A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

”This is the only chance,” Salvar urged in a low voice. ”The night is our ally. Once the sun rises tomorrow, Duke Ruben will surely not let you go.” Vardan hesitated for a moment before ultimately deciding to leave. Although he didn’t fully trust Salvar, he also realized he had no other choice.

Although Vardan could already sense that something was off about Salvar, he had no time to worry about whether he had been bought by Eric or something else.

He had only one choice now: to leave this place at once.

All he could do was go along with Salvar’s plan.

Salvar seemed well-prepared. He claimed he was going to deal with the Attendant’s body and find a horse for Vardan so they could leave.

Night had fallen. The air in the Cilicia Mountains was thick with cold, damp mist. The only sounds were the howling of the wind through the valleys and the faint swaying of branches.

The castle where Vardan now stood was called Black Stone Castle. Under the moonlight, its walls looked heavy and grim, its sturdy black stones almost melting into the night.

In the valley below the fortress, soldiers’ campfires were scattered about, the flames dancing in the wind, outlining the faint shadows of the surrounding mountains.

Even in the dead of night, Duke Ruben’s army remained on high alert. A few sentries patrolled the valley below, their ears straining to catch any unusual sound.

Vardan stood at a window in a high tower of Black Stone Castle, gazing down at the familiar scene.

He knew the soldiers outside Black Stone Castle wouldn’t suspect him, Ruben’s trusted General. Duke Ruben never shared what was on his mind with his soldiers, including any news from the court.

To Duke Ruben, a proper soldier was one with an empty head, focused solely on fighting the Turkic People, not one concerned with trivial matters.

Because most of them were illiterate, short-sighted, and easily influenced.

Only during pre-battle speeches and at post-victory banquets would Duke Ruben share anything with them—and only what he deemed they needed to know.

The purpose of the war, the heroes of the war, the spoils of war.

To the common soldier, he was still the undefeated General of Cilicia, the pride and glory of the Armenians.

Vardan waited anxiously in the room. He had no idea what Salvar was up to, and it felt like an eternity before he finally returned.

Vardan didn’t reprimand him, however, as this was hardly the time.

He followed Salvar from the castle’s main tower and swiftly mounted his horse.

Using the excuse that he needed to personally inspect the patrols, Vardan dismissed the guards and left the castle.

Outside the castle, the soldiers in the camp were exhausted and resting. They paid no mind to Vardan riding out in the dead of night.

Amidst the silence, Vardan’s heart pounded like a drum as a thousand thoughts raced through his mind.

He was not adept at this sort of sneaking around, particularly when his objective was what amounted to betrayal.

He pulled on a black Cloak, gripped the hilt of his Sword, and slowly made his way to the edge of the camp. The night concealed his movements until he slipped past the sentry line and began his flight.

’Just a few days ago, he had struggled so hard to return, and had been so grateful for it.’

As Vardan quietly made his way down a muddy path through the valley, a great burst of light and a loud clamor suddenly erupted behind him.

He glanced back and saw a raging fire in the distance, right where Black Stone Castle stood. The flames were spreading rapidly.

Vardan’s heart clenched. He spurred his horse onward, but he soon realized the fire was no accident. Salvar, beside him, was perfectly composed, as if everything was going according to plan.

”That will draw Ruben’s attention,” Salvar said with a smile, ”and ensure we can escape safely.”

”Idiotic,” Vardan spat, grinding his teeth.

He lashed his Warhorse several times, forcing it to pick up Speed.

Sure enough, it wasn’t long before the urgent blast of horns echoed from the distance, followed by the thunder of hooves reverberating through the valley.

Duke Ruben’s army was on the move.

Just as Vardan had expected, Duke Ruben hadn’t been distracted by the fire for long. His pursuers had already regrouped and given chase.

Vardan’s mood plummeted.

He knew the army he himself had trained. They knew the terrain of these mountains like the back of their hands and were experts at hunting enemies in this environment.

He and Salvar sped along a narrow mountain path, their horses’ hooves kicking up loose stones. Any sound, however slight, could give them away.

The pursuing soldiers were closing in. The neighs of their horses and their angry shouts grew louder, cutting through the silence of the night.

Duke Ruben’s army swept forward like a flood, torchlight glinting off their Armor and weapons. Ruben’s banner, held high, snapped in the wind.

His anger and suspicion drove him to capture Vardan at all costs.

Yet in stark contrast to Vardan’s anxiety, Salvar was unnervingly calm, seemingly unconcerned by the prospect of being captured by Ruben.

Left with no alternative, Vardan continuously dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and lashed it with his whip, forcing the Warhorse to accelerate again and again.

Just as Vardan thought all was lost, a troop of dark figures emerged at the end of the valley. The Knights’ Armor glinted in the faint moonlight. They waited in silence. Their horses were already arranged in a tight battle formation, their Shields held neatly in front, their Lances aimed forward like a forest of deadly arrows.

It was an army of Norman Knights, led by none other than the Norman Count himself—Count Eric.

A wave of wild joy washed over Vardan, followed immediately by a profound sense of unease.

He realized he had become a pawn in a much larger conspiracy, one that was unfolding before his very eyes.

Duke Ruben’s army charged into the valley, completely unprepared and oblivious to the danger that lay ahead.

Just then, Eric gave the command. The Norman Knights erupted from their ambush like a whirlwind, their charge utterly unstoppable.

Caught completely off guard, Duke Ruben’s army was thrown into chaos by the sudden assault.

The Norman Knights’ Lances tore through the front rank of soldiers. The sheer force of the Warhorse charge shattered the formation of Ruben’s men, and chaos spread like wildfire.

Duke Ruben watched in horror as his men were cut down by the brutal charge, his heart igniting with a mixture of endless fury and despair.

Vardan stood to the side, witnessing it all, his heart a turmoil of emotions.

He had once been Duke Ruben’s most capable General, and now, he had betrayed his former Lord.

As the battle cries echoed louder through the night, Vardan realized his fate was now inextricably linked with the Norman Count. There was no turning back.

On the battlefield, now awash with firelight and blood, the banner of the Norman Knights began to rise over the valley. The Knights roared their war cries, Salvar laughed wildly, and Duke Ruben’s pursuers, routed and broken, were forced to retreat in despair.