The captain ducked as the sword came swooping towards his head, it glanced of his helmet and did no damage. He wheezed as his burning lungs tried to inhale air. What few people realized, who weren't soldiers themselves, were that after a half minute of fighting you were already tired enough that it felt like you'd drop dead on the spot. But you couldn't slow down, cause then you'd really be dead. And this fight had already lasted for five minutes. The captain and his men had the element of suprise in the beginning of the battle, their suprise cavalry charge had shattered the enemy, who had expected to be the ones laying the ambush, they had never thought they'd be ambushed themselves. But the enemy had the advantage of numbers, and the captain and his men had been forced to dismount and fight on foot, they had not been able to turn and form a new line in the narrow mountain passage. One cavalry charge was all they had gotten. The captain hoped it would be enough.<br/>He took another blow on his shield, it made him stagger back. His foe, smelling victory, pressed on. It was the last mistake he'd ever make. The captain deflected his blow with his shield and impaled the heathen on his sword. Another foe charged at him, sword raised. Amateur. The captain headbutted him in the face, then took his head as he was blinded by the tears welling up in his eyes. The captain got a brief moment of peace, long enough for him to try to form a picture of the battle. He liked what he saw. He was winning. His men, better armed and better trained, pushed aside the Seljuk on all fronts. The Seljuk captain lay dead, they were seconds away from routing. One last push was all they needed...<br/><br/>In 1095 Pope Urban II had called for a massive new undetaking: To free the holy land and the lands of the eastern christians from muslim rule. It had been a response to a plea of help from Emperor Alexios I Komnenos of Byzantine, asking for western mercenaries to assist him in the fight against the Turks in Anatolia. The respons had been massive, resulting in something that was more a wholesale western migration than a military campaign. One year later, 100000 people led by the charismatic monk Peter the Hermit of Amiens had grown tired of waiting for the nobles and their armies to start the campaign, and marched themselves. Though their numbers were wast most were unskilled fighters, including women and children. Soon after setting foot in Seljuk territory they'd been massacred.<br/><br/>It was now late september of 1097, and the main armies of the knights and nobles who had set out to free the Holy Land was closing in on Antioch. They had won some major victories, but lately they had been harrased by Seljuk skirmishers striking at them from hiding, slowly eating away at their numbers and redusing morale. It was one of these skirmisher units the captain now had managed to corner...<br/><br/>When the first column of the army closed in on the narrow mountain pass they did so with great hesitation. They knew this would be an ideal place for an ambush, but what they found instead suprised them. A unit of eastern knights, bloodied but in good spirits, were piling the bodies of dead Seljuks by the side of the road. A young man, clad in the simple robes of a monk but still managing to look every bit as regal as a king, with fair hair and piercing blue eyes, rode up to the front of the column. He was followed by a number of older monks and some nuns, obviously his retinue, despite his young age.<br/>"Captain, what is the meaning of this?" he demanded. The captain removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was tall, with fair skin and dark hair and eyes, and with a regal beard.<br/>"This," he said, making a sweaping geasture to the bodies of his foes, "is what remains of the men who has hounded our every step for the last few weeks. We found them preparing an ambush for you, and made one of our own instead."<br/>The young monk, he did not even seem to be 20, stared at the captain in disbelief.<br/>"They have proved to be very ellusive up untill now, how did you manage to catch them?" The captain leaned against his sword, a confident smile on his face.<br/>"My men and I are quite at home with this type of terrain, we managed to lead our horses down a slope they obviously thought impossible to traverse on  horse."<br/>The monk nodded.<br/>"Very impressive, captain. I think we shall expect great things of you in the future." He spurred his horse on, and the army started moving again. The captain turned to his most trusted leiutenant.<br/>"Who was that then? He had a way about him..."<br/>"That," his leiutenant replied, "was Lucas the Pious. He was not even 16 years of age when he became head of his monastery. They say he is blessed by God, that he can perform miracles."<br/>The captain turned to look at the young monk in the distance.<br/>"Do they now..."<br/><br/>Lucas the Pious turned to one of the older brothers of his order, a servile old man who bowed and looked down as Lucas spoke, seemingly honored that he would even adress him.<br/>"Tell me about that captain we saw back there. He seemed a capable sort."<br/>"Indeed he is. He is from the mountain regions of eastern christianity. A prince they say, a prince of a small mountain kingdom." Lucas raised an eyebrow.<br/>"East christianity? I thought we had none left from those parts, not after Nicaea. Tell me, do you know his name?"<br/>"That I do, that I do. They call him Malachai, I believe. Malachai Strigori..."