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Although it was rather windless, a large cloud of dirt and sand had risen above the large, silver-shining, yet lazily crawling forth column. The many banners, attached to spears, pikes, halberds and lances, hung almost motionlessly, being disturbed from their slumber only from now and then when the levy, or knight, holding the banner tripped or quickened pace. The proud Mullendorian black griffin on a red field did not wave victoriously in the wind – it mournfully crept in the seldom surges which woke it from its sleep.

The formation of warriors, which, when studied by an experienced eye, seemed to consist of around three thousand men (three hundred of which on horseback), slowly made its way through the arid landscape, namely the outskirts of the Adjab desert. Far, far to the west lay the Sea of Sorrow (as the Mullendorians called it), while the Black Mountains lay on the northern horizon, visible even from here. There wouldn’t be any fertile or even partially fertile land for another hundred or more kilometers.

It was the late morning.

“Hush my dear, hush.” Rafiq al-Sariyah calmed his horse down, stroking its short fur on the neck. They all had stood there for a while now, all seven hundred horsemen, concealed from the tired eyes of the marching knights behind the dunes and elevations south from the column. Silently, they awaited the right moment.

Rafiq’s keffiyeh and robe moved lightly and freely in his slight movements. An impressive sight he was: he was well-built, yet not higher than most men; underneath his dense, black eyebrows shined two chestnut eyes, lively and free; his face was always imposing with its orderly, trimmed, yet dense beard and moustache.

All the awaiting horsemen were under the banner of the crescent, the flag of the Sajid. They all kept their slim, elegant scimitars in their sheaths and instead had prepared their composite, short bows, their quivers with arrows slung by their mounts’ sides.

“These men are exhausted,” Karif, one of Rafiq’s lieutenants, approached his Sharif. “They have been marching for three hours in the arid heat.” It was so – Lord Julian D’Arras was going back to his established stronghold in Krak des Sable after a hasty raiding campaign in the kingdom of Sajid, which involved the arson of two fortresses, seven merchant outposts and nine towns and villages. Homes, garrisons, bazaars, places of worships – all were treated with the same ferocity. The Sharif of Salfit was to strike back now. “If we attack, I fear this will be a massacre rather than a battle.”

“The dice have been thrown and the bent iron broke,” spoke Rafiq. “I can neither restore the broken ceasefire, nor can I resurrect the dead and rebuild the destroyed.”

“Sharif, it’s time,” Haddad rode down the dune, from where he overlooked the warriors of Lord D’Arras.

Rafiq al-Sariyah spurred his mount against the slope of the dune. “Yallaw,” one could hear being said amongst the warriors, who followed the Sharif to the top of the elevation. Everyone had an arrow ready, resting on the bow. “It’s time brothers,” some called, “This shall be for my burnt down olive trees!” Others called for blood, “My sister was victim of these barbarians!” Once they reached the peak of the hill, a slight gust of wind rushed, awakening the crescent banner of the Sajid. It must have been a fearful sight for the column of Mullendorian warriors, the horizon suddenly being full with the shades of foes, seeking revenge.

Shouts of alarm and surprise echoed from beyond. Men started running, others stood their ground. Others still marched forth, not realizing the great danger, not able to understand what was happening in the world around them, their minds softened by the sun’s torture.

 Confusion and fear cut deeper than swords.

“Sharif, half of them won’t make it back to Krak des Sables, the other half will be lucky to survive the exhaustion afterwards. The fate of these men is already written without our intervention.” Irfan, being a young and naïve warrior, spoke the truth.

“It is the fate of one man I seek now. If I do not thus respect the fallen and killed by this brigand, shame be upon my honour!” Al-Sariyah answered briskly. He then drew his slim, splendid scimitar and raised it above his head. He turned towards his followers, who now stood silent and ready, their eyes flashing with the vigor.

The column below, overstretched, with the fatigued following behind and the horsemen at the head of the formation, was vulnerable and defenseless. Some had regrouped, noticing the immense threat that was about to strike down. A cloud of dust rose above them as several horsemen rode backwards with shouts of command, struggling to form their troops into lines.

“Allahu Akbar!” Rafiq shouted, spurring his horse into gallop down the slope of the dune, closely followed by his warriors. It was as if a sea was pouring over from the peak downwards. They released their first volley of arrows, which made a strong flight high above, then arched beautifully in the air and flew downwards, upon the helms and heads of the Mullendorians. The ambushed barely had time to regain sense from their sullen march in the heat. What defensive line was made was poor, what shields were raised were little to protect from the volley. Shouts, yells and screams of agony replied to the archery. One knight tumbled in the sand, clutching his bleeding face, as if that would heal what the arrow did to his eye; another toppled down from his horse more from exhaustion rather from the arrow that stuck out from his shoulder.

A second volley followed, then a third, fourth, and so on, all done while the warriors of the Sajid flew down the slope, approaching the Mullendorians. By the time they were within twenty meters from the column, the knights’ formations, ranks, lines and troops suffered mass devastation. The arrows had split them into numerous minute groups, unable to defend themselves as a whole properly.

The horsemen of the Sajid cut through the column. Rafiq himself slashed with his blade downwards upon a poor levy, holding a long spear with the Mullendor banner. The shaft broke from the slash and sent the top flying off, with the flag waving wildly before it fell to the dirt and sand.

[ If someone finds this interesting, let me know so that I  shouldcontinue the story. By the way, for those who do not know, I used to be Ragnarr. ]

I was wondering how come a proper RP'er landed suddenly our of nowhere. It's good, so do continue.