He had survived the first attack. More were being pushed on by the remaining knights, arguments about what to do with the 4,000 soldiers left bounced back and forth by the men around one fire. Alexandre had been wrong. What he had thought to be an act of valour, bravery and greatness had turned into a bloodshed, leaving the fallen at every corner.
Alexandre was scared. His upper arm had been cut with a knife of one of the locals of the city. It was wrapped with the cloth ripped from a dead knight. He was partially greatfull all the peasants being forced to act as slaves had died along the road, for they had no need to see the blood and bodies pile up.
He had bee wrong about this being an act of bravery and greatness. It was an act of war and ruthless killing. He could have run but he would not do that to his family. If word got back to them about his cowardess then they would been shunned by the other peasants they worked and lived alongside. He had chosen to fight for this cause and he would stay until his last breath.