Drums beat, and the army quickened over the soft soil, the remnants of a meadow that had been transformed into a field veiled by a haze of death. Beyond the palisades, the century swept around the foot of the hill with rifles at arms and sabres on hips, staying attentive to their major, who had dismounted to lead his column. From unseeing and unknowing, as told to them as children, the scene evolved into a sight that made their eyes widen in awe. Stretching into the distance, ranks of regiments had stationed themselves, divided into three formations: the glorious vanguard, the core middle guard, and the decisive rear guard. Each body was separated by stakes and war waggons manned by gunners and their bronze hand cannons, laid out in the shape of a crescent under the gaze of the headquarters’ ridge. Thousands of colours flew, giving the impression that nothing could stop this army, if only that were the truth. The ranks were a mirage of strength, formed of homesick levies, prisoners and slave conscripts, and young, naive, and inexperienced volunteers, armed with cheap and rusting steel and rifles. Only some were wealthy enough to afford helmets and shields, and even then, they were barely a quarter battle-ready. Most confronted the battle in their everyday attire, appearing to be just a group of militiamen glued together. Even though a small patrol could be scared off by this sprawl of troops, it was unfortunate that the century’s youths were the most professionally trained among the tens of thousands deployed there, and they realised that they would not even dent their enemy’s lines when they saw what lay beneath the heavens ahead of them.
As the century ran down the middle ranks of the vanguard to fill in the army’s last gaps, they caught sight of the Confederate army standing a hundred paces away, with much of their force blending into the forest behind them. The exact number of Confederate soldiers was unknown, but the sight of the house of the gods, a church, on their side, protruding from the forest canopy, unsettled them. A sea of light engulfed the enemy, bathing their shining helmets and uniform hats. Their frontline was twice the length of the League’s. Even from afar, the League could see the Confederate commander, clad in gold and wearing a terrifying grin of confidence, daringly leading his troops and unafraid of violence, unlike their Bohemer general cowering away on his hill. However, the most frightening sight was the barrels positioned at intervals between the adversary’s regiments. There were too many field cannon batteries to count, each with thick cast-iron barrels capable of demolishing a wall with a few shots. The League’s only defence against the Confederates’ weapons was their flesh, and they falsely assumed that luck was on their side.
Blending himself into the body of a thousand-man regiment as his century formed up, the short soldier who was not easily worried seemed to have become waverable. “They’ve an arsenal and a half.” Arber stared at the artillery in the distance and counted their superior numbers.
“H-How’re we gonna fight that?” Lev stammered, looking around him to see that their allies had no weapons of the sort.
The idea that they, an army with little equipment to fight properly, would have to face off against a foe who appeared to have no flaws was almost suicidal. When Arminius looked behind him, he saw their guns on the north face of the headquarters hill, which made him even more nervous. There was half a battery, which could hardly compare to the dozens that the Confederates had fielded, and if it were not for the numbers, that would be their undoing; the Bohemer models were out of date as well. Suddenly, the sound of a rider galloping down the vanguard distracted him, and everyone turned their attention to the general who had come to the battlefield, donning a mantle of bravery that his compatriots lacked.
Reeling in his reins, the young lieutenant general raised his hand as he stood on his stirrups so that every regiment could see him. “Allski soldëri, ladsche! (All troops, load!)” He commanded, his voice booming with willpower and belief in the gods in his heart, hoping to ignite their forgotten fervour. “Zhiwesche nullski haweng fur de helly kanninnei wo komeli ëtsche mjei! (Give no sanctuary to the hounds of hell who have come to devour us all!)” He spoke in an ancient tone as if he were a servant of the gods.
The army began to load their rifles, a gift to those who enjoyed the sound of bolts being pulled back and slammed shut, as they unbuttoned their pouches, revealing to the foreign century a peculiar ammunition that they had not seen before. They were unlike the brass rounds that great powers preferred to field. Their cartridges instead were wrapped in a coat of paper. The levies loaded the powder and lead into the breech and locked their chambers. It was different, but the machine was evidently slackly made.
“Century, load!” Irritated by their inaction, Codrington reminded his troops.
Hurrying but in no panic, they fitted their bullets into their rifles’ chambers. The sound of their bolts being fixed faded when the steel breech doors behind them slammed shut. The chambers of the field guns were closed, and their artillerists stood aside at the ready, waiting for the lieutenant general’s order, but he seemed preoccupied by his army’s sluggish pace.
His anger ruined his handsome face as he impatiently shouted at his levies as if his voice would never break. He was an immature general, to say the least, and one would think that he was the spoilt brat of an estate lord, given that he was always dressed in vibrantly embroidered attire and a cap adorned with an exotic plume, but if his purpose in dressing this way was to reel in the interest of both enemies and allies, he had succeeded.
Gesturing with his head in the direction of the lieutenant general, Colt could bear his curiosity no longer. “Who’s that fella?” The Easterner asked, even though none of his comrades would have been able to answer him.
When none among them could provide an answer, a Bohemer soldier leaned in and offered to help. “Matyáš Žižka.” He said the name of the lieutenant general. “The boy’s half my age, but he’s done more for our country than I could ever hope to achieve.” Like a father, he seemed rather proud of being given the opportunity to introduce their commander to his allies.
The qualities of Žižka, who was only a few years older than the average of the century, may not appear noteworthy on the surface. However, when even a lowly soldier like the Bohemer saw the young man in this light, it indicated that it was true. But one was more preoccupied with fulfilling his order than caring about the attributes of a general.
Although the adrenaline had not yet reached him, Julien was already shaking as he attempted to load his round, which would either get stuck in his chamber or slip from his hand. When his comrades saw him struggle, they had no idea how to calm him down, so a friend’s hand wrapped around his wrist, allowing him to draw his bullet into the rifle’s breech.
As the last of his troops armed themselves, the lieutenant general faced the ridge and prepared to deliver an order. “Huewitseri! (Howitzers!)” Žižka transformed into a speaker when he addressed his battery, silencing the murmurs of his army.
The captain of the battery gave a firm nod and pivoted around to his bombardiers, marching behind each gun to check for faults, completing his task in less than a minute. “Ägtytengaviweski pakei fiweski peunti nort! (Eighty-five paces and five degrees north!)” With a single glance, he provided an estimation for his crew as he marched to the ridge’s edge and watched as his howitzers were being adjusted.
The guns were pushed into position before their elevation cranks were spun, raising their barrels ever so slightly to face the Confederates, who had begun to realign themselves in anticipation of the League’s volley. However, they acted unconcernedly. Looking down at the army at the foot of the hill, the captain spotted the lieutenant general unsheathing his sword and swinging it down, giving his artillerists their confirmation.
Cupping his hands over his ears, the captain turned to his men and gave the long-awaited command. “Schötsche! (Fire!)”
The artillerists firmly pulled on their lanyards and engaged the lever, which released the guns’ catch. The hammers pounded and ignited the charge, unleashing a wave of fire that made the levies flinch. As the case and projectile separated and were shot out, an inferno erupted from each barrel, producing flowers of ember and smoke from the muzzle. Six rounds whistled over the battlefield and burnt through the winds, leaving a trail of distorted air in their wake, taking only a quarter of a second to travel the distance. When they struck the ground, their fuses detonated, purging scores of squadrons. Žižka smirked at the sight, but he noticed that his enemies were not panicking, despite being clouded by smoke, and he realised he had been too naive to assume they would not be able to retaliate immediately.
Žižka looked over his shoulder and lifted his arm to cover his eyes from the blinding light that hurtled towards him. “Duensche—! (Down—!)” The lieutenant general warned his men, but it was too late.
Hot muzzle flashes and missile shrieks erupted from the clearing smoke, and Confederate shells pounded his lines. The attack was a hundredfold more devastating than what the League had unleashed, causing the earth to tremble as a storm ripped through the ranks. Shrapnel broke out like a death net, tearing apart tightly packed regiments. Left and right, in front, was only a wave of flesh being pulverised into a blood jam, as remains of bisected, decapitated, dismembered, and disembowelled bodies washed the earth in red. Some shells ricocheted from the ground and the hillside, slamming into half of the Bohemer battery, and within ten crazed seconds, every dreamy thought produced by the century that war was a place of heroics and desire had been mutilated by the horror.478Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfo96OgPe5s
On the Rus side of the battlefield…478Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡA8lpWkSpwd
The League seemed doomed after a single volley, but the army responsible did not cheer. They were not guilty of unleashing their disproportionate wrath on the weaker foe. Standing with his binoculars in hand, a Rus colonel scanned his enemy’s frontlines, which had collapsed in the centre and were being filled in by terrified levies. Their army was divided by the scars left by the cannons, with living corpses pleading for mercy as their drums continued to beat from the distant hill where half of their field guns had been reduced to piles of scrap metal. The Rus could not believe what they saw as the smoke cleared, revealing the Bohemer army standing firm, albeit shakily. Lowering his binoculars, the colonel stepped off the crate and returned to his general, noticing the wounded and dead abandoned in craters left by the half-dozen shots fired into their ranks. Their field guns cooled, and their breeches were opened to empty the searing shells before new rounds were loaded into them. After being readjusted, the howitzers were ready to fire again.
When the colonel turned around to address his commander and offered his binoculars, the imposing man held up his hand, needing no assistance to recognise the effects his cherished guns had wrought. “Hold fire.” The colonel general sounded surprised that he had to withhold the skirmish.
His subordinates repeated his command, ensuring their artillerists distanced themselves from their guns. The trees lived undisturbed, and the forest fell quiet, with the only disturbances coming from the distressed Bohemer, who struggled to keep themselves steady. Everything had halted, and the two forces were put into a standoff again, as if the Confederates were welcoming their enemies to challenge them in a direct exchange of fire.
Twiddling his moustache, the colonel pivoted around and grinned at the sight of their wavering prey. “Shall we reel our catch in?” He asked in a playful tone.
The colonel general gazed at the skies, which whispered to him what should be done, and determining that the heavens were just a haven of cowardly gods, he re-examined his strategy. Bringing up his hand, he reverberantly snapped his fingers, and his subordinates braced up before marching to rendezvous with their troops.
The officers quickly disbanded, shouting new orders down the frontlines. “Věnsets lїnÿa av brukt, prěkšoyau desmjtav saljs! Sažatavatěsau šautau ěk ěrjndja! (First line, advance by ten paces! Prepare to fire by rank!)” The same commands echoed in their mother tongue, the only language that their commoner soldiers understood.
Drummer boys and trumpeters marched and led the first line of their regiments out of the vanguard, positioning themselves before the artillery. The front rank kneeled with their rifles pointed at an angle like stakes, while the back ranks stood to attention. Their commander looked at his great army under his palm, which he could test on his prey that was too weak to retaliate. It felt as if he was swatting a fly fighting this battle, but he did not openly express the joy of knowing that this campaign was as good as over.
The man of thirty-two had an irritating air of arrogance, but he had reasons for his behaviour. His eyes were like amber embers, always looking down on those less than himself, misted with ash and roaring with fire. There was a straight scar that was cut along his jaw with a ravine of history from the countless battles he had seen since youth. Almost black, his hair was swept back to reveal his tanned, coarse skin, which stood out from his gold armour, exaggerating his already tremendous aura that covered him from neck to toe. The gold armour bore the emblem of a noble family and depicted a horseman riding on an untamed plain. Although his saintly house may have been unknown elsewhere, he represented a renowned people in the Rus. The Cossack was loyal only to the military and those he perceived to be greater, but in that moment it seemed to him that there was no one greater than himself, Leonid Vasilevsky.
Gripping the hilt of his shashka, he muttered under his breath. “A pity that even a ripple could sweep away so many.” The colonel general did not seem like he was mocking his enemy. Rather, it was his disappointment at the weakness of his foe that failed to satisfy him.
Vasilevsky strapped onto his arm a shield moulded in the shape of the sun whose flares were like knives and picked up his helmet that fitted his head as if the jaw of a lion was devouring his face, the canines of the creature holding his head in place. When his rich yellow plume began to flutter in the wind, he noticed an object whistling towards him. His instinct was awakened, and he slammed his shielded arm against the assailant that crashed to the ground. When he peered down, he saw a sizzling lead ball that was no regular-sized bullet. The potent force may not have dented his shield, but it left a bruise on his forearm. Glaring with murderous calmness, Vasilevsky found the man who dared provoke the Summer Lion mounted on his steed a hundred paces away.478Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIk4C8HPBcE
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