Paul Binkley

BREACH

      The wood on the door creaked and spewed dust with every slam of the battering ram. Where I stood during those final minutes of the siege was only about four arm lengths from my face to the main gate. It was horrifying. Men all around me prayed and vomited, some did both at the same time. A few battle hardened and death ready men grunted and paced in place, grabbing their sword and shield leather-wrapped handles so tight, you could hear the skin and leather kink and rub together. It sounded like dry grain falling on rock. The relaxing sound of a creek streaming and cascading lightly through a brook was actually the unmistakable noise of grown men pissing themselves with fear.

      I being on the second or third row (depending on how you look at it) was sure to die this day. Outside anywhere from 12,000 to 15,000 bloodthirsty Persians stood poised to attempt a sack of this great city. I should have been towards the back of our pack but that would have made me perfectly ranged for moonshot arrows fired from those Abbasid archer lines. With probably 2000 men packed in deep behind me and nothing but God's sky above our heads: arrows were the enemy. And for the past hours I had endured a sickening melody of arrows tearing at the flesh of the pack behind me, hearing the moans and cries of those randomly maimed from iron-headed Syrian Arrows. Only about 200 men between me and the gate so once it is breached I estimate that I will be in full on combat within twenty seconds. I hated the King but had made my peace with God and was ready for that certain death.

      The fighting was far more glorious and fulfilling the past few days when I fought outside the walls in the Vanguard. My fighting and bravery had been honorably commended. Out there in front of these walls, I had slain at least seventy men and maimed and/or wounded (so as to end their walking days) another fifty men at a minimum. The cowardly hoard had then retreated to regroup for two and a half days, only to launch the super assault at the crack of dawn which caught the whole empire off guard and has my armor sitting in piss preparing for the break. Their King had sent in coffers to acquire mercenaries from afar, and I had imagined all the kinds of Janissaries and fierce Turks that waited at the gate with those foul Persians for blood. I sat in full armor, packed in tighter then whores in a caravan, not even enough room was at my sides and front to fully swing a sword. Feeling trapped is what I hate.

      The dipped hickory and steel main gate received the final splitting blow from the Ballista and Persian men quickly hacked the remaining bottom of the re-built main gate. This allowed an entrance for three men wide to push through as they got cut down by my brothers on the forefront of our pack. Then my blood boiled and I let out my signature battle cry…

       AAAAARRRARRRAGH! I screamed as I smashed my sword hilt against the top of my brand new shield, I surely was kinking and blemishing the smooth steel finish.

      Men were fighting on top of bodies within two arm lengths of inside where stood the gate, and when the man in front of me fell, I poured into the melee. I found my footing with a strong gait and quickly realized my superior skill. Their frontline men were brave but weak beneath my assault. I felled at least twenty men in the time it took to breath twenty breathes, and was fighting on top of a pile of dead men at least four body high. I could feel God's glory coursing through my veins when some high coin Janissary released his blunderbuss load on my face!

      God help me! I was blinded but not from the pain of feeling my sword arm get cleaved clean off behind my armor above the elbow. I screamed and withered to the ground, which was not actually ground but piles of bodies of my fallen brothers and enemies. I lay there bleeding as men used my body as footing to fight upon.