CrusaderZ: The Beginning

Smoke, thick and acrid. The scent of death and decay clung to its very core - like a babe in a mother's swaddle cloth. The sky was black with the Holy City's ashes, which lay upon ground and were suspended in the air like fallen stars. Spouts of amber penetrated the haze, embers that still burnt bright or fresh fires yet to succumb to their inevitable end. Men, women and babes cried out their fear as they ran from the streets. Houses would not protect them from the fires, but it was from the swords of Muslim and Christian that these people fled. To be caught in this skirmish would certainly mean your end.

A sudden wind shot deep into the city, pressing back the thick blanket of smoke that oppressed what Man had built. It carried with it the smells of war from right across the city - of burning pitch, corpses, sweat and even fear. A'ishah's nose wrinkled even as her body shivered to its very core. The wind was cold, like the pressing of ice against a fever. A strange occurance, but the Hashashin put it down to the heat of the burning city. She turned away from the open window, back into the darkness of this unlit house.

A Frankish man cowered in the corner, mumbling prayers to his God and his mistaken Son. The words weren't her words, they were not prayers to Allah. So as she drew a dagger from a belt upon her hip she did not mourn this man's loss. But at least, she would mourn the loss of the life he could have had. He coughed and spluttered, pale yet with lips of blood red. So sick did he look, that she almost thought it a waste of her time to finish the job. But his survival could not be chanced. She opened her mouth, and from her lips spilt words in French. The man's eyes widened in surprise as he recognised the tongue so few here knew so well.

"My name is A'ishah al-Harthi. I tell you this because you are about to die."

She accentuated her final word, brandishing the dagger forwards to poke into the squeeling man's neck. It broke no skin, spilt no blood, but the infidel's cry of fear was like sweet nectar to her hungry ears.

"Do you know why you die this day?" The man merely whimpered, for fear of cutting his neck on the sharp blade pressed against it. "You die," A'ishah continued without so much a pause to her largely rhetorical question, "because of your crimes against the Ismaili of this town. Your high tariffs on Ismaili traders, your preferential treatment of the Christians and Judahites. Your dealings with the Knights Templar and the 'services' you provide them."

The woman pressed deep, her blade cutting into the man's flesh which echoed a sweet gurgle as his life ebbed away from his wound. Yet little fell upon her leather gauntlets, or the white cloth that rested beneath her scale chest piece. The smoke had begun to collect through the window, pouring into the room like a grey wave. Her had snapped to the door leading into the room, locked by the bolt the man had put across it to protect himself. Fists rung against it, heavy fists as a man shouted for his master to open the door. More and more urgent were his cries, until the man beat once - twice - then broke the door through with his armoured weight. In the corner, in a pile of his own blood, lay the corpse of the Templar-backed Trader Berengiers in an empty room.

Silently the Hashashin dropped from her perch upon the window. Quickly she moved, darting between a pair of Merchant's houses and into a relatively clear back street. The smoke had not yet flooded this area, yet the haze seemed to block her in the off-road between two main streets. Doors were shut and, with nowhere to go, the Hashashin carefully edged her way down the road towards the next. Then the next, and yet another. She came across a number of corpses the further she traveled: a woman lay exposed to the weather by a door, a Crusader caught by a glaive and his face almost torn in two, a man who looked to have been gnawed by rabid dogs. It wasn't for a few long minutes until she caught a sign of life, two Saracen's stood over one of their fallen, one with his scimitar ready and gleaming what remained of the sunlight.

She broke from the shadows with her face covered, setting into a light jog to join the two men. "As-salamu alaykum!" she called out, to which the two men turned to face her. She could tell they were startled by her appearence, for their weapons rose in a defensive posture as she closed in. Arms raised she slowed to a halt, yet did not get a response from the two. "I mean you no harm, Saracens."

The younger of the two men lowered his sword and spoke, with a harsh tone to his voice, "What are you doing out here, it is too dangerous for a woman! Even in stolen armour!"

The older man, his greying beard long and neatly combed, rose from his crouched position and slapped a hand back to hit his companion in the shoulder. This ones voice was kind and wise - A'ishah would have pegged him as an Imam if not for the sword in his hand. "Hold your tongue." he chastised, "A woman may take up sword in defence of her home - as the umm al-mu'minīn Ayesha did in defence of Muhammed, peace be upon him." his head bowed in respect, to which A'ishah followed as did the younger Saracen. He turned towards her then and spoke, "Wa ‘alaykum al-salaam, Sister. I understand your defense is not against us, Junood, or surely you would have put an arrow in our backs from the other side of the street." The man bowed slightly, to which A'ishah returned.

"You honour me with your words, shykh. It is true, I am not your foe. Instead I wish to fight by your side against the tryanny of the Frankish invaders upon this hallowed ground." She paused, looked at the injured and pointed a hand towards him,"What is wrong with this man?"

The shykh turned to his downed companion, a Saracen like they but writhing in pain on the floor. "He complained of sickness. It seemed to just be a simple cold, but as we fought through the city to reach this place he collapsed. A heavy fever, he shakes, he groans." The old one bent down to his friend, worry etched in the lines upon his face. His hand extended out to the man, who seemed to slow to a stop at his touch. "He grows cold, I fear he is not long for this world."

A'ishah took an instinctive step back from the sickened one, "What illness befalls him? A wound left to fester? A plague of some sort?"

The old one shook his head, staring sorrowful at the lolling head of the Saracen. "Not one I have ever seen. Not one I have hea-" Suddenly the Saracen lunged forwards, arms wrapped around the Shykh's shoulders. The old one tried to pull back, but merely succeeded in pulling the sickened one atop him. With a sickening squelch, he bit deep into the old one's neck. A scream issued forth before falling flat as a chunk came free of his neck.

A'ishah almost fell there and then, her legs seemed to wobble and her world span. Never had she seen such a thing, she had heard tales of Kushites to the East who would prey on the dead but never the living. Never a friend in such a shocking and brutal display - "What devil has overtaken him!?" she cried out, almost forced to tears by the sight.

As if in response, the milky white eyes of the Saracen turned to face her. Fresh blood dripped from his teeth as he crawled over the twitching corpse of the older man. He rose, slowly - clumsily - as if his body were not his own. With jerky movements that would be a common sight in a leper the man came towards her. She wanted to run, but her body refused - so pale and drained of blood was she. A roar split the air, bringing A'ishah back to reality as the lone standing Saracen brought his scimitar down upon his friends arm. It broke free - a testemant to the blade - yet only served to force back the would-be-dead man. It cried its own gutteral chant and lunged for the Saracen, grappling with the blade that pushed it back.

A'ishah could only watch as the sword broke flesh again and again, without so much as slowing the target down. On and on it moved, until it had all but pinned the Saracen to the opposite wall. The Saracen screamed in fury, yet his scream was pleading for help. She moved, slowly at first before she remembered how to use her limbs, and came up behind the dead man. With a cry of fear she lunged a dagger into the back of the Demon's head. It continued for a scant second before stilling and falling free of the blade clutched tightly in A'ishah's hands.

Then, as the lone Saracen panted against the wall, she cried.

The Last Hour had come, the Angel Israfil had blown his calling horn and the dead had risen.

And she, along with the Unbelievers, had been left behind.

Her anguish rung out across the city, to join the the wailing Choir of the Damned.

It had been a long time since someone had made the entire road from it’s beginnings in Chang’an. Such a trip would probably have gone down in history… Unfortunately, it would seem as if written history would end quite soon, so what exactly was the point? Stood next to his horse, was Hao Sheng. His guandao was already in his free hand, the blade pointed towards the ground.

“Zuihou… yige chengshi.” Sheng breathed. The screams from the city could be heard at this distance, and he watched calmly. “Wei shi yi wan, yi jinggao tamen.” Whispered sadly, he shook his head and turned to the horse. “Zou ba, pengyou.”

Sheng climbed onto the horse and galloped into the city. Billowing behind him was a red cloak, covered in blood. It was torn at the edges. It was clear this guy had been fighting for some time, but he was at least in good condition. In the chaos, the city’s entrances had been left unguarded as people panicked helplessly as the dead rose around them. Instantly Sheng got to work. Though he knew he couldn’t save everyone. That would’ve been foolish; he at least wanted to give them a chance.

As he got onto a large street, he watched a family fending off some of the dead. The Song warrior charge in on his horse, and as soon as he was close enough, he delivered a swift sideways slash at the nearest walking corpse’s neck. It was enough to remove the head, and the corpse fell to the ground. “Likai! Kuai pao!” he shouted towards the people throwing his left hand away. Though they didn’t understand a word he said, they immediately turned and fled.

Sheng cut down another, before turning his horse and galloping away. He made various roar sounds, and made as much noise as possible in an effort to attract more of the dead his way. Sure enough a small crowd of dead was following him as he led them into a more open area.

Once he was there, Sheng got off his horse, and smacked it on the behind, making it rear and go galloping out of the city. He then turned to the crowd coming his way. It was a sight he’d seen many times, a sight he was prepared for. He stood with his halberd blade resting on the ground. He breathed out silently, before lifting the heavy weapon and charge. The ensuing battle was bloody. By the end of it, Sheng was surrounded by a bunch of headless or nearly headless bodies. He breathed out heavily, looking down at those he had felled. Before turning and jogging off.

It was around this point that he stumbled, almost quite literally, over a lone Ravi. Surprised, he looked down at the man before him, before turning to see the figures a bit away. “Rang ni de jiao, wo hui chuli zhe.” He said before walking towards the figures, guandao in hand.[/font]

Her eyes stung, and not from the fires that claimed the city around her (which seemed to have been left to burn untended) but rather from the salty tears that claimed her vision. The Saracen grabbed her roughly by the shoulder - he had thrown back the corpse and now stood behind her it seemed - and shook. A'ishah span about, cuffing the man harshly on his arm. "Don't touch me!" she shouted at him through her veil of tears. She sniffled, rubbed what clouded her vision and turned her anger back on the man. "Don't you see? The end is here, Al-Hakam has judged us unworthy of paradise - and for what!? What did you do that would make Him cast you out!"

The Saracen stumbled his words, clearly taken aback by her outburst. Doubt flashed across his features, mixing into his words that fell upon deaf ears. "Allah has not abandoned us, there must be another explaination." He trailed, looking down to the corpse of his comrade - and the fresher corpse of his older companion not far away, still in its own blood.

"Oh yes, the dead rise all the time don't they! La Illaha Ila Allah, and he has forsaken us! We have failed to fight the Christians from these Holiest of places and now they are the majority - now the heavens shall fall upon us and we shall be buried in hell!" She broke down again, her hands coming up to bury her face in their palms to muffle her sobs.

"Junood..." the Saracen started, reaching out a hand to comfort the woman. Suddenly his speed changed, and his comforting reach turned into a sharp shove to push A'ishah around. "Junood, look!"

At the end of this street lay a crossroads and at it stood a man. This man was a Templar. This man was their enemy. This man was the cause of all her anger. She would leave him to the dead he fought. "We should help him. He is in the same boat as we, perhaps he knows what happens here."

A'ishah looked startled at the Saracen's words, his eyes bore down as heavily upon the Knight as her own did, but they were impartial and not solid with vengeance like her own. She watched him race towards the Templar, scimitar and shield in hand to fight the gathering horde back. A'ishah paused, unsure of her own decision to leave the Templar - and now the Saracen - to the hungry hands of the grasping dead. She ground her teeth in anger at the decision forced upon her, using a hand to throw away what tears remained on her face she races after them. This time, however, she drew from her back the composite bow. She had a few arrows in a quiver, quite short for easy concealment and closer range combat. Light arrows, they could fly further but were unsuitable for piercing all but the lightest of armours.

One found itself soon lodged in the eye of a Merchant. These arrows were perfect for the weak spots, the crumpling body was proof of that. "Templique!" she called out in Latin, "Templier!" she repeated in French, "Templar!" she finally said in English. Surely he would know one of those - she chose English for her next words, shouting so as not to be muffled by the enraged dead. "This way! Quickly!" She instructed the Saracen, too, " شقيق ، بسرعة، التراجع !". She stood, feet planted firmly in the ground and released arrows upon those too close to the two warriors.

Arrows she knew she would regret having spent later upon these two.

She knew not where to go from there, but away from the Hordes seemed like the best option.

Sheng stood firm, watching the corpses in front of him. As they stumbled towards him, he kept still, allowing the man he’d stumbled across to get to his feet. Once the man was up, Sheng took a moment to glance in his direction before turning to his foes. Sheng quickly downed the nearest one as it got close with a diagonal slash across the neck. Withdrawing the blade from the neck, he kicked the corpse over onto its back.

It was then he glanced around to the man he was defending, though he saw him scrambling into the gap between the buildings. “Nǐ zài gànshénme? Gěi wǒ huílái!” He shouted at him. Within a few moments however, the man had come back, though Sheng wasn’t entirely sure why. The man was armed however, which was good. “Gōngjí tā de bózi shàng.” He ordered, patting his neck a little in an effort to make him understand, though given the man’s next attack it wasn’t understood. Sheng rolled his eyes and went after the remaining walking corpse. Using the pole on the guandao and holding it parallel to the ground, he thrust forward and pushed the corpse to the ground before swinging the blade down and beheading it. Sheng sighed a bit, before turning back to the man he rescued. He quickly unsheathed his sword, holding his guandao against the ground and then swung the sword at the corpse being stabbed. Though he knew it’d be quickly dealt with or at least disabled, it wouldn’t be long before they were overwhelmed if they remained in the alley for too long. He quickly began looking around for an escape route. Considering the man with him was unable to escape through the gaps between buildings that option was out. Their only options were to go out into the street, or sneak up onto the roves and then jump across the gaps. Thankfully the buildings were built up together, so they would at least have a route… the only problem would be to get back down again. He didn’t want to risk bringing his horse back any time soon either. He looked somewhat on edge as he assisted in taking down the last of the walking dead.

Perhaps it was best if they did go up onto the roves, at least for a short time. Once the corpse was dealt with, Sheng started moving towards a nearby staircase that led up onto a balcony. With the height they'd at least get a better view of the city and how much a threat they were going to be walking into. Not to mention it was a better place to defend. "Gēn wǒ lái!" Sheng said, patting his new 'friend' on the shoulder and beckoning him to follow. Soon he was moving up the steps and onto the balcony, and then he stood looking out into the street.

Aishah fell in alongside the Crusader as he took over their direction, content in his words that the Mount of Zion would bare them to a group who could secure them safety. Even if they were Templars. She could always slit their veins once this was all over.

"No, I have found none but this man and his company." she replied to the Templar as they ran, speaking the tongue he seemed to favour with her characteristic Persian lilt. It didn't surprise her she had found nobody else, everything had happened so fast. At once the world she had known had been torn asunder like the bodies they now fought off. Her kill had been quick, silent - even merciful. Everything had been going as it usually had, until it hadn't.

"Templar, perhaps we could find ai-" she was cut short by the sound that broke the air, cut the relative silence of the city like a sharp Khukuri across a goat's neck. To Aishah, it may as well been the Khukuri on her neck. The Horn. The Horn of Israfil.

Aishah stumbled to a halt around the corner that the Templar now shouted across. She was deaf to his noise, however, for her mind swam with fear. She turned to her Muslim companion and saw too in his features a mirror of his own, gaunt, white - fill of fear. Fear she had not seen break his strong resolve as he fought the creatures, but fear of the End Days. He began to speak, and his Arabic tongue came out harsh on his suddenly dry lips. "Al-Muta'ali comes for the world, Israfil's horn blows. We are dead here." Now, was his turn to break - and as the cry of Monsters came from nearby houses he fell to his knees.

She dropped with him, an arm falling upon his shoulder. Quite suddenly, she found herself feeling strong for the man and she responded with the Arabic speak. "No. No. Israfil's horn has blown, yet we still stand. 'And all that is in heavens and earth will be stunned and die except what Allah wills'. Allah will us live! Come! Stand, stand and fight Brother!"

And as she turned with a renewed vigour to release her arrows upon those few who had stumbled to face them, so to did the Saracen turn his blade to defend her. And she thought: Why then, does the Templar still stand.

Sheng was too busy staring across the city as someone called up to him. He glared silently, knowing there was a lot of death in the city, before sighing deeply. It wasn’t going well, but he gathered nothing was going to go well in this world anymore. Sadly, he turned and walked back to the stairs he had ascended. His companion was already down the stairs with another. For a few brief moments, Sheng stood at the top of the stairs looking down on the two. His companion named… Ra-Vi had pulled out a sword. Sheng’s eyebrow furrowed, was he insane? The way he was holding the sword, it was almost as if he was trying to sell it?

Quickly Sheng ran down the stairs and straight over to the man, before quickly chastising Ra-Vi, “Nǐ zài gànshénme?!” He then pointed to the corpses near their feet and shook his head fiercely. “Wǒmen yǒu gèng dà de shìqíng cāoxīn bǐ nǐ de cáifù! Bǎ tā fàng zài yībiān, wǒmen xūyào yídòng ba!” he continued almost glaring at him. He then turned back to his new armoured friend. Once his pole-arm was leaned against his shoulder, his expression softened. He then extended his arms out in front of him, placing his hands out, with one palm clasped on the back of his other hand, holding it up and bowing his head.

With a brief sigh, he spoke, “Wǒ wèi wǒ de péngyǒu dàoqiàn” He knew they couldn’t understand a word, but he spoke anyway. He looked between this new man, Ra-Vi for a moment, before tapping himself on the chest with a fist, and then patting Ra-Vi on his shoulder. He then pointing at his friend, as if to say they were with him. Hopefully he understood… but he doubted that would be the case. Unfortunately none of them had the time to learn each other’s language, so for now he’d follow the man. It was best to stick in numbers… unfortunately, those he had once trusted as brothers were long gone now. Many of them had followed him along the trading routes from his homelands. They had fallen one by one, sickness, hunger, thirst, or even succumbing to the dead. It was just him now, unfortunately.

((SKIP ME ALREADY!))