The Master of Muscigny (The First Admiral Series Book 5) (29 page)

“Yes, sir,” the WATO yelled with delight, and the Comms Net crackled with hasty orders which prevented the Eagle pilots unleashing their pulsar-cannon onto the slope below.

The Jerusalem soldiers were already advancing down the slope in good order whilst horsemen swept both of the flanks of the position. The Templars were now starting to run. Their discipline was finally broken. Now, it was every man for himself. But, the Jerusalem cavalry would quickly encircle the whole Templar contingent. There was nowhere for the survivors to run to.

Looking back down at the Templar commander, who gasped with pain as he stared his defiance and outrage at his conqueror as the Alliance Eagles, their weapons returned to ‘Safe’ mode, swept over the slope that they had just been told not to wipe out of existence.

“It’s over, Brother Arnold,” Billy sighed, and withdrew the sword from the Templar’s throat before jamming it point first into the ground, “King Baldwin will deal with you.”

With a look of pure hatred in his eyes, Arnold of Torroja watched as Billy Caudwell turned away from him and walked slowly up the slope towards the Landing Trooper line. It was over for Arnold of Torroja. King Baldwin would have no qualms about executing him slowly and painfully as an example to others. And, as he watched the red-haired figure slowly walk away, Arnold decided that if he was going to die then he would take the Outlander with him.

Drawing the dagger at his belt in his right hand, Arnold gripped the blade and took aim at the spot between the Outlander’s shoulder blades and prepared to throw it with all the strength that he could muster. Oblivious to the threat, Billy raised his hand in greeting and salute to the Landing Trooper officer who approached him from the slope above. The smile on the Trooper officer’s face dissolved into an expression of alarm.

For a moment, Billy Caudwell’s world seemed to drop into slow-motion. The Landing Trooper officer drew and raised the pulsar-pistol from the holster at his hip and seemed to raise it against Billy. Startled and confused, Billy had no time to react as the officer fired the pistol. The light flash from the discharge flickered before Billy heard the sharp report from the weapon. The officer also seemed to be shouting something, but to Billy it sounded like a long, low bellow from a voice that was far in the distance.

Then, in an instant, Billy’s world returned to normal speed as he felt the burning buzz of the pulsar-pellet as it passed close to his face. Billy was then able to leap to his left.

However, as Billy rolled to the ground, he heard the officer’s shout.

“Look out, sir!” the burly Icharian yelled as the pellet smashed through Arnold of Torroja’s chain mail armour just above his heart.

The Templar was killed instantly, the knife falling from his fingers as his back arched and his whole body spasmed with the searing heat of the pulsar-pellet which boiled his blood and fried his internal organs.

“You all right, sir?” a Ceredaor sergeant asked Billy as he crouched down next to his commanding officer.

“Yes,” Billy mumbled, shaken by the whole incident, “Yes, thank you, sergeant,” he said slightly more confidently as he considered that the Templar had been prepared to throw a knife at him.

The part of his mind that was Teg Portan rebuked Billy for his carelessness. Arnold of Torroja was a dangerous and treacherous man, and Billy realised that he should have killed the Templar immediately and without mercy. The PES, and its protection, had made Billy feel safe, but it had also allowed him to indulge in a clemency that could have cost others their lives. And, in Billy Caudwell’s mind, that was an unforgivable sin.

Clambering to his feet once again, assisted by the sergeant, Billy waved his thanks to the officer who was running towards him to make sure that he was unharmed. Other Landing Troopers were surrounding Arnold’s body to ensure that he would not present any further threat.

The slope was now clear of live Templars. The Jerusalem soldiers were pushing slowly, and deliberately, forward to the remnants of the estate wall. The surviving Templars running for the imagined safety of their own lines on the ridge beyond. The slope and the estate fields were strewn with dead and wounded Templars. Their white surcoats shone like little islands amongst the drab brown and grey of the muddy Muscigny soil. Amongst the silent and still figures that littered the ground, some of their comrades still writhed and moaned in their pain. Some called upon God to help them. Many others called to a wife, sweetheart or their mothers in faraway lands to lessen their suffering in this place of raining fire from the sky, death and explosion.

The torn ground could be repaired, the irrigation system could be rebuilt and perhaps the crops in some of the northern fields could be salvaged; but Billy knew that many would have to be abandoned. Genetically modified seeds could be planted. These could be treated to grow quickly and give the estate workers at Muscigny enough food for the long winter months. That was a priority that Billy would have to address quickly. But right now, Billy suddenly felt tired. His legs now felt like they had turned to lead as he trudged wearily and slowly up the slope once more.

“Sir,” the voice sounded in his ear as the Comm link sprang back into life. “We’ve managed to restore power to the ship sir.”

Stopping in his tracks, Billy leaned forward, his hands braced against his knees as he started to laugh softly. Typical, he considered, as he gently laughed to himself. When it was all over, and when it was no longer needed, the Aquarius was now back in operation.

Standing up straight once more, Billy continued to laugh, this time out loud as he acknowledged the salute of two confused Landing Troopers who were starting to recover some of the dead and injured Troopers who had fallen in the battle.

“Typical,” Billy muttered, and he continued to laugh as he moved up the slope to the crest.

“Sir?” the voice of the WATO questioned in Billy’s ear.

The sound of Billy’s laughter had confused the WATO as well as the other Alliance personnel on the link.

“Sir?” the perplexed and confused WATO questioned again as Billy continued his climb.

Billy Caudwell wanted nothing more than some hot food, a long bath and a good sleep. But, he knew that there were a hundred or maybe a thousand tasks to deal with before he could do that. He still had an estate to run, people to manage and a ship with a crew to get home.

The battle of Muscigny was over.

The Western Slope, Muscigny

The line of defeated and despondent Templars slowly trudged past Billy Caudwell. Watched over by alert Landing Troopers and soldiers from the Army of Jerusalem, the Templars slowly added their own weapons to the growing piles of shields, helmets, swords, spears, daggers, and bows that were accumulating close to the unfinished Citadel. The weary and morose Templars trudged silently towards the Citadel, their feet dragging through the mud. Billy Caudwell had seen the sight of defeat on dozens of worlds, and the downcast stare, slumped shoulders and leaden-footed drag were almost a universal sign.

For a moment, Billy Caudwell felt a degree of pity for the defeated Templars. They had been through a great deal of hardship, danger, and suffering since they had arrived at Muscigny. Of the twenty thousand men who had left Acre, less than three thousand were able to trudge past their new captors. Many of those able to drag themselves along were injured, bleeding from a wide selection of wounds. The badly injured were already in the overflowing Hospital Decks of the Aquarius, where Medical Personnel did whatever they could to prevent further suffering. The survivors, their pristine white coats streaked with mud, blood and filth, dragged one foot in front of the other. Watching them pass, Billy wanted to tell them how courageously they had fought. They had stood up to pulsar-rifles and Strike Eagles and had kept their discipline under a maelstrom of fire.

But, Billy also knew that his words would really be of little consolation to the defeated men. So, he stood quietly and watched them disarm before being herded into the prison compound in the Citadel where they would be fed and have any injuries tended to. As he watched the straggling procession of despair, Billy saw a tall well-built Templar with the remains of what had been a fine, blond bushy moustache, unstrapping his scabbard belt and throwing it onto the pile with the hundreds of others. The man was filthy dirty and his face scorched, probably by a pulsar-bolt, yet he tried to stand proud and upright; holding on to whatever shreds of dignity he could claim. Turning from the pile of scabbards, he noticed Billy watching and bowed to acknowledge the victor. With a slight nod of his head, Billy acknowledged the unspoken salute of a brave warrior.

That some of these men had most likely committed some of the most hideous atrocities on the way south from Acre was still foremost in Billy’s mind. A few minutes under an Interrogation Disk would weed out the sheep from the wolves. But, at that moment, one simple soldier had acknowledged another soldier, and no words would ever be required in such an exchange.

“Come on, move along,” a gruff Landing Trooper snapped, shoving the Templar on with the barrel of his pulsar-rifle.

For an instant, Billy felt the urge to rebuke the Trooper, but bit his tongue. The enemy was still the enemy no matter how brave and noble, and Billy was not in command of this position.

“My Lord Admiral,” a voice interrupted Billy’s contemplations.

Turning from watching the surrendered Templars, Billy recognised the young King of Jerusalem, newly arrived from the march northwards to relieve Muscigny.

“Your Majesty,” Billy nodded his head politely, finally meeting the young man whom his Senior Medial Officer had so much respect for.

“We believe that we are indebted to you and your warriors for stopping this rabble.”

“Actually, Your Majesty, we owe you a debt of gratitude in coming to our rescue today.”

“Well, let’s just say, we worked together.” Baldwin smiled. “You certainly made a mess of them,” he added, indicating the corpse-strewn slope beyond the estate boundary.

Groups of Alliance personnel and Jerusalem soldiers were already combing through the carnage of the slope. Some were checking for survivors, whilst others were lifting fallen weapons and armour. Billy knew that military equipment could easily be recycled. Arrows could be lifted and reused, swords straightened out, spears and chain mail repaired. There would be very little left on the battlefield once anything of any use or value had been recovered. Alliance Personnel Carriers were starting to ferry the dead to the large pits that had been dug close to the boundary wall. Around the pits, piles of white-coated bodies were stacked up whilst Jerusalem soldiers stripped the dead before casting them in for burial. No doubt many of the soldiers would be pocketing the meagre coins or small trinkets that ordinary soldiers carried with them. That was just the way of things Billy recognised. Perhaps, one day, some of these soldiers would be killed in battle, and another poor soldier would loot them for their few pathetic belongings.

“Most regrettable, but necessary, Your Majesty,” Billy replied as two soldiers threw a naked Templar corpse into the mass grave.

“Very necessary we would say, My Lord Admiral. The Templars have been a thorn in our Kingdom’s side for generations.”

“Well, I leave politics to those who choose to rule us.”

“A wise precaution. We hear from our dear friend Physician Radkor that you visited Damascus and spoke with the Sultan?”

“Yes, that is true, Your Majesty. I had hoped that their Grand Master could have prevented all this.”

“What kind of man is this Sultan Saladin?” Baldwin tried to keep his voice matter-of-fact despite his curiosity.

“A man much like you and I, Your Majesty. He seems reasonable, intelligent and was polite.”

“And, did you perhaps glean any ideas as to his future intentions?”

“No, Your Majesty, but I do earnestly believe that he is a realist who has the welfare of his people at heart and who genuinely desires peace.”

“Intriguing, My Lord Admiral. Would it perhaps be possible for us to meet with the Sultan, somewhere that inquisitive ears could not reach?”

“Oh, I think that might just be possible, Your Majesty.”

“Your Majesty!” Joscelin of Edessa called out from Billy’s left.

Turning, Billy saw that Joscelin was on horseback, leading a long line of dismounted Templar knights. Flanked on both sides by Jerusalem knights, the Templars straggled wearily along the crest of the western slope.

“It seems that we have some more guests,” the King said brightly as the Lord of Edessa cantered his horse up to his monarch and bowed from the saddle.

“My Lord Edessa,” Baldwin welcomed the grime and blood-stained horseman, “You have done us a great service this day.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Joscelin smiled weakly, acknowledging the compliment with a short bow.

“It appears that we need a new High Constable for the Kingdom,” the King said with feigned absent-mindedness and a sly smile to Billy. “Perhaps, we should consider the gallant Admiral as our new High Constable?” The King paused for a moment. “But, no, your people have homes far away from this place, it would be unfair to expect you to remain.”

Then, turning his attention to the Lord of Edessa, the King smiled and spoke once more. “It looks like we have the perfect candidate here in my Lord Joscelin.”

“Your Majesty, I...” Joscelin tried to protest.

“We can think of no one more deserving of the role,” the King replied, implying that he would not accept a refusal.

“I would be honoured, Your Majesty.” Joscelin bowed to the inevitable, delighted at his promotion.

“It also looks like we have quite a bit of a mess to sort out, My Lord high Constable,” the King said, looking at the line of prisoners now filing past.

“Very true, Your Majesty,” Joscelin had to agree. “So, what shall we do with these men?” He indicated the long straggling line of Templar knights.

“My Lord Admiral?” the King asked.

“If you want my opinion, Your Majesty, I’ll happily give them all shovels and they can start filling in the holes and digging the irrigation ditches again so we can try to salvage our crops.”

“My Lord Admiral!?” Joscelin blurted in outrage. “These are men of quality and breeding, not common peasants. You cannot treat them like that!”

“Why not, My Lord Joselin? Their Order won’t ransom them, and we need all of the ‘quality’ shovellers we can get our hands on down there.”

“My Lords!” the King interjected. “We’ve just fought a battle here. Can we at least manage to wait until tomorrow before starting another one?”

Then, the young King smiled and started to laugh.