Medieval Gacha Lord
Chapter 94: The Prince

Chapter 94: The Prince

Chapter 94: The Prince

On a high ground, a eunuch, dressed in brocade robes, his chin impeccably smooth without a single strand of beard, advised in a low voice, "Prince Zahir, this is a well-trained Frankish army. We are already deep within enemy territory. Should we not consider retreating?"

"Retreat?" Prince az-Zahir Ghazi, Saladin’s third son, nominal lord of Aleppo and Governor of North Syria, who was the leader of this Saracen cavalry troop, sneered. "Hari, has the sight of these Frankish barbarians charging scared you witless? Losing ’that thing’ has indeed made you lose all your courage!"

The eunuch, possessing a long, pointed face and an unnaturally fair complexion, said calmly, "Prince Zahir, His Majesty the King ordered me to look after you. This is my duty!"

Zahir glanced contemptuously at the eunuch. "Enough, Hari! Plundering a single village can hardly extinguish the raging flames in my heart! I want to take the head of this Frankish cavalry leader and demand Aleppo, which rightfully belongs to me, back from al-Adil!"

When mentioning his uncle, Sayf al-Din (al-Adil), the Governor of Syria, Zahir used his name directly, showing no respect. A considerable part of the territory al-Adil ruled should have been his. It was only because Zahir had suffered a defeat in a battle while suppressing Armenian mountaineers when he governed there that the territory was put under Sayf al-Din’s trusteeship.

"I will prove that I am still the son most worthy of my father’s favor!"

Zahir drew his sword and cried out, "Holy Fire Burns Forever! My most elite Mamluks, bring fire and death to these Frankish barbarians!"

"Holy Fire Burns Forever!" The Saracen cavalrymen let out strange cries and charged forth like a black hurricane.

These elite cavalrymen, selected from the best of the Ghilman slaves, equipped with fine scale armor, chainmail, and lamellar armor, and riding Marwari warhorses purchased from India, were far superior to the Ghilman cavalry of old who were so often routed by Crusader knights.

They had practiced martial arts since childhood and were the most elite unit under Zahir’s command. He believed that this personal guard of his slave soldiers, even if not comparable to his father’s Mamluk personal guard, was second to none among his brothers’ forces, and certainly not something this Frankish cavalry of unknown origin could match.

***

Lothar rode at the very head, charging at the forefront. Hans, gripping the lance to which the Black Eagle Swallowtail Banner was tied, had his eyes beneath his heavy winged helmet transformed into the vertical pupils of a beast, the werewolf blood boiling in his veins. Behind them, knights holding swallowtail banners and square banners roared loudly.

"Charge!"

"In the name of the Royal Knights!"

"In the name of the Father!"

"In the name of Jerusalem!"

"Kill all these Saracen whelps!"

The cavalrymen shouted various slogans, their accents a bizarre mix; there were men from the Low Countries, England, France, Toulouse, León, Navarre, Tuscany, and various other regions.

Some of them didn’t even know what they were shouting, merely roaring instinctively like wild beasts to vent the tension in their hearts. Correct content is on NovelFire)

The black cavalry and the red cavalry surged towards each other across the land like two tides, looking as if they would crash together the next moment and stir up terrifying, blood-red waves. View the correct content at NovelFire

Lothar felt a continuous crackling sound in his ears. He didn’t know what was hitting his helmet—arrows, or perhaps stones mixed in the wind-blown sand. Beneath his visor, his breathing became extremely heavy, like bellows.

Closer. Even closer. Lothar could even clearly see the savage faces of the cavalrymen charging towards him, their skin weathered rough by the wind and sand, and their dark, unkempt beards.

’Bang—’ A huge impact struck.

The lance in Lothar’s hand forcefully sent a cavalryman, who was holding a round shield, flying from his horse. His foot was still caught in the stirrup as his body arched backward, falling to the ground.

What awaited him was the trampling of countless hooves; his life was snuffed out in an instant.

Lothar slowly circulated the magical power within his body, soothing the aching pain in his arm.

Following immediately was the next enemy, wearing a spiked helmet. A sharp Saracen straight sword thrust out, the angle tricky, aimed straight at Lothar’s neck.

’Swish—’ The black shield, like a sharp axe, directly severed the arm of the Mamluk cavalryman who had thrust out that straight sword.

Banu, clad in iron armor and riding her warhorse like a shadow beside Lothar, intercepted all attacks coming from Lothar’s right side.

This was the duty of a heavy guard! But Banu could, at most, defend one side. A six-star melee and a six-star spellcaster were entirely different concepts.

The next moment—’Swoosh—’ Lothar abruptly raised his shield. A powerful arrowhead thudded into it with a "thwack," the sharp point pressing against his gauntleted fingers holding the shield, sending a sharp pain through them.

If not for wearing mail gauntlets, his fingers would likely have been severed by the arrowhead.

His keen Beast Intuition immediately allowed him to lock onto the Saracen cavalryman who had just taken a potshot at him.

This man’s armor was clearly different from the others, and the guards crowding around him, who hadn’t joined the charge, further highlighted his extraordinary status.

He shouted, "Hans! Banu! Cover me!" Then, he discarded his already cracked lance, drew the arming sword Marlus had personally forged for him, and charged towards the high ground where that Saracen cavalryman was located.

’Bang—’ An iron mace swung out from Lothar’s left, smashing violently onto his head. Lothar felt the pressure on his neck suddenly increase. The immense force crashing down from above, transmitted through the lower edge of his iron helmet and the chainmail of his coif, heavily struck his chainmail neck guard.

The clash of iron, like the striking of a bell, sent his entire brain into a daze. Lothar only had time to raise the shield in his hand before the heavy iron mace struck again.

The shield in Lothar’s hand, along with the arm holding it, was slammed backward heavily against his body. He could no longer feel the pain.

The instant he steadied his mind, he fought back the dizziness and tried to counterattack. But then, a lance pierced through that man’s chest, impaling him to the ground.

Lothar could see Ulm’s back, his feather decorations spread out neatly behind him from the high speed of his charge. He had bypassed Lothar and rushed to the very front!

More and more Winged Hussars charged up. As hussars, their charging speed was faster than Lothar’s barded mount, which he hadn’t had time to change.

Zahir, astonished, lowered the horn bow in his hand and said, "The leader of these Franks and his personal guards are truly valiant! If those feathered cavalrymen are captured, do not kill them. I want them to join my Mamluks."

The eunuch beside him once again advised, "Milord, we should still retreat! Those Franks are already charging this way! With your noble status, you should not be drawn into such a perilous and fierce battle!"

Zahir proudly rejected his servant’s counsel. "No! I am Saladin’s son, the eagle of the desert, the master of Syria! I never fear battle! He wants to fight me? Then let him come! Mamluks, let these Frankish barbarians witness our might!"

He raised the straight sword in his hand, roared, and then, leading a troop of his personal guard protecting him, charged towards Lothar, who, like an arrowhead, was currently piercing through the Mamluk cavalry formation.

Looking down from the sky, one could clearly see the black wave in a surrounding posture, engulfing the red and white wave within it.

The Saracen light cavalry on both flanks were charging towards the village, tasked with using arrows to delay the Crusader infantry from supporting their cavalry.

Otherwise, once the two cavalry forces clashed and they lost their momentum, they could very well find themselves surrounded by Crusader sergeants.

In such a state, perhaps the Mamluk cavalry could still achieve a one-to-one, or even a one-to-two exchange ratio. But to trade meticulously trained heavy cavalry for those Crusader infantrymen, who might have left their training grounds less than a week ago—even if they achieved a one-to-ten exchange ratio, it would be an enormous loss that Zahir could not accept.

At the rear, the Knightly Order’s light infantry also began to open fire. Lothar hadn’t specifically trained archers or crossbowmen, but among the newly recruited sergeants of the Knightly Order, a considerable number were Armenian mountaineers who belonged to the Apostolic Church (considered a branch of Orthodoxy).

Besides their main weapons of spear and shield, they also carried slings. This ancient yet practical weapon had a maximum range that could even reach two hundred meters.

As the Saracen light cavalry approached, they leaped out from their cover, rushed forward a few steps, and, whirling their slings, launched fist-sized rough stones at the enemy light cavalry.

Caught off guard, several of those lightly armored Saracen cavalrymen were struck, their heads bloodied, and fell from their warhorses.

Ryan and Moder, clad in heavy armor and wielding battle-axes, each led a squad of Axe Guards, shouting, "Charge with me! Kill all the damned infidels! The Heavenly Father will protect us!"

The next moment, the Crusader sergeants, who had been in cover, surged forward like a tide to meet the advancing light cavalry of the enemy.