Note-
The gunpowder weapons referred to are either small cannons or matchlock Almohad pistols. Almohad pistols have fuses that can be changed to affect the time of fire.
Please remember this as you read. It clarifys a lot.
He picked his way across the rocky ground, his horse’s hooves teetering on gravelly ground. The cavalrymen parted as his insignia came within view, and soon he was in the middle of his ranks, atop a small knoll. Raoul and the roughly five hundred andrepyritias had scrambled up a rise at the mouth of the valley, but their presence could be clearly seen, at least from this end. Their hand cannon barrels glinted like jewels in the sun. Hopefully, they weren’t visible from the outside.
Focus, Alexios, focus.
“Line!” he screamed. There were nine other allagator in the valley, and that many men was hard to hear over any day, and the density of their numbers made it even harder.
“Line! Line! Line!” He yelled until his voice was hoarse, but with a clamor of metal and hooves the army had turned to face the opening of the valley, packed densely together.
The Tourkikos should have come into the gorge by now. Odd...
He waited in silence, tense. His horsemen were quiet as well, but even that felt loud. A bird circled high above. The gravel on the hills was still....
He pulled a water canister from a saddlebag and took a swig. He started to screw the cap back on, but his hand was slick with water and it slipped, plunging to the ground.
“Damn it.”
Alexios swung down out of the saddle, snatching the cap out of the dust before remounting. He reached down to grab the bottle, but-
Why was the water- Crap. Five thousand my ass, I’m going to kill that scout.
He spurred his horse forward, shouting commands.
“Allagator! Take yours, Kourkouas’, Pegonites’, and Niketas’ Allagia back down the valley. When the Tourkikos are all the way into the valley, flank and charge! If they intercept you, raise a blue flag! Nikephoros! Dismount, tell Konstantinos to square!”
He dropped off his horse, coaxing him to a sit before running into the line. Most of his men had dismounted, and pushed together into a shield-wall, while his riders galloped back down the valley.
The ground began to shake, gently at first, but building up to a thundering earthquake of thousands of Tourkikos hooves. He kept going running down the line and checking for gaps, as the sound grew louder. He heard a yell from one of the andrepyritias, barely audible above the thunderous din.
“Here they come!”
A brown current of horses and men swept over the gravelly hills, there armor glinting brightly in the Anatolian sun. A storm of arrows swarmed out of their line and slammed into shields and armor, only a few hitting home. A few feet away from him, a man dropped, a shaft jutting out of his neck.
Alexios leapt forward, raising his shield and drawing his sword. His sandals slid in the gravel, still slick with the soldier’s blood.
The initial wave parted and rolled back, opening a core of Sipahi as they bore down. These new men rode much heavier horses than the archers, and a sheet of dust whipped off the ground and blew into the Roman’s faces, huiding them.
God, if you let me win this battle, I’ll march all the way to Jerusalem.
The Sipahi slammed into the Roman lines like a wave into the hull of a small boat. The great black horses surged forward, trampling Romans underfoot, pressing screaming men under the broken remains of shields and spears.
Alexios charged forward, waving his sword. A Sipahi was nearby, turned away from him. Alexios swung up. The blade caught the man hard on his sword arm, sending him crashing the ground. A blast of hot breath hit Alexios’ neck and he whirled, a Tourkikos spear slicing through the air just next to his head with a deep woosh. The thrust had thrown the rider off balance, and Alexios caught him in the neck and sent him too, to the ground. The Tourkik wriggled around on the ground like a flipped, mirrored turtle, and he plunged his sword into the man’s throat, shielding his eyes from the glare.
The Tourkikos receded, leaving their own scattered across the field. A cheer rose from the men, breaking the solemn silence that had enveloped the Roman lines since the Tourkikos had first entered the valley. Alexios too, cheered, then froze.
A pale blue rag was fluttering above the hill.
What can I do? What can I do? I have to stop the battle, and now. What can I do?
Duel.
I can challenge them all to a duel, or I and my men die.
I or my sons.
He stepped forward, throwing off his helmet.
“I am Alexios, son of Mikhael!” He screamed, slamming his sword butt into his shield. “I am the Doux of Samos, Pinkeres of the Roman Empire!”
He swiveled, staring down the Tourkikos. Please, don’t see how scared I really am. His voice lowered to a hoarse, menacing hiss.
“I challenge any of the infidels among you to a duel. The dead man’s host leaves the field. Do you understand me?”
There was silence from the Tourkikos ranks.
“DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!”
A pale, bearded Toukikos in dull, green leather armor stepped forward.
“I am Osman, bey of Söğüt. I will accept you challenge.”
Another man, pale bearded and old, also came forward. His eyes were wide and a huge turban sprouted from his head. He sounded insane.
“I am Balışeyh, and I shall destroy you for your blasphemy, kafir!”
He rushed forward, screeching and slashing his blade in a windmill arc. Osman waited, watching.
Balışeyh covered the ground between them quickly, and he slammed into Alexios, toppling them both over. Strong for an old man.
His knife had fallen just beyond Alexios’ reach and he went for it, only to feel a knife in his chest. A bolt of pain tore threw him.
Just lovely. B plan it was, then.
Alexios reached under his armor and pulled out a weathered tinderbox, groping with his other hand for his pistol.
Balışeyh snatched at his neck, ragged fingernails digging into his flesh and sending rivulets of blood coursing down his neck.
He hissed, but his hand closed around the pistol butt. He pulled it out, then Balışeyh’s grip released. He glanced up, his hand still on the tinderbox and gun. The Tourkikos’ silhouette towered above him, his blade held high.
The tinderbox struck, and a tiny spark caught on the edge of the fuse.
He
Alexios whirled around, snatching the fuse forward and triggering it. A mighty roar split the air, and Balışeyh toppled backwards in a cloud of red and grey. Alexios staggered to his feet.
“Osman.”
The Tourkikos warlord stood in place, appraising him.
“You don’t look very well. Perhaps we should do this sometime later?”
Alexios nodded. “Yes.”
Osman turned and faded back into the Tourkikos lines.
Alexios faltered back to his lines. The men were chanting his name, “Alexios! Alexios!” That was... nice. He held up his hand, quieting them. “Wait...”
The Tourkikos were leaving. He couldn’t tell how long... He hurt. Badly. A shard of pain struck his mouth. He put his mouth to his lips and drew it back, blood-stained.
“Alexios!” Maximos was pushing through the clumps of men and horses, followed by a pair of medics. He should move. It wasn’t safe.
He stared back out as the Tourkikos moved. They were like fishes in a sea, a swelling mass of men and horse. His eyes grew tired, and the figures blurred together.
Then he saw it.
There an opening.
“CHAARGE!”
He tried to swing up into his saddle, but the weariness overpowered him and he fell backward, collapsing into Maximos’ arms.