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knight. It was a technique that had been developed over the years to deal with the occasional uprising, and given the discipline of the Europeans, one that usually worked well.
    As each skirmishing party passed a building, it halted while one of its number checked to see if it was empty. The party remained at the halt until it caught sight of the skirmishers on either side of it before moving forward again. At each stop, de Beq would jog from one group of men to another, providing them all with unified command and the assurance that he was leading them. Finally, after passing by a dozen empty huts and sheds, de Beq and his men came to the clearing in the center of the village.
    The wind continued to blow grit, turning the sky a copper—bronze and muffling any sound. Through the slit in his helmet, de Beq could see shadowy lumps lying on the ground around the well. At first he thought they were goats, but then the wind abated and the dust died down, and he realized what they really were: the bodies of children. In the sudden stillness, he could also hear the agonized cries of villagers coming from behind the buildings opposite the well and the sadistic laughter of the Turks.
    Swinging his sword—arm in a slow arc high over his head, de Beq grimly led his men across the clearing toward the sound of the screams. They had nearly reached the first few buildings when two Turks suddenly came around a corner, dragging a body behind them.
    Sir Myles Brabazon was less than twenty feet from them and reacted without hesitation. Despite the more than seventy pounds of chain mail weighing him down, Brabazon sprinted directly at the two momentarily bewildered Turks, smashing his shoulder into the chest of the smaller of the two men and sending him sprawling while, at the same moment, he swung full hard ‘with his sword and caught the other Turk just above the right ear. He managed to cleave right through the head and neck, but his sword stuck in the Turk’s body as it dug into his breast bone.
    The Turk sagged to the ground, blood spraying up from the severed arteries, and Brabazon placed a foot against his chest and pushed the dying Turk off his blade. The other Turk, recovered from the shock of Brabazon’s impact, scrambled to his feet and took a vicious swipe at the knight’s leg with his scimitar.
    The thin, curved blade of the Turkish sword bit cleanly through the knight’s sheepskin legging and sank into the muscles of his calf. Brabazon’s leg buckled under the blow and he crashed to the ground, instinctively rolling away from his adversary and bringing his sword up in a defensive parry, deflecting a cut that had been intended to slide beneath his helmet and connect with his throat. Before he could recover, the Turk was at him again, this time with a bruising blow to his forearm, mercifully detlected by Brabazon’s mail sleeves. As the knight tried to stand, the Turk swung his scimitar with both hands, axelike.
    Brabazon ducked down and caught the blow full on his helmet, the force of the impact once again sending him crashing to the hard—packed earth. Fortunately, before the Turk could close in for the kill, one of the serjeants dashed forward, driving his boar spear into the enemy’s gut.
    The Turk staggered back, screaming as he pulled himself free from the broad—bladed spearhead. Blood gushed from his abdomen in such a torrent that the serjeant drew back in disbelief, spear still at the ready—for the Turk still had a sword locked in his fist. But though the Turk should have collapsed, he suddenly straightened and, with speed uncanny even for an unwounded man, lunged forward and knocked the spear aside, thrusting his sword into the serjeant’s eye and driving it through the socket, deep into the brain.
    Reflexively, the dying man dropped his spear and grabbed the sword with both hands. Screaming, he spun around in a circle before staggering into the side of a building and collapsing onto his knees, his body going