By Rose de Sharon
Disclaimer: the same as before
Chapter 2: the rescue
(Princess Yasmina's POW)
The red-haired demon is dragging me forcefully back to the burning camp, where I can see the slaughtered bodies of my servants. Allah, help me! The demon and his cohorts have massacred every men, women and children of my tribe, from the oldest man to the tiniest infant. Prince Arnat al-Kerak has an iron grip on my wrist and there is no way I can free myself from his clutches.
The other Christian knights glee joyfully at the sight of me, their prized catch. What are they going to do? Are they going to ransom me? I am of royal blood and my capture would insure an enormous wealth to those jackals, but according to my brother, the Christian leper king would never approve such a criminal act. De Châtillon shoves me brutally and I found myself on the ground, covered in dust and blood. His men – can they even be called men? – yell in approval and my worst fear comes true: De Châtillon wants to sully my body before killing me.
I close my eyes in horror, clutching the barley in my hand, trying to pray Allah for an instant death. I am unable to look at the demons towering over me…
… And yet, there is a strange silence.
I can still hear the burning fires destroying the tents but the murderers' cries of triumph have quieted. I open my eyes again, and sure enough the red-haired demon is staring at the horizon behind me, as well as his accomplices, a stupefied expression on their faces.
I hear the whinny of a horse and I turn around; a dark-haired man, mounting a gray horse and wielding a sword, is charging at my attackers!
De Châtillon roars like a desert lion and raises his sword, but his cohorts stay petrified on the spot as if they were facing the wrath of God's celestial armies. The stranger strikes once, twice, hacking at the knights in the blink of an eye, his shiny sword bathed in the monsters' black blood.
De Châtillon's accomplices shake out of their stupor and try to react, but to no avail: one gets his arm severed while trying to reach for his sword, another gets kicked right in the face and falls in the ground, blood running down from his broken nose. The stranger – an angel? – strikes at the left, at the right, at the left again, leaving the jackals no time to defend themselves, mowing them like ryegrass. His horse tramples the fallen enemies' bodies and I stand in the middle of the fight, unharmed and unable to detach my sight from the miraculous warrior.
Our eyes meet, and for an instant I get a look at his face. In spite of the blood, dust and grime maculating his face and his dark red shirt, I can tell he's beautiful. He's also a Christian, one of those pilgrims coming from the West, yet his sword is the mark of a knight. The next thing I know, he slashes at a demon that tried to strike him from behind!
I turn around to see if De Châtillon is still here, but he's nowhere in sight: the coward must have run away from this emissary of God! Two other knights abandon the fight and flee the battlefield, their feet rising clouds of dust in their panic. Run, traitors! May your ugly souls rot in Hell for all eternity!
The stranger buries his sword into the last man's skull with a "crack" horrible to hear and the fight is over, leaving only the two of us standing. All of the perpetrators are either dead or gone, and hope returns to my heart: by no doubts this stranger is an envoy from Allah, like the archangel Mika'il!
But he has not won the battle unscathed: his face grimaces in pain, his eyes are blinking. His right hand, still holding the sword, rises slowly to his temple to feel the caked blood running down from it. I shake out of my stupor and reach out for his left hand: the stranger is made of flesh and blood so he's not an angel, but he has just slain my enemies and I want to help him now. "Mika'il", as I name him now, intertwines his fingers with mine while trying to catch his breath. His horse is nervous, uneasy, as if it didn't get enough action and is ready to fight again.
After a short bout of dizziness, Mika'il opens his eyes and smiles down at me. I catch a glimpse of admiration in his weary dark gaze and I could almost blush: in the heart of battle, this warrior takes the time to appreciate my beauty!
I want to thank him, but all of sudden the demon reappears! Prince Arnat al-Kerak is mounted on his black horse and he charges right at us, his sword held up high, yelling a blood-chilling hyena-like war cry!