"Clashers of steel! Breakers of swords! Makers of widows! Go forth to glory! Follow your giver of wealth to the hearth of heroes, where cold gold shall soothe the heat of battle! Fly! Fly!"
"Holy Conquerors! Slayers of the Faithless! Saviors of the Repentant! Journey to the kingdom of glory! Follow your Savior into eternal light, where God’s grace shall purify the flames of all sin! Rise! Rise!"
Despite the enemy’s overwhelming numbers, they were still unable to break through Lagman’s line. The Crusader Soldiers fought fearlessly; when one man fell, another immediately filled the gap. Casualties mounted as more Arab Cavalry arrived from the north, and comrades fell one after another, yet the morale of the survivors remained high. There were still no signs of a rout.
The Arab Infantry who rushed forward suffered heavy losses. Reckless riders from the Arab Cavalry were immediately pulled from their Warhorses by the Crusader Infantry and instantly cut down by War Axe and Longsword.
The Crusader Soldiers held their Shields firm. Blades and sword-edges crossed, and sparks flew in the brutal collision of iron and flesh.
However, even as Lagman fought with all his might, the pressure from the Arab Infantry and Arab Cavalry mounted relentlessly.
The enemy far outnumbered the Crusaders, and their furious charges brought the shield wall to the brink of collapse.
From the walls of the West Gate, Genoese Crossbowmen and English Archers rained down deadly volleys. But their numbers were few, and they dared not venture from the city, so the limited range of their Arrows was not enough to turn the tide of battle.
Just then, Lagman’s troops faced an even greater problem—a contingent of Arab Cavalry suddenly charged from the flanks, quickly piercing the gaps in their line.
"Don’t let them break the shield wall! Hold the line! Hold the line!" Lagman roared, his Longsword a blur as he cut down every enemy who drew near.
Each swing of his sword carried a murderous intent, but faced with such a dense enemy onslaught, his Infantry were beginning to look overwhelmed.
The Arab Cavalry were nimble and fast, constantly maneuvering around the Infantry formation to strike the flanks of the shield wall.
Their charge was as swift and violent as a storm, causing immense chaos among Lagman’s forces.
Many of the Infantry had to break away to counter the cavalry charge, allowing Arab Archers to pick them off. More and more Crusader Soldiers fell.
An Arab Infantryman’s Longsword slipped through a gap in the Shields, piercing Lagman’s shoulder. Blood gushed out, accompanied by searing pain.
Lagman did not fear death. He had already made a choice about his future—his father’s Kingdom, his father’s bloodline, none of it mattered anymore.
Only the pain of the past remained, clinging to him like a shadow.
Lagman’s older brother, Harald, was the rightful heir to the throne, and Lagman had never dreamed of taking his place. They were full brothers, born of the same mother, and Lagman had always believed their bond was deep. He never imagined that Harald had viewed him as a threat to the throne all along.
’What was there about me for Harald to be so concerned with?’ Lagman often mocked himself.
’I’m not exceptionally wise, nor am I a great warrior.’
He and Harald were brothers; it had been that way since birth. He had never imagined his brother hated him so deeply.
He could never forget that day. Due to their father’s reckless invasion of the Scottish heartland, their army had been surrounded by the enemy.
Lagman had desperately escaped, taking his Oath-Takers with him to find reinforcements.
But fate played a cruel joke. A group of Scots suddenly ambushed them, trying to take his life.
He never would have guessed, not even in death, that a familiar face would appear among those Scots.
As his Oath-Takers were slaughtered to the last man and the bloody struggle between brothers began, Lagman felt like a mere spectator, powerless to change a thing.
Harald’s Sword pierced his chest. In that moment, Lagman’s world seemed to collapse.
Yet, fate did not deliver death to Lagman.
He only survived thanks to the help of a Scottish warrior—that former slave.
That Scot was a slave Lagman had once set free. He was a valiant Gael Warrior who had been enslaved after his defeat by the Vikings.
On that day, it was he who had acted, shooting Harald and causing the fatal sword thrust to miss Lagman’s heart.
In the end, Harald’s own Sword impaled him, taking his life.
Lagman had won the final victory, but he felt not a single shred of joy.
Even in death, Harald’s gaze was so cold it was almost unrecognizable.
’I should have died by that sword.’ Lagman often muttered to himself in his dreams.
The profound pain of that fratricide sent him on the path of the Crusades.
To atone for his sins, Lagman decided to fight for his faith and for his father. But most importantly, he fought to redeem himself from his endless guilt and regret.
As time passed, this pain only grew deeper.
Lagman could never escape that history; his heart was filled with an irreparable emptiness.
He constantly told himself that this crusade was a punishment for his own transgressions, that only through one battle after another could he find a sliver of salvation.
Now, on the battlefield of Hama, as his Shield threatened to give way, he was without fear. He did not fear death. His body suffered, but he believed his soul was finding release.
"Lord," Lagman whispered, his eyes filled with anguish, "I am on this battlefield, just as I was in the struggle for the throne, unable to choose my own destiny. Forgive me. Forgive me for a past I cannot reverse."
His whisper was nearly inaudible, but the cry in his heart was desperately real. ’Father in Heaven, I give my life to You, to defend Your will for all eternity... Please, take me... take me...’
The Arab Infantry charged again, and the shield wall was on the verge of collapsing.
Suddenly, a sharp sword stabbed through a gap in the shield wall and plunged deep into Lagman’s side.
Blood instantly soaked his Battle Armor. Pain washed over him like a tidal wave. Lagman’s vision blurred, his breath came in ragged gasps, and the weight of his own body felt unbearable.
In that moment, he felt he had reached the end of his life. But then, something unexpected happened—he suddenly noticed that the enemy assault outside the shield wall seemed to be weakening.
The enemy’s charges were no longer as fierce as before, and the pressure began to dissipate.
Even so, with his consciousness fading, Lagman had no time to ponder this change.
He stubbornly kept pushing his Shield forward, roaring as he tried to force back the enemy before him.
He didn’t want to give up, even though he was at his limit.
Soon, he found his movements becoming faster and faster, as if some new Power was supporting him, driving him forward.
An unknown amount of time passed. Gradually, the clamor of the battlefield seemed to recede, and Lagman stopped in his tracks.
The warriors around him had vanished, and all sound seemed to have been muffled.
The once-deafening battlefield now seemed preternaturally silent.
The Longsword fell from his hand, and his Shield dropped to the ground with a thud.
He struggled to turn his head, only to see his Oath-Takers cheering in the distance.
Straining to listen, he could just faintly make out a sound.
It was the cheer of victory.
His exhausted body could hold on no longer, and he finally collapsed.
Immediately, someone helped him up.
"We won. God’s favor is with us, Lagman," Eric said in a low voice.
"We... we won," Lagman’s voice trembled, tinged with confusion.
Then, he suddenly burst out laughing. Though his wounds were bleeding, he felt no pain.
Suddenly, tears welled in his eyes, and his voice choked, "We... won. We won. Eric, Eric... Eric, we... won. God has accepted us, God has accepted us... God’s favor... Hail, Virgin Maria..."