The Legend of Fatality

When they put him on a copper-encrusted bed covered with thick silk and fur, he was more dead than alive. The flag of King Bultania fluttered over his head, and the flag was fixed on a shelf beside the bed. A row of servants dressed in Wang's uniforms surround the bed, using an ostrich feather fan to create an artificial breeze.

The squires ran around in the tent, carrying several pots of cold water scooped from the well, which was cooled by the magic of the imperial wizard. The doctors gathered around him, carefully checking every finger and toe of him, trying to restore his vitality. At the corner of the pavilion, an unsmiling priestess set up a small shrine and prayed to the goddess of mercy and healing, hoping that he would recover soon.

Ennasu-Saif was only vaguely aware of all this, his thoughts returned to the ambush in the desert, to the strange and strange dark knight who once saved him and destroyed him.

"He can't live anymore," Baron Huguenot de Naval screamed in frustration. "Every doctor says this. They can't stop the poison. Even the Erba people don't know what venom is in his veins. There is no hope."

"This is not the death of a hero," Count de Toulouse said painfully. "Lying in bed, these **** doctors and their leeches drained his life! He might as well die in a battle against the dirty pagans!"

"Whether it is the death of a hero or not," Baron de Naval declared, "we must accept the fact that the Duke of Aquitaine cannot recover."

"Then, if he is going to die, let him die in the land of Burtania!" King Charles's majestic voice became harsh with fatigue and despair. "This abominable land has robbed us of too much blood donation. But there will never be him!"

"Be sensible, Your Majesty," Baron de Naval pleaded. "He won't be able to support it for long. Now it is foolish and cruel to send him back to Aquitaine. When we leave this **** desert, let his body be carried back with another noble dead."

"Marrying your daughter does not mean that you are my father." King Charles answered sharply. "In our expedition, no one fought so lofty and so well for our cause like the Duke of Aquitaine. What he did was so great that we couldn't even give him matching honors."

"But he is going to die," Baron de Naval insisted. "We must think about the future. There must be a new Duke of Aquitaine. Your majesty, you are the next in line to succeed. You are the most reasonable and legal person to assume his duties."

"Let him go home with all titles and honors." King Charles said, his voice filled with sadness. "It's only rogues who play the jackals at this time." The king's voice became more and more firm. "This is my order: The Duke ’s servants will send him back to Aquitaine as soon as possible. The **** will **** them through the desert, and when they reach Elkhek, the fastest ship in the fleet will be on standby . When the Duke returns to Aquitaine, his comfort and dignity should be taken into consideration. If we can do it, we will send him back to his territory and let him see Burtan before being embraced by the lady The green trees of Niah. "

"As you said, Your Majesty." Said Baron de Naval. "Do you have to think about everything?"

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Sir Dane-Gattler-Whitman shook the shoulder of the sleeping farmer. The man's hand immediately flew towards the spear against the dirt wall. His head was swinging like a big bird, his eyes struggling to penetrate the darkness and the drowsiness in the dead end.

The knight patted the startled farmer, comforted him, and persuaded him to remain calm. Sir Whitman's fear of the attack has not yet manifested. Even so, he still wants this person to remain vigilant. Because the attack is coming. In his life, Sir Whitman has never been so sure of anything as he is now.

Ironically, it was the knight's most desperate prayer that ruthlessly defended the guards of the village of Jirel. He needed time, needed time to strengthen the defense against the village of Girel, and needed time to convince the local count and marquise to convince them that it was in their best interest to send troops to protect a group of farmers ’cottages and a little-forgotten chapel .

Most nobles mocked Whitman's pleadings, mocking him for saying that the Duke of Blood Eagle was back. Perhaps, if he completed his pursuit and became a Holy Grail knight, they would listen to him, but Sir Whitman's idea has shifted to a different path. Now he knows more than ever that the gulf between him and the knighthood he once belonged to.

There is some hope that maybe the gods will touch the hearts of the lords who have not laughed at him. Even if there are a dozen knights and twenty soldiers, it is enough to guard the chapel and the cemetery around the chapel. It was enough to thwart the Duke of Blood Eagle's plan and destroy it before his evil plan began.

Before that, Sir Whitman could only deal with his troops. There is no shortage of volunteers in Jirel village. Every healthy person and several people in poor health take up arms to defend their homes. The man he awakened, Tracy, now holding his spear tightly, just a chicken farmer a few days ago. He has never done anything better than chasing foxes from his yard with thick sticks and shouting. However, when Sir Whitman explained to Tracy the danger of the village, he joined without hesitation. The farmer felt terrified at the thought of facing the walking dead. But when he thought of his family and his home being destroyed by such creatures, he was even more afraid.

All the peasant fighters in Sir Whitman are afraid, and this fear will only increase with the passage of time. They can't eat or sleep, they don't want anything but the terrible doom that envelopes their village. Time wears them down and is afraid to devour them until they are exhausted on their posts. These people are neither knights nor soldiers. They are farmers, pigs, horsemen, and leather workers. For them, the thought of war is as terrible as the Duke of Blood Eagle himself.

Sir Whitman left Tracy and proceeded along the trench. The farmers worked hard to build fortifications around the church and cemetery. Of course, the engineers of the Duke of Gales could have done better, but the way the villagers obeyed his orders impressed Sir Whitman. He thought, after all, it was only slightly different from digging a drainage ditch or irrigation canal, but it was also effective against a cavalry charge. The excavated mud has formed a low mound, forming a staggered barrier around the cemetery, high enough to hide behind, but too short to block the enemy's attack.

Sir Whitman stood up from the trench and looked at the soldiers' anxious and tired faces. He could see how uncomfortable they were with their temporary weapons-crudely manufactured spears, farm tools tied to poles, rusty axes, and mace looted from an ancient battlefield. For them, the idea of ​​carrying weapons to defend their homeland is very strange. Sir Whitman also felt very strange. After so many years, the knight never thought of taking people to fight again, whether they were farmers or nobles. He can only believe in the gods, and believe that his leadership and courage will not be lacking.

A sense of guilt passed Sir Whitman's heart. The knight looked away from the trench and the guards of the trench and looked at the vast cemetery behind them. The area of ​​the cemetery is many times that of the village of Jirel, and it has expanded year by year. Many of the people buried here are knights, they are buried here, so they can be next to the chalice knight in the church

It was this chapel and its sacred atmosphere that attracted the Duke of Blood Eagle to come here. That monster will come to fetch what was secretly buried under the church. Sir Whitman did not allow the Duke of Blood Eagle to invade those hidden catacombs. This is more important than the lives of himself and the villagers. The sanctuary in the church must be protected, if necessary, until the last drop of blood. To ensure this, Cavaliers designed a cruel scam.

Sir Whitman told the villagers that for them, the safest place to take refuge was inside the sacred walls of the church. When these people defended the cemetery, their family members hid in a shrine with marble walls. They never thought that their safety was an illusion. Instead, they put themselves in the center of the coming storm. Indeed, the magic applied to the chapel would prevent the Duke of Blood Eagle from resurrecting the dead buried under the chapel, or resurrecting those buried in the surrounding cemetery. But the sacred guards were not strong enough to stop the monster or the undead already traveling under his banner.

The knight's finger stroked the crow embroidered on the cloak. This is a mean trick, but there are some things that are more important than honor and knight's oath. The gods will understand. They should judge his behavior.

"Do you expect them to come tonight, my master?" The question came from an old farmer with gray hair. Although he was very old and had no teeth on his chin, Arnold was burly, with broad shoulders and muscular arms under a coarse robe. He wore a chain mail, his hood pulled back, and an iron scarf around his throat. A large bag of garlic was tied to his cuff, and a garlic head was tied around his belt. The scepter in his hand had a rope tied to his wrist at the end, and a horseshoe was hung on the rope. Because it was too old, its surface became pitted.

"They are too old," Sir Whitman told Arnold. Unlike the villagers, Arnold understood the way of war. He was a holy grail pilgrim, and was the only one of Jirel who knew the holy grail knight buried in the church while he was alive. When he was a child, Arnold's village was attacked by orcs. The savage looters were stopped by a lone knight. He gave them a chance to fight, and they paid a huge price to drive these monsters back into their mountains. Since that day, Noah has followed the knight throughout the country. He is the leader of a small sect that respects the knight as a living saint. The pilgrim's sect followed their knights through Burtania and fought alongside him in many of his battles. When he finally died and was buried in this church, Noah and other pilgrims left to guard his tomb.

The pilgrims who had originally participated in the battle were gone. Everyone except Arnold came to take their place. They had heard the story of the Knights of the Holy Grail and sought peace by serving the spirit of the Holy Warrior. There are only a dozen pilgrims in the village of Jirel, but Sir Whitman thinks he is lucky to have them. They are the closest to real soldiers, and he had to use them.

Sir Whitman did not let the pilgrims spread out along the trenches, but left them near the church as a rapid reaction force against the Duke of Blood Eagles ~ www.wuxiaspot.com ~ He had wanted a team to move fast Cavalry, but on the crowded ground of the cemetery, Sir Whitman believes that the pilgrims dismounted may actually be more mobile.

Sir Whitman stared at the pilgrims who took part in the battle, a group of ragged, unkempt people, dressed in rough earthen robes, each wearing some armor. One man had a front armband hanging with a leather strap around his neck; the other man had a helmet-like cover tied to his head. Everyone carried this piece of armor, not to protect themselves, but as an amulet, because each piece was taken from the tomb of their holy grail knight. A dark-haired pilgrim named Lillard took a heavy holy relic box and tied it to a thick maple tree stick. The wooden door was carved with a rough holy grail pattern. The box contains the helmet of the Holy Grail Knight and the skull fragments of the war horse. For pilgrims, these are the most sacred relics, and for them it is as important as the Holy Grail to the Kingdom Knights. As farmers, they can never see the lady or sip the Holy Grail; all they can do is pay homage to a knight who has had such an experience.

This is a sentiment that Sir Whitman can understand, because the Holy Grail has been lost for him, although in his case, it was choice rather than origin that prevented him from taking this path.

The knight in black robe watched the sky begin to darken. Storm clouds swept through the night sky, obscuring the stars. When his soul felt the effect of evil magic in the air, his skin crawled like a bug. Sir Whitman pulled out his sword coldly. "Prepare your people," the knight said to Arnold. "Send the fastest of them to warn the villagers."

When the knight spoke through the steel mask on the helmet, his voice was roaring like a metal.

"The wait is over."