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I have grave news, Milords.
Today, as the Arabs crowded boldly round our men, there died a man who I never thought could be injured by iron or flame. Lord Toledo was a strong man, and he showed to me no weakness in battle. He died a man, more a man than any of the Arabs or the Chinamen ever were. He died for Spain, and Spain has too soon forgotten him.
Lord Toledo watched as the Ansars amassed on the brow of that little bloody hill, and he mounted his own battle steed. I, in my armor, rode alongside him, being his aide. He had with him his family's sword, generations old. It had been carried into battle against barbarians, against Visigoths, even in the siege of the Squiddimark. Many a devil had bathed the sword with his blood.
Today was no different. The Ansars rode, massed together, howling their devil cries, like monkeys chattered away incoherently. They carried their scimitars in one hand, the reigns of their horses in the other, and they had a demonic look in their eye. Our Egyptian brothers, Christians all, had not made the field. The Arabs rode on.
On the brow of the hill, the Arabs looked to their right. The Chinamen, so it seemed, had pledged their support but had not arrived on the field. "Cowards!" shouted the Arabs, "Warmonger Cowards!" The Chinamen, you see, don't intend to lose their troops. They just wait for a good point at which to stab their Arab allies in the back. That is how they operate. The Neu Demogypticans were fools to trust them.
And so the Arabs rode up alone, but they still outnumbered us greatly. They came on chanting wicked sutras from their wicked book, and they growled like beasts. The Spanish men brought their pikes down as the Arabs came on. Then, suddenly, Lord Toledo broke ranks and charged downhill, surprising the enemy. The pikes moved forward, crushing down upon the attackers.
It was hideous in a way, you know, when those pikes rammed deep into the enemy horses. The riders tumbled from their mounts, down the hill. The Arabs tried to escape, crying madly, but the mounts tumbled down dead upon them, crushing them dead.
Lord Toledo swung his sword about, catching the Ansars around him. An Arab nobleman, Picahulu by name, suddenly recognized him. "Toledo!" he cried, "Toledo!"
Lord Toledo looked upon him, and recognized at once his old friend. How long it had been since they had last met. How long it had been since they had shared a meal. How short the time had been since Picahulu betrayed him along with his entire civilization. But they still had honor, you know. Not like the Warmongers, who had none. They who shirked from a battle until they knew they could not lose. They who lie in wait of the Arabs themselves, if they but knew it.
Picahulu was unable to move for a moment, looking at his friend. At once a flurry of emotions appeared on his face. Should he ride to Lord Toledo to take him prisoner and spare his life? Should he let him go? Would the Lord kill him with his sword?
Picahulu was torn, yes, but he was no fool. His men watched him, they rode alongside him, cutting away at the Spaniards with the pikes. Picahulu looked along his lines. Some men were chopping downward, seperating Spanish heads from Spanish bodies. But his white clothed minions were finding it hard to keep their position. Mounts slid as the blood turned dirt to mud. A white figure dropped his scimitar as he fell upon the row of pikes. Pierced by several blades, he was held aloft in the air, impaled like a pig on a spit. Picahulu could not betray his men.
He swung his sword in the air and rode at his old friend. Lord Toledo parried the thrust, and Picahulu fell from his mount. But he was up in a flash and his scimitar swung into the legs of the Spanish horse. The animal died and fell into a mass of enemy riders, throwing them all downhill in a pile. Lord Toledo, cut and bruised, lay in the blood and the mud, raising his sword aloft in defiance. Picahulu brought his scimitar down.
The blade broke upon Lord Toledo's sword. Picahulu turned in panic, reaching for a new weapon. However, his own archers let loose a volley then into the mass of flesh. Pikemen fell, Ansars fell, as much damage was done to Picahulu's own men as was to ours. But an arrow caught Lord Toledo near the throat and he dropped his sword.
He looked towards Picahulu again, and saw him die. Four arrows had hit him, one had gone through his body and into the hill, holding him down. He looked sadly at his old friend, as if to cry out in shame. Lord Toledo crept toward him slowly, ignoring the pain of his own wound.
"Lord Toledo...I don't want to fade from this earth and suffer everlasting torment," he said. "I have sinfully and have betrayed you, my friend. But can you forgive me? Will you baptize me? I beg you, my friend..."
"Without hesitation..." Lord Toledo responded. "Do you renounce Satan and all his works?" he began.
After Picahulu had made his pledges, Lord Toledo opened his canteen, ignoring the fighting that continued about him. He dipped his thumb into the water, ignoring his own blood as it dripped down into the drink. He made the sign of the cross upon Picahulu's head, and said these words: "May Almighty God...the Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ...He who hath regenerated thee...by water and the Holy...Ghost...and given thee remission of all...thy sins...anoint thee...with the Chrism of Salvation...in the same Jesus Christ Our Lord, unto life everlasting..."
And then His Lordship crawled away. The Ansars fell back in droves, and our men charged down after them. In a few minutes, what was left of our force had surrounded the riders at the bottom of the hill. Within minutes, all of the Arabs were dead. Not one survived.
We withdrew from the field that evening, the survivors falling back to Pamplona. It rained that night, washing the blood away. The thunder and lightning lit up the field and we saw the vague forms of the Arab's allies, the Warmongers. The Riders were dismounted, scuttling among the corpses of their allies. They were not there to save, nay, but to steal. They reached for anything of value. This done, the bodies of the slain stripped, they withdrew.
But another man was on that field, bleeding from numerous wounds.
A light shone down strangely between the clouds upon his head. Lord Toledo bled from many wounds, the arrow still deep in his throat. But there was now a little stream, such as we had not noticed before. And he walked, blood streaming down his armor, his sword upraised, heading for this stream.
And then he went to the riverside, into which, as he went, he said, "Death, where is thy sting?" And as he went down deeper, he said, "Grave, where is thy victory?" So he passed over, and the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.
Today, as the Arabs crowded boldly round our men, there died a man who I never thought could be injured by iron or flame. Lord Toledo was a strong man, and he showed to me no weakness in battle. He died a man, more a man than any of the Arabs or the Chinamen ever were. He died for Spain, and Spain has too soon forgotten him.
Lord Toledo watched as the Ansars amassed on the brow of that little bloody hill, and he mounted his own battle steed. I, in my armor, rode alongside him, being his aide. He had with him his family's sword, generations old. It had been carried into battle against barbarians, against Visigoths, even in the siege of the Squiddimark. Many a devil had bathed the sword with his blood.
Today was no different. The Ansars rode, massed together, howling their devil cries, like monkeys chattered away incoherently. They carried their scimitars in one hand, the reigns of their horses in the other, and they had a demonic look in their eye. Our Egyptian brothers, Christians all, had not made the field. The Arabs rode on.
On the brow of the hill, the Arabs looked to their right. The Chinamen, so it seemed, had pledged their support but had not arrived on the field. "Cowards!" shouted the Arabs, "Warmonger Cowards!" The Chinamen, you see, don't intend to lose their troops. They just wait for a good point at which to stab their Arab allies in the back. That is how they operate. The Neu Demogypticans were fools to trust them.
And so the Arabs rode up alone, but they still outnumbered us greatly. They came on chanting wicked sutras from their wicked book, and they growled like beasts. The Spanish men brought their pikes down as the Arabs came on. Then, suddenly, Lord Toledo broke ranks and charged downhill, surprising the enemy. The pikes moved forward, crushing down upon the attackers.
It was hideous in a way, you know, when those pikes rammed deep into the enemy horses. The riders tumbled from their mounts, down the hill. The Arabs tried to escape, crying madly, but the mounts tumbled down dead upon them, crushing them dead.
Lord Toledo swung his sword about, catching the Ansars around him. An Arab nobleman, Picahulu by name, suddenly recognized him. "Toledo!" he cried, "Toledo!"
Lord Toledo looked upon him, and recognized at once his old friend. How long it had been since they had last met. How long it had been since they had shared a meal. How short the time had been since Picahulu betrayed him along with his entire civilization. But they still had honor, you know. Not like the Warmongers, who had none. They who shirked from a battle until they knew they could not lose. They who lie in wait of the Arabs themselves, if they but knew it.
Picahulu was unable to move for a moment, looking at his friend. At once a flurry of emotions appeared on his face. Should he ride to Lord Toledo to take him prisoner and spare his life? Should he let him go? Would the Lord kill him with his sword?
Picahulu was torn, yes, but he was no fool. His men watched him, they rode alongside him, cutting away at the Spaniards with the pikes. Picahulu looked along his lines. Some men were chopping downward, seperating Spanish heads from Spanish bodies. But his white clothed minions were finding it hard to keep their position. Mounts slid as the blood turned dirt to mud. A white figure dropped his scimitar as he fell upon the row of pikes. Pierced by several blades, he was held aloft in the air, impaled like a pig on a spit. Picahulu could not betray his men.
He swung his sword in the air and rode at his old friend. Lord Toledo parried the thrust, and Picahulu fell from his mount. But he was up in a flash and his scimitar swung into the legs of the Spanish horse. The animal died and fell into a mass of enemy riders, throwing them all downhill in a pile. Lord Toledo, cut and bruised, lay in the blood and the mud, raising his sword aloft in defiance. Picahulu brought his scimitar down.
The blade broke upon Lord Toledo's sword. Picahulu turned in panic, reaching for a new weapon. However, his own archers let loose a volley then into the mass of flesh. Pikemen fell, Ansars fell, as much damage was done to Picahulu's own men as was to ours. But an arrow caught Lord Toledo near the throat and he dropped his sword.
He looked towards Picahulu again, and saw him die. Four arrows had hit him, one had gone through his body and into the hill, holding him down. He looked sadly at his old friend, as if to cry out in shame. Lord Toledo crept toward him slowly, ignoring the pain of his own wound.
"Lord Toledo...I don't want to fade from this earth and suffer everlasting torment," he said. "I have sinfully and have betrayed you, my friend. But can you forgive me? Will you baptize me? I beg you, my friend..."
"Without hesitation..." Lord Toledo responded. "Do you renounce Satan and all his works?" he began.
After Picahulu had made his pledges, Lord Toledo opened his canteen, ignoring the fighting that continued about him. He dipped his thumb into the water, ignoring his own blood as it dripped down into the drink. He made the sign of the cross upon Picahulu's head, and said these words: "May Almighty God...the Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ...He who hath regenerated thee...by water and the Holy...Ghost...and given thee remission of all...thy sins...anoint thee...with the Chrism of Salvation...in the same Jesus Christ Our Lord, unto life everlasting..."
And then His Lordship crawled away. The Ansars fell back in droves, and our men charged down after them. In a few minutes, what was left of our force had surrounded the riders at the bottom of the hill. Within minutes, all of the Arabs were dead. Not one survived.
We withdrew from the field that evening, the survivors falling back to Pamplona. It rained that night, washing the blood away. The thunder and lightning lit up the field and we saw the vague forms of the Arab's allies, the Warmongers. The Riders were dismounted, scuttling among the corpses of their allies. They were not there to save, nay, but to steal. They reached for anything of value. This done, the bodies of the slain stripped, they withdrew.
But another man was on that field, bleeding from numerous wounds.
A light shone down strangely between the clouds upon his head. Lord Toledo bled from many wounds, the arrow still deep in his throat. But there was now a little stream, such as we had not noticed before. And he walked, blood streaming down his armor, his sword upraised, heading for this stream.
And then he went to the riverside, into which, as he went, he said, "Death, where is thy sting?" And as he went down deeper, he said, "Grave, where is thy victory?" So he passed over, and the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.
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