The Purple Crown

Roussel I

The sunset's red-orange rays danced over the yellow late summer hills of Armenia, which rose on both sides, a vast plateau parted the mountains in between, opening the path to the travelers. The silk merchants, vary adventurers, and local herdsmen.

Small, scattered trees broke the yellow scenery at places with their green leaves. The leaves carried tints of yellow, and hung limp on their stems.

"Those are some thirsty looking trees if I've ever seen one," observed Adhemar, as he moved on his saddle.

"Them and us both," replied Sir Roussel de Boleil as he glanced at the dried-up stream bed they rode alongside. Last time they were here, they were riding the opposite direction, towards the sunrise, not the sunset. And back then, the stream was alive, though whimpering under the August heat. That was three weeks ago, and since then he only thing that rained upon this land was blood. Though that was the local's problem, not Roussel's, he was a sellsword, a foreigner from the west and then beyond. Men called Roussel's kin Normans, though if the old tales were to be believed, his kin were even strangers to Normandy once. His forefathers once lived in the cold dark lands of the North, and descended upon Frankia as savages and raiders. Though the savagery and the raiding had stopped after Roussel's kin had embraced Christ as their lord, the warrior blood remained. From Anglia to Tartaria, Normans sold their swords, killed, and got killed. Roussel had been doing the same in Roman lands for the last ten winters, selling his sword, killing, though he was yet to be killed.

When the Emperor of the Romans called for riders and sells words for his grand campaign in the east, Roussel was one of the first to report to the purple banners.

Him and his band had been sent to forage and raid deep into the enemy territory, as the emperor and the main army camped in Manzikert. For 2 days, Roussel and his men fell upon local villages, for 2 days they laid waste to the land, leaving a trace of ashes and bones behind them. Only on the third day they stumbled upon stragglers, deserters really. The battle was over, the Emperor was dead, the imperial army, destroyed by the Turks. None of Rousssel's Norman brothers were harmed. Now, that was some good luck for a mercenary. Losing was a part of the life, what mattered was knowing how to outlive a defeat. Roussel did not fool himself, it was not by skill he had lived to see 45 winters in his profession, but the blessing of the Lord.

A gust of wind found its way in between the mountains and grazed the travelers. Roussel saw his younger companion blew his warm breath into his cold hands. His cheeks had gone red with the cold. It wasn't even October yet, but the winter had already started to embrace the highlands. Especially at nights.

"Told you to pack your furs nephew," said Roussel as he wrapped himself tighter with his brown fur.

Roussel's nephew, Adhemar laughed.

"Now that's on me for trusting the Greeks with anything." They had left their extra weights with the main camp before setting out for the forward raid. Likely a Turkish horse lord was enjoying Adhemar's furs now.

"I was getting scorched by the heat two weeks ago and now I am freezing. Good lord, terrible land," Adhemar complained one last time.

There were 12 of them on the road. Roussel, his nephew Adhemar, another knight, Tancred of Caselle. They were accompanied by three squires, and then seven men at arms. All grizzled mercenaries, aside from the squires and his nephew. All well protected with chainmail armor and well armed. Some squires had complained about having to wear armor in friendly territory, but Roussel knew, there was nothing friendly about the aftermath of a defeat. Enemy raiders, opportunist bandits and brigands looking for easy pickings on wounded soldiers and the worst, deserters. That's why he had insisted on riding ahead of the main party. True, no smart brigand would dare attack 3000 armed men, but it was better to be safe than sorry.