The Battle of Montgisard, 1177
Thirty-five centuries passed since the flood swept the world clean, and Galal’s exile had carried him across empires risen and fallen, through languages forgotten and reborn. Now his wandering had brought him here, to the Holy Land, where the faithful still clung to sacred ground, and where he could still serve as their unseen shield.
The sun hung heavy over the Judean plain, where two armies prepared to clash. One army was as vast as the sea; the other, a scattered host of Jerusalem’s knights. King Baldwin IV, frail and leprous, raised his trembling arm. He addressed his scattered forces with the vigor of a young, powerful knight. His voice cut through the heat like a drawn blade. “Men of Jerusalem! Fight not for yourselves, but for Christ and His city! Even the weakest hand can strike with heaven’s strength! Be fearless, my knights! Remain firm; let the glory be for our Lord and Savior.”
The heat over the land induced a desire for water to quench the thirst deep within the soldiers. But the king’s enthusiastic words made the knights roar, though fear lurked in their eyes. Galal, riding high on top of his bone-white steed, experienced a creep like a cold mist. His armor shimmered with a light unseen by mortals, his sword glowing with the fire of his oath. His gaze steadied on the mass of men and demons several hundred yards in front of them. He bowed his head and muttered under his breath, “Lord God. I ask you to steady these men to confront the forces in our midst. Guide our bodies through them, against them, and that we may be victorious. I ask for them, my Lord.”
Before he could finish his prayer, a Templar knight peered, desperation in his gaze. The knight asked in a bold voice, “Brother, I know not your order, but I’m not afraid near you. Who are you?”
Galal’s eyes flickered with a hint of sorrow before he spoke, the weight of unseen battles pressing on his shoulders. He glanced past the others, as if searching for threats only he could perceive. In a low, steady voice, he answered, “I am one who fights your same war. But the foes I see you cannot.” His fingers tightened around his reins; for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the line where dust, steel, and spirits converged. The surrounding air tightened, tension humming in the silence that followed, as his gaze lingered on the horizon haunted by visions invisible to mortal eyes.
Trumpets resounded through the arid air as horses advanced, their hooves shaking the desert terrain. Soldiers trailed, moving in formation and vocalizing their battle cry. Within seconds, the armies eliminated the distance between them, leading to a sudden clash of weaponry. The earth trembled under the force, while the enemy pressed forward, launching arrows that obscured the sunlight. Amidst the commotion, Galal noted the faint presence of spirits, their whispers audible above the chaos.
As the battle began outside the ancient city walls of Jerusalem, Saladin’s captains gathered beneath a sky bruised with twilight, looking out at the battlefield as their soldiers pushed forward. The hush among them was thick with anticipation and the taste of dust, sweat, and iron, the distant clamor of armies punctuating the uneasy silence.
Shadows seemed to coil around each captain’s feet, chilling the air. One captain’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the hilt of his scimitar; another’s breath quickened, eyes darting as if searching for threats beyond human sight. A demonic voice slithered through the ranks, oily, venomous. Its words sliced the tense air. “Break them. They are only a few.” The whisper coiled tighter. “Their God has turned His face away, abandoning them. Victory is yours!” The words hung, oppressive and electric, promising despair for their enemy and triumph for Saladin in the heartbeat before the clash.
A second, equally sinister voice echoed through the clamor of battle, mingling with the metallic clash of swords and the distant cries of wounded men. It soured the taste of dust on their tongues and prickled their skin with a feverish sensation. It rejoiced, “Jerusalem is already ash. Victory is yours! Retrieve this victory for your Sultan.” The ground trembled beneath their feet, and for an instant, the world felt suspended, charged with fear, confusion, and the weight of the looming defeat of their enemies. Their hearts pounded with eagerness for their presumed victory.
A shadowy, horned creature with obsidian antlers that curved like scythes above its skull lifted its snout and scented the air. Its nostrils flared as it recognized Galal as something more than human, otherworldly, and carrying the unmistakable scent of a divine being. The beast’s crimson eyes narrowed to slits, muscles bunching beneath its midnight-black hide as it launched itself forward, claws extended, and jaws unhinged to reveal rows of needle-sharp teeth.
With the fluid grace from millennia of warfare, Galal unsheathed his sword in a single motion, the blade singing as it cut through the air, trailing blue flames that cast eerie shadows across his emotionless face. The creature’s howl died in its throat as the enchanted steel cleaved through sinew, bone, and spirit, leaving nothing but dissolving wisps of darkness that scattered like ash in the wind.
To most knights’ mortal eyes, it seemed an enemy soldier fell to Galal’s expertise with the sword. A Hospitaler knight saw what happened, the blue hue surrounding the sword as the beast disintegrated before him. He gasped aloud, turning to Galal; fear crept into his gaze. He struggled, stuttered to get the words out as fear tightened its grip. “By God! Your sword strikes more than men! Who are you, man!”
Galal growled, “Stay close!” as he held his sword high. The dry-heat wind whipped around him and carried the scent of sweat and blood. “Stay steadfast! Their true weapons are fear and despair.” In the wake of his words, the surrounding warriors tightened their grip on their weapons, shoulders straightening as courage kindled in their eyes until shaking hands steadied and fear hardened into resolve.
A large demon appeared. An armored figure crowned with horns and cloaked in wings of smoke stood behind Saladin. The demon’s voice rumbled across the battlefield before it leaned closer to Galal, its next words a low whisper meant only for him: “You are Galal, one of the Exiled. My brothers told me stories of their encounters with you. I wondered when your sword would cross mine. You still fight for the God who shut His gates against you?”
Galal advanced, accompanied by the sound of metal striking and echoes reminiscent of fallen soldiers. The grit of sand bit at his face as he battled through a whirlwind of shadow and flame, his grip aching with the weight of destiny. He roared, “My oath binds me still!” A vow forged in the light before exile, sworn to defend the innocent against the tide of darkness. Every strike was defiance against oblivion; if he falls, the hope of salvation crumbles, and the world risks falling forever into the grasp of despair.
The demon lunged, its blade colliding with a burst of crimson and blue sparks that cast wild shadows over the sand. The creature snarled, its fetid breath hot on Galal’s cheek, jagged yellow teeth glistening as it taunted, “To what? To silence? To chains? You bleed for a king who will never call you home.”
Galal’s arm trembled as his strike faltered, the weight of the demon’s words pressing cold and heavy against his chest. His grip slackened on the hilt, slick with sweat and dust, and for a moment the world narrowed to the pulse in his ears and the raw ache swelling in his heart.
Memories surged, nights spent beneath indifferent stars, the faces of those he’d failed, prayers unheeded and drifting unanswered into the void. For a heartbeat, his faith felt as thin as the dust beneath his boots, and in that thinness, the demon pressed closer, sensing the crack in his resolve.
A hollowness gnawed at him, bitter and cold as exile. The sting of longing twisted deeper than any wound the demon could carve, a loneliness as vast as the sky above the battlefield. Was he fighting for something greater, or only to fill the silence clawing at his own soul? The blue flames licking along his blade flickered, dimming as doubt surged, while the harsh flavor of hot metal mingled with the iron taste of fear on his tongue.
Around him, the battle raged on, a pounding tide of hooves, the cries of men, the crackle of fire and shadow. And within that chaos, Galal stood wavering between defiance and despair; his soul shivered like a man balanced on a blade’s edge.
The words coiled from the shadows behind him, neither human nor spirit, an unsettling presence that made the air itself grow thin and strange. The voice slithered into his ear, sweet and poisonous, whispering, “Come with us, knight. No more living alone in exile, no more hiding in shame. Command your legions, rule our kingdoms. The mortals already worship men who conquer. Why not have them worship you?”
Galal staggered, his blade lowering an inch. An icy shiver raced down his spine, between where his wings once flowed, as the seductive promise tangled with the ache of longing and resentment inside him. For a moment, he saw himself not as exiled, but as a lord with banners bearing his name, men bowing in his presence, heaven’s silence replaced by the roar of adoration.
The temptation clawed at him, awakening old wounds and a bitter hope that surrendering might finally fill the emptiness exile had carved into his soul. Doubt and desire struggled within, and the battlefield seemed to shrink to a single question: would he forsake the oath that bound him, or yield to the promise of belonging at last?
The demon advanced, its whisper growing bolder, more insistent. “Make your choice, Galal! Serve our lord and be remembered, or face a lonely death here. If these sharp-eyed, grim-faced mortals discover your secret, they will destroy you.”
The air thickened with unspoken threats.
Galal’s hand trembled. Exile’s bitter wind roared within him, yet damnation and death did not frighten him most. He pictured them now, those he called brothers and sisters: Ioel, Angelica, Kyros, Anani, Auriel, and Jovias. Their eyes lit with hope or clouded with disappointment, their voices calling out to him in forgiveness or reproach, all pressed on his soul with unbearable weight. Would he lose even the memory of their kindness, their brotherhood, if he surrendered to the darkness? Or would he lose himself, become just another ghost in the shadow of his own longing?
The demon’s words echoed in his mind until Baldwin’s voice cut through, dragging Galal back to the present. A cry, fractured but fierce, rang above the chaos, “Deus vult!” The battlefield trembled with it.
In that moment, Galal’s senses crashed back, hooves pounding the earth, the clash of steel, the acrid tang of smoke and blood. The faith of desperate men rose like thunder around him, their courage a living tide rising to meet the darkness. And in their defiance, Galal glimpsed not kings or conquerors, but frail hearts clinging to hope, to something greater than themselves, for the love of their God.
His grip tightened around his sword. Tears burned his eyes as the faces of the lost flared in his memory, names and smiles he carried like scars. He roared, heard throughout the realm by demons, “Heaven may forget me, but I will not forsake the oath I swore before its throne!”
His blade pierced the demon’s chest. Light erupted, tearing its wings apart. The shadows shrieked and scattered, their whispers silenced. For a heartbeat, silence reigned where chaos had ruled. Then, as the light faded, uncertainty gripped Saladin.
Saladin faltered, confusion clouding his mind, and his vast host broke. By nightfall, the desert had swallowed the retreat of the once-mighty army. Bloodied and weary, the Hospitaler approached Galal, his face etched with awe and humility. “Brother,” he called gently, voice trembling with gratitude. “Today, heaven itself fought beside us. You saved us. You are special.** Unable to articulate the depth of his reverence, the Hospitaler bowed his head, not as one would before a king, but in the muted, genuine homage of a soul forever changed by another’s sacrifice.”
Galal met the knight’s gaze, searching for the solace he did not feel. “Heaven fights through those who still believe,” he answered, his voice low, almost breaking. “Even if it has forgotten me.”
He turned from the Hospitaler, his heart heavy with the unspoken burden of memory and longing. As he mounted his white stallion, Galal’s thoughts churned with bitter recollections of laughter lost, brotherhood denied, and the rift between the celestial being he was and the exile he had become. The battlefield’s triumph tasted of ash. He wondered, as the wind stung his face and the horizon blurred, whether choosing faith over power had preserved his soul or condemned him to loneliness. Each hoofbeat was a drum of self-doubt and echoes of promises kept at a cost no song would honor.
Clad in battered armor dulled by blood and shadow, Galal rode into the haze, carrying both victory and the raw ache of temptation denied. Behind him lay a field of broken steel and answered prayers; before him stretched a road where heaven was silent and his oath was not. He felt as though he had left not only the field behind, but a part of his hope as well.
Behind him, the world sighed. The crows picked at the fallen, their wings stirring up swirls of dust as if mourning the battlefield itself. Dust swirled and settled, muffling the distant cheers of Jerusalem’s knights. Some looked toward the empty path, sensing the absence of the nameless savior, but no words rose to name what was missing. The campfires flickered in the growing silence, their light burning low like the last embers of hope, and the lingering scent of iron and smoke became the perfume of both deliverance and loss.
The knights of Jerusalem rejoiced, praising Baldwin for the miracle at Montgisard. They would compose songs about the leper king’s triumph and God’s mercy in battle. But as darkness stretched over the fields and Galal’s silhouette dissolved into night, his story remained unspoken, a sacrifice made in shadows, a name already fading with the dusk.
Far from the campfires of the victors, Galal stood alone, cleaning his sword’s blade. The light dimmed from it, weary as the soul who wielded it. Dust, dried blood, and the battlefield’s long shadows dulled his once-gleaming armor. He paused, a silent prayer escaping his lips, as the wind whispered past, carrying the scent of iron and decay, and the faintest sounds of distant fighting. Would anyone recall the unseen enemies he vanquished, or would the wind erase his name? The ache of solitude pressed on his heart, echoing through him as the motifs of deliverance and loss mingled in the hush behind the battle.
The night pressed close, cold as forgotten prayers. Galal’s jaw clenched; pain throbbed beneath battered cheekbones. The stars above blinked, and the distant, mournful cry of a crow drifted from the ruins. Each sound seemed to echo in the hollow of his chest.
Then came the voices, distinct, haunted, unforgettable. “You saved them. How quaint,” sneered the first, voice oily and sharp, slithering through the silence like a blade drawn across glass. “They’ll sing their songs, but your name will not be part of the song. The dust will drink it down.”
The second whispered with the heavy cadence of a philosopher, words draped in sorrow: “You could have ruled, Galal. You could have shaped destiny, been the sunlight instead of its shadow. Yet you cling to your exile, for what? Regret tastes bitter, does it not?”
A third voice curled around him, almost gentle, if demons could feel such things. “Do you think heaven even noticed?” it murmured, the syllables soft as falling ash. “You bleed and sacrifice. You refused the crown offered by darkness, but your hands ache with longing. Will the Most High ever call your name again?”
Galal shivered, the cold not only in his flesh but deep within his spirit. His fingers bit into the hilt of his sword, knuckles blanching with the force of his will. He raised his eyes to the indifferent heavens, searching for comfort that never came. Each word from the shadows tugged at scars that ran deeper than any wound earned in battle.
“I fight because I must!” he rasped, voice thick with pain and defiance. “Because I swore it, and my memory demands it. That is enough!”
The whispers receded, but their echoes lingered in the chilled desert air. Galal stood battered by wind and doubt, teetering at the edge of despair and resolve, his heart a battlefield where faith and fear waged endless war.
Deep within him burned the memory of the demon’s promise. Though thinned, the temptation never broke; a thought’s noose tightened.
Jerusalem’s air was thick with incense and tinged with fear. Sunlight flickered over fragments of shattered armor strewn across the battered stone streets, casting long, wavering shadows where Galal walked.
The cries of wounded men drifted from the open arches of makeshift hospitals, blending with the distant ringing of church bells and the shuffle of hurried feet. The memory of clashing steel and brotherly shouts lingered in the back of Galal’s mind like phantoms already fading into a half-remembered dream.
He moved behind King Baldwin through the city’s uneasy hush, feeling the weight of each step reverberate through his battered body. A squire, patching a dented helmet by a doorway, glanced up and flinched, glancing away as Galal passed. Others shrank from his approach, their conversations stalling to uneasy silence or trailing off with muttered prayers. Even the street dogs steered a wide berth, as if sensing something unclean in his wake.
Galal clenched his fists until they ached, recalling the camaraderie that once surged through him in the heat of battle, a brotherhood now replaced by suspicion and avoidance. He wondered if he would always chill the surrounding air and whether his name, if spoken at all, would ever be free of dread.
“That one,” a childish voice hissed from behind a broken archway, the tone sharp as a drawn blade. “He is not like us. His eyes burn.”
The words cut deeper than any sword. Galal’s heart pounded as he realized the voices in his mind weren’t just his. Each sideways glance and each hurried step away chipped at his resolve, leaving him uncertain whether he belonged among these men at all. Who was he after the battle? A knight, an exile, a monster?
As he walked on, the city’s ancient stones pressed their cool indifference into his soles, and the memory of the demon’s promise flickered in his thoughts: legions at his command, no exile, no silence, no chains. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, searching for warmth in a city that had already forgotten his face, his sacrifice, his name.
That evening in his narrow chamber, the whispers returned, curling around Galal’s thoughts like smoke.
“See? They fear you. They sense what you are. One day, they will call you heretic, monster, outcast.” Another, more seductive voice slithered in.
“Come with us. Become one of us. Better to be a master of shadows than a servant of silence.”
A surge of conflicting emotions welled up in Galal: anger at their sinister persistence, sorrow for the trust he lost among his fellow knights, and a gnawing fear that the longer heaven stayed silent, the more their lies might sound like truth. He remembered the faces of friends who had fallen in battle; memories flickered behind his eyes. The ache of isolation pressed against his chest, mingling with the dread that he could become what they accused.
Galal slammed his sword into the earth; fire flared along the blade. The sword penetrated the ground and stood tall as it swayed from the impact. He roared into the night, “I am still a knight of the Most High! You will not have me!” His hands trembled, not from the cold but from the memory of those he had lost and the fear he might lose himself as well.
Darkness concealed silence, yet peace eluded. Though the voices faded, their shadows clung to him. Galal may have won on the field at Montgisard, but as he stared at his sword quivering in the earth, he knew the war within had only begun.
Months later…
A hush fell over the city as night deepened, broken only by the distant, muffled bells and the restless wind stirring dust along the stones. Above the rooftops, the sky blossomed with stars, silent witnesses to the troubled soul below. Galal stood alone in a moonlit courtyard, his breath misting in the chilly air, heart pounding with memories and unanswered prayers.
The night shimmered. A brilliant energy pulsed, charging the air and Galal’s heart. The ground beneath his boots vibrated, and a shaft of impossible light descended, folding the world in gold and silver radiance. Galal’s pulse thundered in his ears. The light was familiar, yet each time it arrived, awe and dread braided together inside him. He shut his eyes, recalling the first time the light had come for him on a battlefield strewn with the fallen, a moment that had split his life into before and after.
He kneeled, trembling, as the brilliance sculpted itself into a figure, wings unfurling, robes gleaming, the face both human and not. Astrid, the Archangel, stood before him, silence clinging to every line of him like a second mantle. Galal’s throat tightened; he dared not look at Astrid, only glimpsing the haloed contours and the way the air itself seemed to bend around him.
“Galal,” Astrid intoned, voice resonating like the toll of a cathedral bell. “Rise and behold me, knight of the Most High.”
Galal obeyed, hands shaking, the memory of past encounters flooding his mind with the feeling of being chosen, marked, and yet never quite at peace. He wondered, not for the first time, why the divine sought him out when so many worthier men had fallen.
Astrid’s gaze pierced through him, gentle yet unyielding. “I have summoned you again, not for what you have done, but for what you alone can bear. In the land that will be called Catalonia, a shadow will stir, and the fate of many will hinge upon the strength and resolve of the Seven. There, you will face tests of betrayal, temptation, and the burden of truth. You will arrive on the seventh day of the seventh month, in the year one thousand six hundred thirty-seven. When your heart is ready to see, the place will reveal itself to you.”
Galal’s heart raced; words tumbled deep within his mind. Why me? What awaits me in España?
He felt the old ache of isolation, the longing for brotherhood, and the weight of exile pressing upon him. “Am I strong enough?” he whispered.
Astrid stepped closer, light tightening around them like a cloak, wrapping Galal in warmth shot through with questions. The courtyard air thickened, with a faint smell of hot stone and iron. “Because you saw the darkness and turned away,” Astrid said, “because your scars glint in the dim light and you still lift your sword, they chose you. Let every scar stand as proof of where you did not break. But remember this: the forces that come for you will not fight as men do. You must distinguish truth from deception, the rasp of a whisper from the sharp edge of loyalty and betrayal. Many will question you; some will try to mislead you, their words slick and dangerous. Hold on to yourself.”
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of old incense and distant jasmine. Galal felt his sword grow heavy at his side, as if weighted with the promise and peril of the journey ahead. His mind spun with visions of friends lost, battles won, and the hiss of voices that haunted him in the night. He glanced upward, searching Astrid’s eyes for reassurance.
“What if I fail?” Galal murmured. Shame flickered across his features.
Astrid’s wings, vast as a storm cloud, unfurled, painting the courtyard in shifting shadows. His voice, a resonant chime, echoed. “Remember this,” he said, the storm’s scent thick in the air, “redemption lies in persistence, not perfection, even when you fall.”
The courtyard glowed; the pale stone seemed to absorb and then radiate a celestial light. A hushed silence hung in the air, broken only by the softest of breezes that brushed against skin, carrying the faintest hint of ozone. Galal’s senses sharpened. He felt every heartbeat like a drum in his chest, heard the stillness between the bells, tasted earth and distant myrrh on the air. He swayed, torn between terror and hope, feeling the pulse of destiny beneath his feet.
As Astrid’s form softened into the light, Galal reached out, longing to ask more, to question the cost, the road, the meaning. But words failed him. Only the angel’s last message remained.
“Go, Galal. Catalonia awaits, a vibrant tapestry of sun-drenched fields and shadowed mountains, where you and your brothers will stand together. The air there will be heavy with pine and damp earth, and when dread claws at your gut, remember, it means the war within you is still being fought, not lost.”
And then the light faded, leaving Galal in darkness. He stood for a long time, the angel’s words echoing in the silent air, each syllable a slight tremor that would not leave his bones, but he forced his breathing steady, focusing on Astrid’s words that lingered like a shield around his heart.
He reached for his armor, fingers brushing the cool metal, and slipped it on piece by piece. Each buckle fastened with growing resolve. With deliberate care, he tightened his belt; the leather creaked beneath his grip. His sword felt heavier as he lifted and slung it at his side. The weight was both a burden and a promise. Finally, Galal drew his helmet close, letting it rest for a moment in his hands as questions and hope warred within him. Only then did he place it upon his head, his senses sharp and alive, readying himself for what awaited.
His soul braced for the battles, seen and unseen, already gathering on the horizon.