The Crusader's Prize (silkysoyproduct & obieblu)

[obieblu]

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The siege of Damascus was not going well. The crusaders had smartly settled in the west for their attack of the city where there were plentiful fruit orchards for food, but they'd idiotically plundered the trees to build their encampments and siege weapons. The city hadn't fallen nearly as quickly as their leaders had inspired them to think. Three days ago, they'd relocated to the east of the city which was a stronger position strategically but had little in the way of resources. Their lives were dominated by the repetition of attack, be repelled, then wait for their commanders to plan another attack or wait for reinforcements from yet another European ally.

The men were already feeling the pinch of food and water rations. For those who had money, some locals sold each to Arab and foreign invader alike. Those in poverty cared little about politics. They'd be poor at the end of this siege, no matter who won. The alternative was to go foraging in groups for their own food and water, but those groups were frequently attacked or disappeared. On top of that, life was just hot, dusty, and grueling with little hope for an end, or even a mote of progress.

. . .

Inside Damascus, the governor Mu'in ad-Din Unur maintained the stability of his city fairly well. Troops were on their way from allies, and he expected to be able to repel the invaders with that assistance rather than just keep them at bay indefinitely. Among the resources at his disposal was a vizier named Maydan al-Akhdar. Maydan was a seer, occultist, and rumored to be a summoner. The truth was he was in possession of a mystical item and its inhabitant. Maydan had a powerful slave, and he was wise enough to hide its nature from everyone. It was good to be aligned with the governor, but Maydan had his own aspirations of grandeur. He had to be subtle about it, though. He was wise enough to have learned from the mistakes the former masters of his slave had made. Being obvious with one's power lead to perpetually more creative enemies.

To that end, Maydan decided that it was time for a new governor of Damascus some time ago. A timely foreign army to blame for Unur's death would keep a bevy of assassins off of Maydan's back. Being methodical, the vizier took his time devising a strategy to elevate himself without drawing attention. Unur's allies would arrive in about a week, and Maydan must wrestle control of Damascus before they arrived and claimed it after the death of its governor. Once Unur was dead, Maydan would be free to unleash his secret weapon against the Europeans. But first, that weapon would help them.

. . .

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In the secrecy of his meditation chamber, the old scheming vizier admired one of his rings. It was a striking ring of dark metal with an intricate pattern and a fiery black opal at the center. It was
ostentatious, a bit sinister, and it had garnered many compliments over the years since he'd gone on a personal quest to obtain just such a rare item. His eyes seemed to darken as he lifted a gnarled finger to rub around the iridescent central jewel. He didn't seem at all surprised when a small fireball shot out and exploded into a dark cloud of roiling smoke, spitting sparks in all directions. Large ashen wings like a dragon's unfolded out and curved horns pierced through the thick grey and orange opaque cloud. The smoke and heat coalesced into a semi-human form. The horns and wings seemed to melt into the burning figure, leaving a quite demonic looking being of coal and fire standing before the man.

After what might have been a moment to stretch to its full height, the entity bowed its horned head. "You have a task," Maydan informed it. The thing raised its head slightly, cocking a smoking brow at its master. The fire reflected in Maydan's dark, greedy eyes, and he continued, "A task of subtlety..."

. . .​

A lone form came into view on the road that lead through the new Crusader camp to the bridge in the distance that lead across the moat before the east gate of Damascus. As it got closer, it was clearly someone dressed as a peasant pulling a small 2-wheeled cart behind him. This was no longer uncommon. Farmers sometimes approached to try and sell their goods to the invaders, pretending to guffaw at supplying the enemy, while really not caring where the coins came from. With how slowly news traveled, some were even surprised to find a siege and were happy to sell their goods and return home faster than they'd expected.

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Kirtibhushan

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Kirtibhushan is a tall, striking Middle Eastern man of noble bearing around 20 or so. His eyes are dark gold and seem to have metallic flakes in them in firelight. His short hair is jet black and a neat mat of tight curls atop his head. Below, his high aristocratic nose and sharp cheekbones lead down to a tight, arrogant mouth softened by full lips. What's exposed of his dark golden skin flawless, despite his obvious poverty. His clothes are old and worn but can't hide his strong swimmer's build with wide shoulders tapering down to a very narrow waist.

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The first armed guards went out to meet the traveler with their pikes raised. He stopped, and slowly gestured to his cart behind him. It was half-full of figs. They weren't even particularly robust, but to a hungry soldier with low standards, they'd look very inviting. "Five dirhams?" his tone sounded more like a question than a statement of price, and his eyes were wide with apprehension.

 

[silkysoyproduct]

There’s a demon at the heart of every man and it comes to life when you put a sword in his hand.

His mother had said that. He’d never asked whether it was one of her people’s ancient aphorisms or a more personal one but she had said it with the kind of preternatural conviction that she used when she spoke her spells. He’d never questionioned her as a child. As soon as he was a man grown he knew it with the same unwavering truth. The same demon slept inside his own soul, dark and twisted and writhing with the want, the need, to do harm. At least he had the spine to admit it to himself.

If he was going to travel halfway across the world to rape, murder and plunder it was because something at the deep core of him wanted just that. The rest could claim their righteous absolution if that’s what let them sleep at night, even if half the company had been sent off to the east precisely because they had been doing too much rape, murder and plunder within their proper, god-fearing homelands. Better to manufacture a cause far away from those who paid the king’s taxes, let all those men with their swords set their demons free upon someone else’s populace.

It didn’t much matter in the end, men would do what men always did. The hypocrisy nagged at him but no more so than a particularly determined flea: every so often it would become enough of an annoyance that he saw to it with a hard swat and those were enjoyable enough in their own way.

Maim enough of the righteous faithful in “combat practice” on the path to the holy land and they stop asking questions. Cullen had always prepared to give men a good reason to stop asking him questions.

Even among those knights with northern blood he stood tall and imposing over them and the breadth of his shoulders and the hard, lined muscles of his arms filled him out to match. Early in the campaign across Brittany he’d answered a jeer from another campfire with what had seemed like a throw-away jab of an elbow. It had crushed in a nose and maybe part of a cheekbone. He hadn’t cared to check, a few more exchanges like it ensured that he wasn’t bothered much on the rest of the trek to the east.

The men talked, of course, men always talked. There was a betting pool, split about even last he cared to check, that he was either the get of the raider chiefs of the north seas or born of a pagan demon from the isles. He’d had a good laugh when he’d first overheard the discourse, his hair was about halfway between a dirty blond and a russet, burgundy red. Creativity wasn’t the strong suit of men on campaign. Let them think what they liked. His mother had fled into the wood long ago and in any case she was powerful enough to keep herself safe from any of these chattering boys thousands of miles away.

Almost all pretense had fallen away during the length of the campaign across the continent and the rest had sloughed off during the long siege. The men who had held out in their devout prayers to a holy power and just cause on the long march had given up all but the facade when the city had closed up its walls and the boredom had set in.

Cullen shouldn’t have been surprised that it had been a priest who had first fallen to the “deeper sins” and claimed a local boy for his bed, but it had been a laugh at least. It had been the same “holy man” who had scoffed at him for similar proclivities earlier on campaign. It always was. Sometimes a cross was sharper and more deadly than a sword. He was sure his mother had known that, even then.

It was another boring day of the dragging, boring siege. Cullen had little care for the more complicated strategies of war, he had the mind and the wit for them, but rarely the patience. He’d also never had the need. His strength and his weapons had never failed him yet. As far as he could be concerned, the failing lay only with the high, noble lords who apparently commanded this holy war. He’d never seen one on the front lines, naturally.

The pikes attracted his attention first. Soldiers at ease held the heavy, pendulous things sloppily and crooked. You could always tell when something interesting had arrived at camp when they were once again yanked back to attention. Several other, off-duty soldiers or knights (it was hard to tell the difference without the armor and the colored tabards) had also noticed and there was a small crowd growing around the traveler and his cart when Cullen arrived.

Voices chattered, different languages and accents. Some were hungry enough that they didn’t bother discussing anything but the fruit, happy to be first customers to a new offering. Others though, were considering a different offering entirely.

Cullen noticed the boy immediately. There was something about him. He was clean, of course, that was immediately an odd sight. Farmers who looked juicier than their figs weren’t common here or anywhere. With food and potential a pretty bit of skin on barter, Cullen stood unbothered in the background as the wheeling and dealing started.

Several men shouted out lower offers, the boy had seemed rather meek in his initial sale price. But then equal amounts were called out and eventually higher offers were raised. It didn’t take long for someone less interested in the figs to make their way to the front of the queue. A portly man with the airs of a title and the edges of an affected aristo-accent to his voice finally made it close enough to the front of the growing, curious crowd to paw at the pretty young man’s sleeve. “How much for… Everything else? I’ve no interest in figs.” He drawled with a leer.

 

[obieblu]

Kirt had to hold back his sneer at the human guards thinking they could make him feel threatened. Instead, he flinched lightly each time they wagged the sharp metal pikes. "Or, two fils per fruit," he offered the crowd of rough-looking soldiers that was gathering around. His gold eyes scanned the crowd, looking for those who looked like they had an intellect somewhere beneath the grime of war. The djinn saw hunger, desperation, aggression, and even stirrings of lust among the gathering faces. A few men tossed him coins and stooped to grab handfulls of fruit from Kirt's cart. Well, the cart he stole from a farm leagues away. Stole along with the fruit. It had been slim pickings there, or he'd have had even more to draw the soldiers' attention.

After studying the condition of the men at close range, Kirt wondered if he should have made himself dirtier, but he loathed uncleanliness. It was such an unnatural state for him. Also, he looked better fed than some of these men. Still, he figured the oversight wouldn't ruin the scheme he was sent on. And if so, he'd return from another direction in another form. Still, Kirt's appearance might stir some more useful hunger.

The soldiers were bartering more forcefully. Kirt was having trouble keeping up with each deal and exchange, not that he cared at all about the coins they dropped in his hand that he then stuffed into a pocket of his loose pants. Their desperation amused him, but he had to stay on task. One finally broke through the commotion. A thick man with an aura of leadership. Just the type that Kirt was here for. He groped at Kirt's arm like he'd already paid for the privilege.

By now, Kirt was used to that look, and he almost didn't recoil in disgust internally. Outwardly, his brow wrinkled in feigned confusion at the man's question, then he lowered his eyes demurely. "Oh, no sir. Unless you want the cart," he pulled his arm away carefully and fidgeted with both his hands. Then, Kirt glanced up briefly at the man, and the corner of his mouth twitched in what could have been a teasing smile. A shrewd person would recognize his encouragement to continue negotiating.

 

[obieblu]

fuck me, again