kill each and every one of you.”

“Will you? Come and kill me first, little man.”

The drunk raised his blade slowly only to have his arm severed just below the elbow. He screamed in agony. The Russian called out, “Light!”

Hasan came forward, stopping several feet short of the madman.

“Closer. I want everyone to see this.”

Hasan slowly came closer, till the Bey ordered him to stop. The Russian turned on the still screaming drunk. “Bow before me and worship me as your god, and you shall receive my mercy.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

The Russian roared, “Blasphemer!” The Bey's scimitar glided from man's kneecap to his groin. Still the Greek stood.

“Kneel and all will be forgiven, little man.”

Through clenched teeth came the reply. “Go fuck your mother.”

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.”

 

[TheWildFerret]

July 15th, Night – Catalan Quarter

Erik cursed again as the Turks went through another building. His crossbowmen were harassing their flanks, but they decided to move through the buildings instead of down the main avenues. The crossbowmen were forced out into the open or retreat. A few men decided to make a heroic stand, but were easily cut down by the Turks. Although they lost men, they slowed up the Turks slightly.

They thought to move through the buildings, but to be honest it slowed them down even more. What bothered Erik the most was the fact they barely paid heed to his men. Instead of dealing with his skirmishers they took the losses and moved on. This troubled Erik a bit. If they couldn’t stop these men then they would be trapped in the quarter with no means to get back to the docks.

“Dammit, who is this new man that leads them?”

Adler merely looked at Erik and fired another shot at the passing Turks. There was a cry of pain and a thump of a body as it fell. He was still rattled by the use of human shields that the Turks forced down the streets. Luckily the men were of firmer resolve and knew much more was at risk and still opened fire anyway. Adler could not believe he heard Erik give the order. He knew his commander well and knew what this must be doing to him.

“Ok, we’ve harassed them enough here, let’s move back to another position closer to the gates.”

Erik looked at another man, “Tell the rest to retreat fully to the docks, we’re not doing much here other then scratching at an elephant.”

The man nodded and slinked off. Erik knew that inside of ten minutes the groups of crossbowmen would be moving back to the gates. Erik looked once more at Adler, “One more spot Adler, let’s see if we can get a shot at this new commander.”

Adler merely smiled at the thought as they both slinked off down a side street and moved in front of the advancing Turks. They set themselves up along the Turks way and set in to wait. As they waited Erik saw the other crossbowmen move off and through the gate. Erik saw what looked like the Swiss Kiel formed up on the other side of it.

Good. Good to know that there is a solid force to our back.

Erik turned back to the front to wait. They chose another position that looked over a likely spot where the commander would order them through another building. It wasn’t long before they saw the Turks and as expected they began chopping at a house. Erik watched intently at the men working and he noticed the loud mouthed one screaming curses and promises it seemed. Erik tapped Adler and pointed at the man. Adler nodded and took aim.

Adler felt the wind and mentally calculated the distance to the man. It was a long shot, but one that he felt he could do. He breathed in a couple times and found his natural aim was dead on the man. He breathed in one last time, slowly releasing it and when done squeezed off his bolt. Adler and Erik watched as the bolt flew true, Erik grinned with certain knowledge that this man was dead.

Just then a man stepped up to say something to the commander, the bolt sunk through his throat. The commander seemed to be looking at the Kiel as well and said something to the soldier not realizing that the man was dead. The Turk looked back and noticed the bolt protruding from the man’s neck and merely shrugged and continued on.

Erik shook his head, “The luck of this man is unheard of. Plus his disregard of death, that would of shook many men I know. Let’s move Adler, we’re done this night.”

Erik sighed and he and Adler moved back to the gates of the Catalan Quarter and move through to the docks. He saw Roos and Lochlan talking and approached them.

“That new commander is a worse devil then that Russian. He is cold and tactically sound. He didn’t fall into as many traps as we had hoped, he decided to go through the buildings. Also he disregarded the bow fire, completely. He took the losses and continued on.”

Roos and Lochlan looked at him with some surprise in their faces.

“Yes, he deduced our intent and mostly nullified it. They will be here shortly, all of my crossbowmen I have left are through. No one remains in the Quarter, although I never linked up with Frederik nor have I any idea where Landen and his men are.”

Erik shrugged at the two men. Lochlan looked once more at the Swiss commander and sighed. “Damn you Roos.”

Lochlan looked at Erik, “Get you and your men on board right now. I’m not leaving anyone else behind.” Lochlan’s eyes darted quickly to Roos and Erik made the connection. He intends to hold the gate until the ships are off into the bay. He does not expect to live the night, I can see that in his eyes, and triumph? Hmmm, so the Kiel stands and fight like it has been taught to.

Erik reached out to the short Swiss and grasped his hand in a firm handshake. “We may not of been friends, but my respect for you and your men will always be high. You honor both yourself and your men. I shall remember you Roos, May your trip to hell be costly for the enemy.”

The Swiss merely nodded at the German and returned the handshake. “Good luck Erik, and make sure you teach this bunch real Pike tactics.”

Erik bellowed a laugh and winced at the pain in his chest. They broke their hand shake and he moved to the docks and boarded a ship. Any ship was as good as the next for Erik. He was in pain and his thoughts swirled in confusion. His unit was for all intents and purposes destroyed. They would never form a cohesive fighting block again. He stood at the rail and watched the final conflict unfold, unsure of his future and worse yet, unsure of his men’s future…

 

[unmerged(14966)]

15 July 1439 - Along the southern Shore

"Get the piles, all of them. And any tar barrels along the docks."

One of the tinkers tossed a small flask into the sizable drift pile, then held a torch to it. It flickered for a moment as the fine oil began to burn, then the flame caught hold of a breeze. He reined his mount on along the shore to the next suitable pile.

Pierce guided his mount out onto a wooden pier surrounded by small fishing vessels and a single two-masted hull. It wasn't really a ship any longer, more of a floating storage spot. The deck was covered with small sheds and piles of old rigging, worn sails, and dried out nets. It was abandoned at night, and nearly as much during the day. Only the odd sailor desperate to find something crossed onto it. The Scot tossed a flask of oil at several barrels of thick sealing tar, and was rewarded with the sound of breaking pottery. He tossed his torch onto the deck of the hulk, and kicked an open barrel of tar over before steering his mount back to solid ground.

Pierce whistled loudly and waved the tinkers towards him. "It's time to meet the others!"

---------------------

Night, a large building near the south shore

Saverio Treliallo paced. The sounds of fighting had slowed, but still flared. Along the shores he could see fires, as well as to the north towards the Catalan and the Apostles. Already most of the paid guards had failed to show for their appointed rounds. He'd have to deal with that, but only after the Sultan had arrived. For now he could just guard their stocks and plot to wrangle more profits from Constantinople's new owner and the other managers.

ding ding ding

Saverio looked annoying over his shoulder towards the door. Surely one of the guards would spare him this trivial task.

ding ding ding

"Fools. Where are you at?" He waited and stared out the window at the fires along the shore.

ding ding ding

The Italian stomped his foot and made for the stairs. He tripped on the corner of a box as he stormed off the stairs from the elevated office area in the dark shadows. "The caretaker will find himself fodder for the Sultan's guard for not keeping the lamps full. Who's there??"

"I bid you greetings from his Lordship Landen Leiturges Episcopi. His Lordship seeks to ascertain the safety of the Venetian's this eve."

"A moment to unbar the door." Saverio looked through the small crack in the doorframe. The figure of the envoy's aide de camp was vaguely visible in the light of a torch. He'd seen the quiet Frenchman before on many occasions, invariably when they came to extort goods from him for their Church appointed rounds. The word from Venice had been clear to give them all that they required, and the goods were always common items befitting a cleric. But he had suffered their bleeding him for a year, and it had made a dent in his profits. Yet the week past they had spoke of leaving. Intrigued, Saverio began to unbar the door.

Perhaps their 'arrangements' have fallen through. Why else to seek me at this hour?

"My humble greetings to your Lordship. How can I be of service?" He half bowed, moving away from the door to allow the aide de camp to enter. To his surprise he found himself facing the robed form of Landen Leiturges. "My Lordship, it is indeed a surprise! I was informed you had left the city. What service can I humbly offer you?"

"Left? There is no need to have left. Were you unaware that the mercenaries have succeeded in defeating the Sultan?"

Is it possible...? Surely the rabble couldn't have defeated the massed forces of the Sultan and his offensive Russian minion. But the thunder from the walls had been stopped...

"I'm sorry...that's such...good news to hear." The calculus of the trader's mind was rapidly exploring the permutations of the news, and it showed on the Italian's face. "But where are my manners. Please, come in. What can I do for you?"

Landen moved into the room further. "Nothing. I seek only to ensure the safety of the Lord's flock in the city. At first opportunity I will be dispatching messengers to Rome by way of Venice. It is my intent to let the Council know the status of it's citizen's here."

"That is most charitable of your Lordship. I would be indebted if you could inform my superior's that all is well with our contracts here." Saverio's mind ceased racing for a moment and reflected on the meaning of this visit. Perhaps he had misjudged the envoy. The Italian wasn't a dyed in the cloth churchgoer, but having someone with a foot in the Papal Council was always useful. It was an almost genuine smile that came to his lips in response.

"Well then. I must away, there are others who need attending to this evening." The Frenchman moved aside as Landen slowly extended his hand with the Papal insignia.

Damn holy rollers and their traditions. Must I do this? He bowed hesitantly, cursing at the distraction of the man. Saverio's mind was rapidly reforming his plans as he looked at the ring. The Church would no doubt repair the damage to the city and it's churches, and he would have a piece of that action. If he could maneuver it right, perhaps he could undermine the surviving managers and take control of the trade rights for himself! A genuine smile crossed his face as something struck his neck at the apex of the spinal column.

"Saverio of Venice, you have traded your soul for the fleeting value of ducats. You and yours have betrayed this city, and worse the Christian men who defended it. It's people shall endure a bitter life of peril. And for this, you shall die. May the Holy Father have mercy on your soul."

He could see and hear Landen above him. He tried to reach out, only to feel nothing. His legs refused to work. He tried to cry out, but no sound emerged. His mind raced, as did his heart. The envoy surely will pay for this. He will owe him! And what a wondrous thing it must be to have the Church owe one. He could wrest a cut of the profits before they were reported! And that would ensure him the capital to oust the other managers. Saverio Treliallo's mind laughed, even as it slowly died.

Landen fought his way out of the Council Robes. They had served their first purpose this evening by hiding his limp and condition, and soon would serve their next. Remi held the trader's hand out and Landen slid the symbol of the Papal Council onto his finger. The robes and other gear were hastily stored in various spots in the building. Alain appeared pushing two bound men, their heads covered with sacks. Remi took the trading records and threw them into the fire. Landen breathed hard, then forced himself back to the doorway. Both his men nodded and took position behind the hooded men. Landen nodded, and the sacks were removed from the men to reveal two frightened Anatolians.

"You will be released. There is a man in the back room who is a member of the papal council. You will kill him." Landen scratched across one of the Turks chests. "He resisted, and you had no choice. You will take what you choose before you go. Your lives will depend on bringing your officer's here. Else your lives are forfeit. Do you understand?" Landen cut the men's bindings. The two Turks stood terrified. Landen looked quizzically at them, then shouted. The Turks vanished into the building.

Alain laughed and tossed the Anatol's blades on the floor, still coated with the blood of the Venetian trader's guards. "So do you think they'll do as told?"

"I suspect so. They'll either be heroes or martyrs." One Turk appeared near the door to retrieve his weapon, followed shortly by the other. Landen waited until they were out of site in the building and painfully clawed back onto his horse.

"How's the leg?"

"Stiff, but it's workable. The fires are burning along the wharves. We should see Pierce and the tinkers soon."

"Aye, hopefully it will distract some of them. Your Captain friend did tell them we're going to be leaving with them?"

Landen chuckled. "By his word, he did. I suspect we'll know shortly." The Alsatian groaned, and a muffled noise emerged from the building. The three men watched the softly glowing doorway, but only the flickering lamplight was visible. The sounds of horses approaching broke their silence.

"Preparez Toujours! Tasks completed as ordered mi'lord."

"The bodies?"

"One in the pantry, the other in the office. Both have burnt out torches and items from the rooms."

"Were you seen?"

"No. A patrol of Turkish horsemen passed while we were inside, but they didn't even check the gate. We did pass a number of the Greek guards again moving this way with torches and oil."

"Good. Rest in the seat while you can, we'll be moving in a moment."

"Aye mi'lord."

"Considering they were leading them to the Catalan, it's awfully quiet north of here. Did they say anything to you about what they had planned?"

Landen looked at the Alsatian and shook his head. Then there was silence until the two Turks reappeared. Both were carrying far more loot than they could possibly keep. "You did not see us. I promise you death should you think otherwise. Now go!" The Turk's practically jumped at Landen's voice, and he laughed. "They're more afraid to lose their loot than to die!" Something inside his soul told him he would never forget this moment.

The sound of the Scot bellowing echoed off the stone walls. Landen said a silent prayer that the German's harassing parties would last long enough for them to return to the docks. Then the five men and their horses met with the three coming from the west, and turned north at a fast gallop.

 

[Valdemar]

Inside the Catalan quarter

Frederik swore, the Turkish commander was not playing along. From his place high above the roofs he could see the archers amassing on the edges of the square and begin their climb to the roofs, soon they would severely hamper his own defense.

Then he saw what the commander was doing with his men, and he almost despaired, the control that man had over them was uncanny. They doggedly filled the pit. Not a single one tried to bypass it, they went over, tearing down the houses to fill the hole he had spent months preparing, burying men and horses underneath.

As they began moving men across Frederik looked out over “his” quarter, he could se from the torch light that not all the Turks followed their commander down the main road, that some had indeed branched out from the entry way and down into the alleys, but it was aggravatingly few, the main body of men was moving purposefully down the main avenue. He sighed, there were only a few things to do. He grabbed a runner and sent him to with draw all forces from the traps behind the main body of Turks, that would defuse some of the effectiveness, but it would also prevent them from being trapped, then moved down the stairs.

Mikhail and his small band of Varangians were waiting for him at the bottom.

“The Turks are sending men unto the roofs. We need to stop those archers, else our own men will be neutralized.”

The huge man hefted his axe and nodded and Frederik led the small group to a place behind the main street. Ahead of the he could hear the yelling as more Turks had tripped the second pit, he cursed, they were on foot and while some had probably plunged to their deaths it wasn’t as effective against foot soldiers as against fast moving cavalry. He shrugged still it would delay them some.

He came to the appointed house and entered silently, they could here movement on the roof, hopefully they were still mostly ahead of the Turks. They silently moved to the upper floor. This was an abandoned building and Frederik knew the way to the roof. Carefully he readied himself right under the trapdoor leading to the flat roof. He counted with his fingers to the other men,

Three,

Two,

One.

He flashed onto the roof, his first dagger leaving his finger even before his feet hit the floor. They were in the midst of a small front group of Turkish archers. These were not like the men he had fought on the wall, these were battle-hardened veterans well equipped and armored. As the rest of the group stormed onto the roof, the enemy quickly adjusted to the new threat. They threw down their bows and reached for their swords.

A quick and ugly fight ensued, but the surprise and sheer brutality of the Varangians carried the day. The remaining Turkish archers were still a few rooftops away and the attack bought a breathing room for the defenders.

Frederik ventured a quick look into the street. The Turks had already started dismantling houses to cover the next pit, once over that there was an almost straight run to the gate. He could see the Swiss pike men assembling and a trickle of his own defenders moving through the half open gate. He ducked back down before somebody spotted him from the street. The last image on his mind had been the small forces now send into the alleys, presumably to cut of any defenders left in the city. Well the traps would take care of that for now, more importantly; he had to stop that commander from filling the pit.

He waved the men over,

“We need to stop that.”

Mikhail leaned over the edge, “I think that may be a bit difficult, there is quite a lot of them.”

Frederik grinned. “Well we’ll just have to see, wont we?”

He moved his group forward, sending the few company men they encountered back to the ships. Soon they were right above the pit. Staying low Frederik outlined his idea.

“How is your throwing arm?”

The huge man shrugged, “Depends.”

“Can you toss a couple of lit torches over to that thatched roof over there, without getting shot?”

“I can do better than that.” The huge man went further into the roof, hefted his axe and hacked his way into the house below. Moments later he returned carrying an odd bundle. Frederik raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“Cloth, soaked in lamp oil, I’ll light it and then toss it.”

“You’ll get burned.”

“I’ll live” The large man didn’t wait for confirmation, he simply struck a light and rose up, the fire spreading rapidly between his hands. With a mighty roar he hurled the flaming ball unto the dry straw of the other house. The top of the building immediately caught flame. Frederik clapped the man on the shoulder and started dousing the roof on their side with oil, then he send the men running onto the next house and threw a torch onto the soaked beams.

The fire caught, but wasn’t spreading very quickly, he just hoped that this would prevent them from nearing the pit with their debris and prevent them from using this house. He cared very little if the fire spread. Most of the company men were out and it would take hours before this reached anywhere near the open area near the gate.

Hurrying along he saw that the gates were almost shut. Damn them, we are still here. Unaware that the Company was still waiting for the remaining stragglers he quickly directed his men away from the main avenue and down into the streets, moving towards the dock wall at an angle.

When they finally reached the wall everything was quiet. Frederik stood for a moment orientating him self, they were out of sight from the gate. There he rushed to a small and closed shop, kicked at the door until Mikhail arrived with his axe, then ducked inside.

He reappeared moments later with a large coil of rope across his shoulders, quickly, feeling the urgency now, he trotted up upon the wall. He looped the rope around part of the crenellation and pushed the remainder over the edge,

“Quickly down the rope, we need to reach the last ship, before they abandon us.” From his vantage point he could see the ships gathering in the Horn and the foam forming around some of the remaining vessels as they moved out of the harbor, the angle prevented him from seeing the inner parts of the dock.

I’ll bloody swim if I have to.

 

[unmerged(6777)]

July 15, 1439 – Evening, the Catalan Quarter

Flame burst forth from the roof of a nearby house but showed little inclination of spreading particularly quickly. Another separate fire soon appeared in an adjacent building sending a column of smoke into the night sky.

Ishak smiled.

Desperation is a wondrous thing, he thought. That the enemy had been forced to take such a drastic, obviously unprepared step was all the evidence he needed to show that the last of the prepared traps had been triggered. Now the enemy would be scattering, trying to flee the Quarter before it was overrun by his men.

Frankly, he didn’t care particularly if they escaped in the short run. They would all die sooner or later, and the fewer men that he had to sacrifice to achieve his objectives, the better. What relieved him, about the defender’s withdrawal from this area was that he could now release the citizens who he had been forced to use as his force’s shields. He gestured for one of them, a man who seemed more wealthily dress than any of the others, to approach him.

“Your name?” he asked, his tongue having little difficulty in remembering how to form the Greek words.

The man was surprised but wary. “Makduf,” he relied shortly.

“Well, Makduf, it appears that your friends are withdrawing. That is, for you, very welcomed news indeed.”

The Greek spat at Ishak’s feet – something that almost earned him instant death from the other bystanders, but Ishak’s barked command and raised had stayed their arms.

“I wish to offer you a deal, Makduf.”

“A deal?” His eyes shifted to both sides, obviously uncertain as to what sort of bargaining position he might be in.

“Yes Makduf. You see, I found the need to…‘subjugate’ you in that manner most distasteful. It is not my way, nor the way of my master. The Sultan Murad, blessed be his name, is a kind and merciful man. He seeks not to destroy this city, but merely to remove the despots who have ruled it. You are not a despot, are you Makduf?”

The man swallowed, shaking his head.

“Good. I had thought you were not. Well then, as I was saying, the Sultan is a man of peace…and a man of plenty. As a token of his munificence I will offer you a deal. I will begin by releasing all of your countrymen that my men currently hold. I will assign guards to protect them and I will give the entire Catalan Quarter amnesty during the coming three days. There will be no looting, no rape, no death within this Quarter. You and your countrymen will be allowed to use whatever means are at your disposal to douse these flames – there are cisterns nearby, I believe?”

Makduf nodded, his eyes wide in disbelief at the tall Turk’s promises.

“Excellent! So you and your countrymen will be protected as you put out the fires since neither you, not the Sultan, would wish the destruction of this most vital part of the city. You will be safe during the next three days. You will suffer no further harm whatsoever. It is a most generous offer, would you not agree?”

The hapless man could only nod. “And the price?”

Ishak smiled. “It is but a very small thing, my friend Makduf. Very small indeed and, further, it will cost you nothing.”

“That is…?”

“You and your fellow citizens have lived here for a long time, Makduf. I am certain that you are very familiar with the pathways of this Quarter and also, I am most certain that you are aware of whatever traps this Free Company – the self same mercenaries who are now deserting you in droves – whatever traps this Free Company has prepared for me. And so the price is almost as nothing. You will guide me – and my men – safely to the street yonder.”

The Greek’s eyes shone with sudden hope. “I will do so!”

“Very good! Very wise. You should be mindful of something though, friend Makduf…something very, very important. The Sultan’s victory is assured. What happens here will not affect the outcome of this night or of the future. All this present situation does is delay me…delay our certain victory. You have, no doubt, heard of the rather peculiar and voracious appetites of our commander, Kruschovic Bey. It would be a shame if I was forced to report that you had failed to live up to any part of your promise for, most assuredly, this would invalidate our deal. Is that clear, Makduf? You will seem my men through in perfect safety. Anything less would be…most unfortunate.”

“I give you my word, Sir. Nothing will happen when I guide you.”

Ishak gave the necessary orders to have a number of Anatolians remain to fulfill the obligations he had just committed to, and then swept his hand in the direction of the massing Swiss. “Then lead on, Makduf.”

 

[Lord Durham]

July 15 - Night - The Catalan Quarter

Though his side still ached, Sulyman counted himself lucky he was not one of the unfortunate soldiers who lay dead or dying within the mighty city. He would take his pain and thank Allah.

Surrounded by a small bodyguard, the envoy nudged his horse along the road that wound to the so-called Catalan Quarter, one of many such collection of towns that lay within Constantinople, each holding true to their country's origins.

As he neared, he noted flames licking the sky from behind wooden walls and dark, ominous buildings. This quarter has not surrendered to the Sultan, as has so many others.

The guide held up a hand at the main entrance, signaling a halt. Sulyman looked down. "Why do we stop?"

The guide was nervous. "I saw movement, my Lord."

"Ah, that is reason enough to show fear." The envoy sneered, and kicked his mount past the cowering man. The bodyguard followed.

Almost immediately Sulyman regretted the action. It was obvious by the sounds that the fighting was close by. Still, he was on the Sultan's business, and he would never disappoint his master.

Advancing still further, he finally came across a knot of men - Ottoman soldiers. They were clumped around one figure, a tall man who pointed with authority. The others nodded sagely. There was something about that man...

Smiling thinly, Sulyman brought his horse next to the group. They paused while listening to the leader to look menacingly at the mounted intruders. Sulyman ignored them and locked eyes with the man, bowed gently. "His Glorious Majesty has dispatched this humble servant to aid in whatever manner possible." He paused, looked around. "In truth, I had no idea you were so accomplished in city warfare."

The Turkish leader grinned in recognition. "Well met. Have you seen our friend during your travels?"

"I saw a trail of bodies and blood that ran off in the direction of the Acropolis." Sulyman sniffed. "I sincerely hope nothing ill befalls the Russian."

The man's grin became fierce. "Neither do I."

 

[unmerged(6777)]

July 15, 1439 – Evening, the Catalan Quarter

“Go find Erik and Frederik,” Fritz muttered glumly to himself. “Find Erik and Frederik, he says. How the hell am I supposed to do that when I haven’t the faintest idea where they are?”

He froze in the alleyway upon hearing the guttural voices of Turks nearby.

“Oh God!”

He dove through an open doorway, dashed madly through the small entryway and into the deserted room beyond.

What now?

The voices grew even louder and he plunged blindly through an archway and into what had obviously been the former owner’s kitchen. The place was empty now, save for a rat that scurried away behind a derelict and fallen cabinet.

Oh to be a rat right now!

The rat emerged from the other side and scrabbled on through another doorway. Having no better idea, Fritz followed it – much to the alarm of the rodent who decided that it had lost all interest in its explorations and would be better served by getting out of here altogether. It made a desperate run for the rear door.

Hard on its heels (if rats have heels) Fritz could only utter a brief prayer of thanks to whatever saint might be appropriate under the circumstances (if rats have patron saints) and found himself in yet another nondescript alleyway.

Left? Right?

The sound of many booted feet, seemingly louder from the right, was enough to make up his mind up for him. He ran, as fast as his weary legs would carry him, only to emerge into the main thoroughfare. There was a great deal of light to his left and so he turned - instinctively - towards it.

He skidded to a halt. Not more than twenty paces away were a huge number of Turks.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

He nearly fell as he turned to flee back in the opposite direction but, mercifully, he regained his balance. Ahead, not a hundred and fifty paces away, he saw the keil. Moaning a prayer to Saint Christoph, he raced towards them.

* * * * *

Renaud Roos watched as another group of stragglers passed by his assembling keil, passed through the one remaining open gate and continued on towards the waiting transports. Like most of the men who passed, there wore expressions of dull exhaustion and carried the grim weight of the Free Company’s defeat on their sloped shoulders. They had done everything in their power – and more – to stem the irresistible tide of the Ottoman army…

…and yet they had failed.

Fewer and fewer men emerged from the City now, and it seemed likely that the trickle had all but dried up. Only a few other bowmen had arrived since the Germans Erik and Adler had passed within; and of Frederik and his small group of Varangians there had been no sign. The Dane was resourceful, though, and had likely chosen another way.

“Sir.” Renaud looked up at the familiar sound of Viktor’s voice. He looked up the road in the direction the sergeant was indicating. “They’re past the second pit and forming up now.”

Roos nodded. He would have liked to charge the keil straight into the enemy ranks right then, but he knew the gesture would be futile – however deadly it might prove to be in the short term – and would almost certainly jeopardise the more important mission…the Seraglio and the chain.

Renaud had been contemplating addressing his men…contemplating telling them how proud he was of their brave performance during all their years together, how glad he was to have been their commander and how honoured he was to be able to lead them in this, their final battle. He had decided against it, though. They already knew how he felt and also what fate was in store for them at the hands of the Turk. Silence was better. Silence gave them these few brief, quiet almost peaceful moments to reflect on their friends, their families and their loved ones…and to make their peace with God.

Now, with that battle at hand, he drew his sword and reversed it as he bent one knee to the ground. Nearly three hundred men sank to join him in prayer. With bowed head he said in a clear voice, just barely loud enough to carry across the ranks…

• Hear my prayer, O God, incline thine Ear!
  Thyself from my petition do not hide!
  Take heed to me! Hear how in prayer I mourn to Thee!
  Take heed to me! Without Thee all is dark, I have no guide.
  
  The enemy shouteth. The godless come fast!
  Iniquity, hatred upon me they cast!
  The wicked oppress me. Ah, where shall I fly?
  Perplexed and bewildered, O God, hear my cry.

Someone chose that precise moment to scream loudly from further up the street.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

Roos ignored the cry and continued.

• My heart is sorely pained within my breast.
  My soul with deathly terror is oppressed.
  Trembling and fearfulness upon me fall.
  With horror overwhelmed, Lord hear me call.
  
  O for the wings of a dove!
  Far away would I rove!
  In the wilderness build me a nest,
  And remain there forever at rest.

As he finished there was the clattering sound of hooves on cobblestone and Roos stood, looking up to see eight horses come flying towards the gate, Landern at their head. They barely paid his men any heed as they plunged through the opening and headed down towards the waiting ships.

“Sir?” A plaintive voice caught his attention, and he swung back to see a familiar face. It seemed to be the same wounded messenger from earlier.

“Yes?”

“I couldn’t find them, sir. I tried…honest, I tried…but Erik and Frederik are nowhere to be found and the Turks…”

“That’s all right, lad. Erik’s already come through and I’m guessing Frederik knows another way to get there.”

Fritz stood there, dumbfounded. You mean I didn’t have to go back there?! Words escaped him for a moment.

Viktor’s voice. “They’re coming, lieutenant!” The three men looked back up the street to see a mass of enemy on the move, a wall of Janissary in the lead. Fritz, finding his voice again, muttered something about Saint Gregory.

“Messenger…”

Fritz regarded the commander with tears forming in his eyes. Please God, no…!

“Go now. Get out of here. Tell Lochlan that there will be no more. He’s at the gate.”

The wounded soldier’s face filled with elation as he was suffused with a sudden burst of new energy. “Thank you, sir,” he said, even as he began to rush towards the gate.

Roos turned to Viktor. “Tell me as soon as that gate is closed, sergeant, then keep an eye on the docks. When the last ship has cleared it moorings we will begin to move towards the Acropolis. Until then, we hold our ground here. Pass the word.”

“Yes, sir.” Viktor snapped a salute.

 

[unmerged(6777)]

July 15th, 1439 – The Catalan Quarter

Ishak looked up, expecting to see yet another group of mangy Sipahi. The light was poor, but the leader of the party was obviously of some importance if the gold and jewels scattered about his person were any indication..

The noble bowed gently in the saddle and spoke. “His Glorious Majesty has dispatched this humble servant to aid in whatever manner possible.” He paused, looking around at the devastation. “In truth, I had no idea you were so accomplished in city warfare.”

Ishak grinned as he recognised the voice. Sulyman! Disdainful as always, I see. How much do you resent, I wonder, being forced to spend so much time away from your near-legendary harem? Ah well, you will reap the rewards for your pain and suffering…just as I shall. The men were waiting for him to answer, obviously curious that one of such high breeding should treat a simply Janissary with such deference. He ignored them. “Well met. Have you seen our friend during your travels?”

“I saw a trail of bodies and blood that ran off in the direction of the Acropolis.” Sulyman sniffed. “I sincerely hope nothing ill befalls the Russian.”

Ishak’s grin became fierce. “Neither do I.” The men were becoming even more curious with the exchange and Ishak wondered whether the time had come to finally reveal at least part of his master’s plan. Not yet. There is too much at stake. But he must divert their attention, somehow, before they became too suspicious and he was forced to play hiss trump card – the card delivered some timely by his master. “Do you wish to assume the honour of commanding the men, lord? The final battle is at hand…”

Sulyman regarded him with bright, smiling eyes that only Ishak, who knew him well, could interpret. Otherwise he maintained his disdainful expression and made shift to brush off a small speck of ash that had fallen on his cloak from the fires above. “I would prefer to watch His Glorious Majesty’s finest troops in action…from a safe distance. Should you require assistance, you may call on me.”

‘Safe’ my left foot! You’re as fine a swordsman as I, although you take great pains to hide it. Better, perhaps. It’s no accident that you were sent here, my friend, and the message is quite clear. Should I fail, Murad has sent you to finish what I can not. He bowed deeply, though, and out loud he said. “As you wish, noble Sulyman. The Sultan’s wish is my command.”

Ishak turned to the men. “It is time.”

The ranks of Janissary began to advance towards the waiting Swiss…

 

[unmerged(14966)]

15 July 1439 - Nearing the Catalan Quarter at night

The riders moved quickly through the streets. They had rode hard until past the Hippodrome, then slowed as they crossed the Messe. Once clear they rode all out again. Near the gate in the Catalan they dodged a messenger and bored through the pikemen. Landen immediately began to maneuver through the gate and dock areas looking for the ranger Lochlan. He found him near the gate area.

"Mission is done. No sign of Turks on the south side, so we had to find a couple to borrow. We crossed a party of the Guard as we left the docks, it looked like they were sweeping the southern shore with torches." The ranger groaned audibly. "The pikemen were working on closing the gate. Do I want to ask?"

"Ever been to someplace called Lucern?"

Landen drew a conclusion, and shook his head in disbelief. "The tinkers loaded up with all the healing herbs and oils they could. They're heading that way now."

"How's the leg?"

"I'm not going to be walking much. Why?"

"Well, you're going to have to get used to it." The ranger explained, and Landen's jaw locked.

"Are you out of your mind?"

 

[Craig Ashley]

The Acropolis

At last, we are here. Kruschovic Bey gazed into the bay, watching the Free Company fleet slowly move into position. Do you not know that your god is all knowing? All seeing? And most of all, all powerful? Did you truly think you could escape judgment? Foolish mortals, I once thought I would feast on your flesh, but I have found a much more satisfying meal, your souls. I shall feast upon them for all eternity. I wonder if a Mongol soul tastes the same as the Welsh? I suspect not.

I do believe the Germans will be my greatest treat. Herr Jaeger, I shall chew upon you each and every day from this day to the last. Forever your bones will be broken and ground between my jaws. Your blood spilled from my lips each and every day. I will crush your skull and snap your spine. I will devour your heart. Even your tormented cries will not escape my appetites.

Only your pain will satisfy my hunger. Only your suffering can quench my thirst. Yet I shall never be full, never satisfy my hunger or quench my thirst. And all of your souls will be there, always. Set before me like a great banquet.

The only shame is I can devour only one victim at a time. I know I will long to hear all of your eternal cries of misery. If only I had more mouths to grind more souls. Oh, that would truly be heaven, my heaven and your Hell.

Kruschovic Bey stood erect and stared out past the ships, past the city itself. His eyes saw a world that by the grace of God no other man could see.

 

[Valdemar]

Docks Outside the CQ

Frederik slid down the rope, quietly wondering how many times he had done that in his life and how many times he had claimed it to be the last one.

Once down the group stayed in the shadow of the wall, trying to find out what the situation on docks were. The angle of the wall and the gatehouse hid most of the view and even though his rational mind said they would wait and the Turks couldn’t have gotten through the pikes, his instincts told him to be wary.

Slowly, very slowly he crept along the wall towards the curve of the wall and the lighted area he could sense more than see beyond the gatehouse. There it was, he knelt as he looked around the corner, nobody looked for anything that low. He took a quick glance. Constance, somebody else, perhaps Maria and Lochlan.

He stood up, “All clear, looks like we made it in time to be caught on the open water at least.”

Mikhail grinned, like all northerners both he and Frederik felt that the warm sea of the south was easy swimming, but the rest of the group looked uncomfortable at the thought. Frederik sheathed his knife turned the corner, staying in the shadows out of habit.

 

[unmerged(6528)]

July 15th, 1439 - the gate

"Are you out of your mind?" Landen asked hotly.

Lochlan shrugged. "A little, but thats not the point. You know it has to be done." He gestured back to the ships. "You think I give a damn about horses at this point?"

Landen was silent a moment, then nodded. A moment later his somewhat mocking smile reappeared, and saluted before leading his men on to the docks.

"Sir." came a weak voice from behind him.

"Yes?" Lochlan said, turning to face the company infantryman.

"The sword you requested." He held out a cloth wrapped bundle, which Lochlan took solemnly from him.

"Thank you, now get on the ships brother, don't get left behind." Lochlan smiled sadly.

The mercenary saluted, turned and jogged towards the ships, which were in their final stages of loading.

Lochlan returned his gaze to the Catalan quarter beyond that gate. He could see the fires Landens men had set up, as well as Frederiks. "Truly this place has been hell on earth." He murmured softly, beginning to walk toward the gate. "Damn your Renaud Roos." He whispered.

As he reached the gate, he unwrapped the cloth bundle. It was a curved scimitar of a jannisary officer, a good one. It was plain and unadorned, but it was made of Damascus steel. He held it away from his body, observing how the dirty light of the growing fires played off it dully. "With weapons such as these, they near broke us." He whispered.

He put the blade to a few practice slashes, it was supremely well balanced, it was a shame he was going to throw it away. "Ahh Sultan you have your glorious victory."

He flipped the blade, catching it on the dull inward curved side. Using his left arm, which no longer had a shield bound to it, eh adjusted it so he could throw the sword as far as he could into the damned city of Constantinople. "When they write the histories Sultan, they will say you won this battle, your men forced their way through a breach and took the city."

He raised his arm to throw the blade. "I wonder if they will mention us, probably not. After all, it would blacken your great name if anyone knew we escaped."

He drew his arm back, and suddenly, he smiled. It was a small smile, without much light of life in it, but nevertheless, it caused him to pause and lower the blade, looking at it again. "But they will be wrong great Sultan, we live. Your fleet will not stop us, it cannot." He flipped the blade again, and adjusted his fingers on the handle, gripping it in the proper fashion.

Then the smile grew, and he brought the curved blade up to his forehead to salute the brave swiss who would do their duty shortly, and die for it. "We hold to our oaths, and we live Sultan, we have defeated you."

then, of all things improper for the moment, he laughed, and as he laughed he felt the pain and grief inside loosen its knot on his heart, ever so slightly. "I live Sultan, I have defeated you." He said, now smiling. He thrust the blade into his belt, he would take it with him, as a remembrance of this place.

He turned back, the ships were about ready, and competent swiss had been ready for some time. As he moved to a position where he could close the gate, he said his last words to the city. "I will not miss the place." And though his smile faded then from his face, it did not fade from his heart.

Lochlan closed the gate, and turned to get to the ships, time critical.

 

[unmerged(6777)]

July 15, 1439 – Night - Constantinople

An eerie quiet settled over the city. The peeling of the church bells had long since stopped and what few cries were heard now came from a distance. Even the sound of the advancing Janissaries’ booted feet – now less than a hundred paces away – seemed strangely muffled. They gave no war cry. Perhaps they, too, were less than eager for this encounter.

At long last there was a heavy, scraping sound and the creaking of wood, followed by an ominous boom as the gate was drawn shut behind them. Finally came the thud, thud, thud of the beams being fitted into place to secure it. Now, whether they wished to or not, there was no retreat.

Renaud barely heard Viktor’s sombre words. “It’s closed, lieutenant. Only one ship left to go.”

How much time? How long will they need to board? Lochlan, he was sure, had waited until the last possible moment – until nearly every man was already on the last of the transports – and so his task would require only sheer determination and perseverance to reach the Seraglio. No more than a few minutes. That - and the barred gate – should suffice.

Roos glanced to the east to reassure himself that no new enemy had formed itself between him and the gate of the Acropolis. None had. All that remained, then…

“Dress ranks!”

The pikes whirled in sublime precision, setting themselves to meet the massed foe who was fast approaching in a tight, disciplined formation themselves.

“Ready…!”

In their hundreds – nay, thousands - the enemy closed in, spreading out as they cleared the edge of the Quarter and began to fill the square to surround the Swiss. Had Roos desired to hold this place he would have met them there, where the lines would be the smallest. That was not his objective, though. He needed them thinned and off balance, and to accomplish that he must lest himself be engulfed.

The enemy commander, he noted, had been joined by another man on horseback – one that Roos vaguely remembered having seen once or twice on the field before the city. One of the nobles, come to gloat I suppose. Roos unsheathed his sword and the replacement dirk, sketching a salute to them both. They must be made to think I intend to make my stand here.

The man on horseback merely raised an eyebrow. The other drew his own sword but left his other hand strangely empty. The salute was returned.

“Now!” Roos screamed. The entire keil, as one, stepped forward three paces and swung furiously into the wall of flesh.

* * * * *

Ishak watched the enemy commander carefully as his force closed the gap. The tiny man – and his men – seemed strangely calm…strangely at peace with their situation and its inevitable conclusion. Even when the Janissaries began to spread out into the large open area to encircle the Swiss, they made no move.

You have made your first mistake, my friend. And your last. You should have come to meet me before I could surround you. Now you will pay the price.

The diminutive figure brandished his blades, then, and brought the longer blade to his forehead in silent tribute – or perhaps it was acknowledgement of his predicament. Surely he must know that no quarter will be given? Ishak drew his own sword and mimicked the salute. It was, he felt, the least he could do before he destroyed the man.

At that moment the man shouted a clipped command and, shockingly, the entire enemy block of soldiers stepped forward to deliver a devastating, unexpected attack that ripped through Ishak’s front line like a scythe through ripened wheat.

The Janissary were frozen in shock for a heartbeat, but then immediately began pressing in hard. The carnage of the next few moments – minutes that could have been hours - was truly unbelievable. Though outnumbered nearly ten to one, the Swiss continued to slash through their foes, succumbing only when their pikes were inadvertently trapped in the bodies of their victims.

One by one, the enemy numbers dwindled as fresh men stepped forward with grim faces to replace the fallen. In spite of the immense pressure from the Pasha’s masses the keil stood firm - as though rooted to the spot. Not a single enemy soldier uttered a sound, saving all their breath for the battle. Ishak watched in awe as the seemingly endless sea of the Ottoman tide broke over the rock of the Swiss and was deflected.

And yet slowly, inexorably, they were eroding it way. Where once there had been several hundred pikemen, now there were only a few score.

Soon it would be over.

* * * * *

No more. I can afford to lose no more. The gates will have to hold. Renaud stepped from the protection of the centre of the formation and pressed his way past a few men to place himself at its easternmost edge. He waited until the man in front of him – who was engaged by two of the enemy Janissary – inevitably fell.

“LEFT FACE - FLANK, FULL CHARGE - RIGHT AND REAR COVER!”

Even as the orders poured from Roos’ mouth he leapt over the body of his falling comrade and began slashing through the enemy ranks with every ounce of skill and precision he possessed, desperately carving a path towards the Acropolis gate. At the same instant, nearly the entire keil whirled to join him and then drove hard into the surprised Ottoman attackers, following in their commander’s wake. Only the single front ranks of the other quarters who were already engaged with the enemy held their ground – their only task being to give the rest of the keil enough time to bore its way through the masses.

Roos quickly found himself at the apex of a deadly wedge – a human arrow that flew straight and sure towards the east and towards redemption. The surprised foe quickly fell behind…

* * * * *

The suddenness and utter unexpectedness of the manoeuvre was so great that Ishak almost dropped his sword in disbelief. The enemy suddenly melted away, driving through his flank with a brutal efficiency that stunned him where he stood. The handful that remained were quickly cut down, but by the time his men realised what was going on it was too late. The enemy was escaping.

Why…?

Already his men had begun to hammer at the gates that barred their way down to the docks, but far too few of them had set off in pursuit of the Swiss who were now moving, virtually unopposed, in the direction of the Acropolis.

The Acropolis? Why the Acropolis? All that’s there…

Ishak cursed loudly and began screaming orders.

All that’s there is the Seraglio. How could I forget?!

Already, though, he could tell that he would be too late…

* * * * *

Now unopposed, Roos dashed madly in the direction of the Seraglio, his men trailing behind him. At the Acropolis gate, he left half of his remaining men to hold it for as long as they might against the enemy who, he could see, had already reformed and begun their pursuit.

Breathlessly waiving the others to follow, Roos turned left along the wall and raced towards the broad stairs that led up to the large open platform where the rope that held the chain was tethered. His whole body ached, but in his mind Renaud was crying for joy.

I will accomplish my task. The Company will be free!

He took the ancient stone steps two at a time, finally reaching their summit. His heart froze at what he saw. Kruschovic Bey – the insane commander who had so plagued their lives for many months – was standing at the far wall, looking down into the Golden Horn. In his left hand there was what appeared to be a human heart still dripping blood onto the ground. His right rested ever so casually on the thick rope that bound the harbour chain.

Between Roos and the towering Russian were perhaps two score men at arms – a few Janissary and handful of Azebs and Anatolians – who were, apparently, just as surprised to see him as he was to see them.

Kruschovic turned, a smile playing across his reddened lips. Roos realised, to his horror, that the Russian had been eating the organ that he now tossed carelessly to the side. He barked a command and his henchmen drew their weapons and charged, en masse, across the space…

…only to be met by the crossed pikes of the dozen or so Swiss who now joined their leader at the top of the stairs.

Renaud easily parried the first blows sent towards him. From behind him he could hear the men at the gate begin their own desperate struggle. Caught between an anvil and a hammer! Judging that his few remaining men could tie up their enemy long enough, Roos cut his way through the tangle of steel in front of him, pressing forward and clear of their thin rank and into the open space beyond. Now all that lay between him and his goal was a single opponent.

But it was one that he dreaded. The 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?” Renaud didn’t deign to reply. Nor did he feel that this insane foe was worthy of a salute.

Instead, he charged…