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The Black Church
"On your horses!" Yells our guide. We're saddling up for Transylvania. An area of great lands for us all. An area we will conquer. Pastures and deciduous forests dominate the landscape. Rich flower meadows characterize the scenery. A beautiful idyll for us and our cause.
We ride and ride, we camp and eat. We have fun, but are always anxious to get what's coming to us.
After some time we move on, smelling more and more the lovely flowers in the wide meadows of this land. More and more we are offered what will soon be ours. Sultan Mehmed is sure of his cause and we even more so. I am glad to be one of his horsemen who are trying with all their fighting power to bring about peace under our Prophet Mohammed.
Roses, Jasmine, Tuberose...All these glorious scents, in combination with our horses, the fresh woods, grass - Deadly combined with the cold steel of our armor, swords and arrows. A conglomeration of smells we will never forget.
The only thing missing is the sweet taste of victory.
Not far now to the city walls. This Vlad is said to be a cruel ruler who must be stopped. We are his death.
At last we are here. We will camp at the foot of a hill and thus lay siege to this tyrant. Our attack will not last long. I'll eat something with my comrades.
It's getting dark.
I wake up to nothing but screams, metallic clanking, and smell fire. I immediately grab my scimitar, put on my harness by necessity and jump out of the tent.
Before me dark figures, in the light of the torches I do not see whether friend or foe.
I see only in the corner of my eye a club or cudgel rushing towards me.
Darkness.
When I wake up I feel 7 years of pain, concentrated in one spot in my abdomen. Panicked, I look around. Thick spears everywhere. Posts. Stakes. Sharpened. Not sharpened. Blood, guts, whimpering all around me. I hang in the air. Beside me, my comrades. I'm alive - still.
The sweet smell of victory. Not for us. Just the bitter, metallic taste of blood in our mouths. Death has come to take us. Not this tyrant. But us, who only wanted to smell the sweet smell of flowers, to reap the fruits of our labour. To ride our beloved horses in the wide meadows. This earth will not be ours. It will only be watered with our blood.
I just wanted to be a little richer than the others. I just wanted to have a little more than what was needed to live. I wanted to write stories and legends with my friends & comrades.
But all I have left is just this wooden post.
Here, hovering above it all, I at least see this cruel bastard himself losing his head. Pickled in honey, he is offered to our Sultan. O, thou sweet and bitter taste of retribution. Everyone gets what he deserves. One more, the other less.
Bury me and my comrades in the Black Church. There we will stand the test of time. And our history will hopefully be the breeding ground for all those who wish to conquer this cursed land. With all its riches and the tragic story of our downfall.
We ride and ride, we camp and eat. We have fun, but are always anxious to get what's coming to us.
After some time we move on, smelling more and more the lovely flowers in the wide meadows of this land. More and more we are offered what will soon be ours. Sultan Mehmed is sure of his cause and we even more so. I am glad to be one of his horsemen who are trying with all their fighting power to bring about peace under our Prophet Mohammed.
Roses, Jasmine, Tuberose...All these glorious scents, in combination with our horses, the fresh woods, grass - Deadly combined with the cold steel of our armor, swords and arrows. A conglomeration of smells we will never forget.
The only thing missing is the sweet taste of victory.
Not far now to the city walls. This Vlad is said to be a cruel ruler who must be stopped. We are his death.
At last we are here. We will camp at the foot of a hill and thus lay siege to this tyrant. Our attack will not last long. I'll eat something with my comrades.
It's getting dark.
I wake up to nothing but screams, metallic clanking, and smell fire. I immediately grab my scimitar, put on my harness by necessity and jump out of the tent.
Before me dark figures, in the light of the torches I do not see whether friend or foe.
I see only in the corner of my eye a club or cudgel rushing towards me.
Darkness.
When I wake up I feel 7 years of pain, concentrated in one spot in my abdomen. Panicked, I look around. Thick spears everywhere. Posts. Stakes. Sharpened. Not sharpened. Blood, guts, whimpering all around me. I hang in the air. Beside me, my comrades. I'm alive - still.
The sweet smell of victory. Not for us. Just the bitter, metallic taste of blood in our mouths. Death has come to take us. Not this tyrant. But us, who only wanted to smell the sweet smell of flowers, to reap the fruits of our labour. To ride our beloved horses in the wide meadows. This earth will not be ours. It will only be watered with our blood.
I just wanted to be a little richer than the others. I just wanted to have a little more than what was needed to live. I wanted to write stories and legends with my friends & comrades.
But all I have left is just this wooden post.
Here, hovering above it all, I at least see this cruel bastard himself losing his head. Pickled in honey, he is offered to our Sultan. O, thou sweet and bitter taste of retribution. Everyone gets what he deserves. One more, the other less.
Bury me and my comrades in the Black Church. There we will stand the test of time. And our history will hopefully be the breeding ground for all those who wish to conquer this cursed land. With all its riches and the tragic story of our downfall.
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