I have brought destruction and death to so many, Daoud thought. Now is the time to atone.
The company and the ground they defended grew steadily smaller as the sun sank toward the west side of the valley. Even knowing that every moment he fought was another infinitely precious moment of life, Daoud felt a leaden weariness that made him wish the battle might soon end.
He struck out with his nicked and blunted saif against yet another French knight, who seemed fresh and full of vigor while pain screamed in his own shoulders and his legs felt ready to give way under him. But there were no respites now. All Manfred's men still on their feet were fighting. All their horses were fled from the field or dead.
Daoud reminded himself that when this battle ended he would be dead, and he thrust upward with his saif to parry a longsword whose arc would have ended in his skull.
Manfred was swinging his sword beside him. By fighting, Daoud thought, they held off, not only their enemies, but the despair that he felt like a dark tide within him, and that he knew Manfred must feel too.
He wondered whether Lorenzo had gotten through to the Tartars and killed them. And if he had, would it make a difference?
A French knight with huge mustaches that disappeared under the sides of his helmet swung a battle axe, and the Muslim warrior standing next to Daoud was suddenly headless. A spray of blood splashed on Daoud.
He saw mounted knights pushing through the close-packed mass of shouting Frenchmen. One on his right wore a red-painted helmet and brandished a mace. On his left rode a knight whose helmet was adorned with some fantastic winged animal.
"Surrender!" the knight with the beast on his helmet shouted. "You have fought bravely. The battle is over. You will have good terms."
Daoud had just time to recognize the face under the helmet with a strange feeling of gladness, as if meeting an old friend.