The Long Perilous March into The Levant. (backstory cont.)

Life on the march into the blistering unknown felt dangerous as it was uncomfortable. The sun, unrelenting. Yet the nights came with a biting wind which cut our burnt skin deep. A cruel mix.

The Muslims strike like lightning only to melt away like snow under the sun. They knew the land and knew how to use it against us. Raining arrows from the highground, before running to nearby woodland where they would disappear like spirits into the night. Every attack costs us men and time.

Each attack takes more Christan life than the last.

The Muslims burn the earth and poison the wells. Dirty cheating bastards.

Food becomes hard to come by. Water is even scarcer.

Hunger stalks our caravan. Men are driven mad by thirst.

Some resort to drinking their own piss.

The animals suffered most of course. Chargers began to die through exhaustion which at least provided the kitchen with a supply of horsemeat… but it meant we were another valuable mount down.

Famous knights were reduced to riding pack mules into battle. A ridiculous sight. But a sad sign of the times.

And Muslim Turks continue to harass our flanks.

The **** suffering causes our **** to lose its discipline.

Our **** begins to fracture and split. A costly mistake. Easier targets to pick off.

Fortunately, being a cook I remained safe and relatively comfortable in the support caravan… keeping the wives company..

Dorylaeum changed all that.

It made me a man.