Free Behold the Dawn by K.M. Weiland Page B

common than mere cunning. He turned to his bed, swishing his robes out behind him, his fingers once again seeking the crucifix.
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    The morning had dawned hazy, the carmine sun borne skyward on a bed of dirty gray. With the dawn had come the knowledge that King Richard’s words of a great battle had been no empty boast.
    Annan sat his destrier near the front of the English lines and watched the work of the catapults as they prepared the way for the siege tower. Not far to his left, the English catapult, christened Evil Neighbor, had been spewing forth devastation since early morning, and now the target wall swayed amidst the dust. Far to his other side, the Knights Templars’ catapult, God’s Own Sling, wreaked its own destruction. Between them loomed the great tower, waiting the moment when it would be shoved up next to the walls of Acre, providing the necessary bridge for scores of eager foot soldiers.
    The clouds above, turgid with the smoke of burning ordnance and the dust of crumbling stone, formed an eerie veil against the red sunlight. Save for the wind blowing in from the sea, the camps waited in uncanny silence. Annan rested his arm atop the great helm that sat against his saddlebow. Omens were rife this day—whether for good or bad, the number of the dead would soon show.
    At his elbow, Marek scowled. “I don’t like this. Looks twice as dirty as a tourney melee, and three times as bloody.”
    “’Tis.” Annan glanced the lad’s way. “But all you need to concern yourself with is staying alive.”
    “Would appear I’ve a very long day ahead of me.”
    Evil Neighbor’s long black arm snapped forward, its frame bucking with the released tension. Far ahead, the volley smashed into the center of the wall. Stones crumbled and fell, and satisfied murmurs whispered through the men crowded about Annan. His back tightened around his spine, and the hair on his arms prickled. Anticipation rose in the depths of his mind.
    It had been years since he had fought shoulder to shoulder with other knights in a legitimate battle. Some part of him sang with joy in expectation, even while another part, somewhere deep within him, was louder yet with its grim silence. This battle would not be a pleasant one. The Mohammedans would fight and die with a fierce vengeance despite the inevitable weakening of a two-year siege.
    “You know,” Marek said, “now would be a good time to be changing your mind about taking that Crusading oath.”
    Annan shook his head. Marek had been told all there was to say on the subject. Long before the war could reach an end, he and the lad would be gone from here. Even were absolution possible through this Holy War, breaking the oath would do little to increase their chances of receiving it.
    God’s Own Sling rebounded in the distance, and the crash that followed thundered louder than all that had come before. Stones tumbled to the ground, opening great spaces in the wall. On the ramparts, dark specks of men dashed to steadier footing, shouting to one another in their heathen tongue.
    “They’re almost through,” someone said.
    Annan straightened up, pushing his shoulders back to their full breadth, feeling the links of mail smoothing into place over his chest. The silence in the camp, save for the clatter and crash of the catapults, droned in his ears. He lifted his tongue to the roof of his mouth, allowing saliva to well in the dry crevices.
    He had battled so many times in his life. And yet his sword arm still quivered with expectancy, his nostrils flared in impatience, his shoulders ached with restrained eagerness.
    As the catapults hammered on, he lifted his helm and settled it onto his head, narrowing his vision to slits of light. His breath echoed against the iron faceplate and came back warm against his mouth.
    At the behest of a last gift from Evil Neighbor, the wall tottered and fell, crumbling into a cloud of dust and disintegrating into nothing. For one long moment, there was