The flight of Daoud's arrow was the signal for the red flags to go down. Two hundred arrows whistled across the rapidly narrowing gap between crusaders and Sons of the Falcon.
Daoud saw the man he had fired at throw his arms wide. His lance dropped as he leaned sideways from his saddle. He crashed to the ground and disappeared under the hooves of the horses behind his. His lance fell across the paths of the oncoming crusaders and another of the big war horses tripped over it, dumping its rider.
All along the crusaders' front, knights were spilling from their saddles, horses were falling, lances were flying.
Over a hundred years they have fought us, and they have never learned to use the bow from the saddle.
Many riders in the crusaders' front rank were still galloping toward them. And more in the rear ranks were dodging or leaping the fallen knights and horses. Daoud whipped a second arrow from the quiver hanging at his side, nocked it, and took quick aim.
His arrow went true again. He saw the targeted man fall. And the Sons of the Falcon were pouring volleys of arrows into the Franks. Every third crusader, in the front ranks at least, must be a dead man.
Daoud heard himself yelling in triumph. If they broke this first French charge, the rest of Manfred's army could sweep the field clear of the enemy.
The charge was slowing down, but it was still coming on.
"Split ranks! Pass them on either side!" Daoud called to Omar, who relayed the order to the flag men.
Daoud heard a sound like an earthquake behind him and looked around. The elite of the German knights, Manfred's Swabians, were galloping on in an arrowhead formation. If the French knights and their horses were big, the Swabians looked even bigger. He saw the nodding green plumes of Manfred's helmet at the very point of the wedge. The surcoats of knights and horses were ablaze with red and blue, orange and yellow.