On the Bohemer side of the battlefield…436Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB9XMIty2tV
The warhorse jittered from the blast that nearly ripped off its ears and mane under the barrel of a hand cannon aimed at its foe. It was welded into a shaft and lacked a physical trigger, requiring Eifer to fire. The scent of gunpowder rushed away as the lieutenant general brandished a smirk, having sensed the Confederate general’s rage turning towards him. Žižka’s soldiers mistook his childish laughter for madness, but he calmed himself as his aide-de-camp handed him another lead ball wrapped in paper, which he shoved into the barrel of his gun and primed with the Eifer at the tip of his fingers.
The lieutenant general aimed his barrel at the Confederate general again and locked him in his sight. “I’ll show you to the gates of hell!” His voice thundered across the battlefield, and his smile fell into anger.
His soldiers rose from heaps of dead. The steaming whiff of raw flesh was a thousand times more pungent than that of a butcher’s. The mildly wounded stood on their feet, and their grips on their rifles tensed upon hearing their fury echo within their general, insulting his enemies, which seemed to draw the ire from the depths of their souls. With cries and cheers, the morale of the Bohemer army suddenly soared, and those once fearing were soaked in adrenaline as every breath plunged them deeper into the waters of rage. Many who could not find such emotions in their hearts were removed from their wreck of nervousness, and only a few among the century remained trembling in fear, having seen their comrades melted away by the howitzers. Some who could not stomach the sight turned their insides out as Arminius, who had fallen from the force of the cannons, lifted himself up from the face of death. Realising that his comrade was missing, he searched around for any signs of him until he spotted someone’s disturbingly similar blonde hair lying among lifeless bodies. Arminius dropped to his knees and dug, clawing away the mud and flesh before he let out a sigh when he saw Julien’s face, just barely, having nearly been suffocated. He lay there with a blank mind, not knowing what had happened. He coughed, his body covered in the blood and organs of comrades and allies, and his eyes began to water when another comrade marched towards him and suddenly lifted him up by his arm.
Helping the blonde-haired lancer onto his feet, their comrade brute searched among the flesh for his rifle and picked one up for Julien to hold onto. “C’mon, now! Shakin’d do ya no good!” Gin patted his back to reassure him and smacked the bloodied bits away from the lancer’s face, not that it would make a difference to the stench, before returning to his formation.
Julien looked to Arminius for guidance. However, he realised that not even his friend had experienced such wrath before, which left him speechless. Arminius, sorry for dragging him into war because of his selfishness, pushed Julien behind him and laid his rifle on his shoulder, but no time was given for them to dry their eyes and clothe themselves in fearlessness. Regiment commanders were already shouting out the orders of the lieutenant general, aiming their rifles at the Rus, hoping that they would have a chance to fire even one round before the enemy would return the favour.
Their commander anticipated the next move that would inevitably come after the artillery skirmish, and his steed whinnied, sensing that the second part of the battle would soon commence. “Heavens, may you grant us strength!” Žižka pointed his cannon at the sky and prayed, looking to his flanks to confirm that his lines were ready. “Wiltski schötsche! (Fire at will!)” The lieutenant general swung down his cannon and commanded his thousands to unleash their fury.
They pulled their triggers, and the rifle’s spring struck the hammer’s needle into the cartridge, producing a volley like diverging streams, with no single, disciplined direction. The rounds vanished into the resulting haze, veiling the faces of their enemy, whom they sought to destroy. The men were stubbornly convinced that they were succeeding, and they continued to draw back their bolts and load their second cartridges in a race to empty their ammunition pouches when a row of flashes jolted them awake and waves of rounds mowed them down. The tides of lead sliced through the Bohemer like a glaive, prompting reinforcements to rush into the gaps in the lines, where they also met their demise. However, they never gave up. They believed the same was happening to those across the battlefield. A column of bullets narrowly missed Žižka, who remained steady on his mount and unleashed an Eifer that rocked the earth. His rounds pierced the haze, allowing him to watch his opponents vanish from existence.
The battlefield, which had devolved into an abyss of devastation, was obscured by clouds of gunpowder ash, forming walls of an oven that heated their blood. Holes were bored into bodies, and allies were slaughtered by the hundreds, if not thousands. Unsure of what else they could do to repel the Confederate attack, the century launched a frantic round of rapid fire, attempting to make up for their losses, but their hopes were dashed by the more numerous enemy. The youths of the century were struck and felled left and right, and those who survived begged for help from their comrades, whom they had known for two years. Arminius unhesitatingly lowered his rifle and reached down to one of the injured, but a hand stopped him.
“Sekiya.” A friend called his name with a tone more serious than usual.
When Arminius looked over his shoulder, he saw that Colt was shaking his head, urging him not to give any help, the embers in his eyes telling him why. Understanding that he must fight on, Arminius righted himself and turned around with regret as Colt’s hand let go of him. The gunfire soon slowed as the vanguard were depleted of their twenty rounds each, with many wasted, soiled, and wetted when the carrier fell, and the second skirmish was no more.
Around the lieutenant general, his troops stood still, soaking up bullets like a sponge as their enemy spewed fire. “Haltsche! (Hold!)” Sensing that his soldiers would only be waiting for death if he did not act, Žižka held up his cannon and cried out.
A quiet overcame the final volley, but it was curious to see that the enemy had done the same even if they may have been better equipped for a longer exchange, and Žižka could not help but wonder if his enemies were mocking him. The grey fog began to clear up in the wind, and the blue skies became tinted with flame-like orange. As their officers enjoyed the safety of the high ground, the levies were flushed in pain, sweat, and tears, their strength having been exhausted as they came into formation again, thanking the gods that they had seen the light of life. But only the dead see the end of war. Neither army knew what was to follow while their generals gazed off into the distance, waiting for the air to clear. Their rifles remained pointed at the enemy, still unbroken in spirit. However, foolishly, the Bohemer’s drums began to beat again, later accompanied by a horn that signalled the madness high command intended to pursue.
Appalled by their decision, frustration welled inside Žižka, who peered up at the hill where a party of junior generals had gathered. “Fools, the fuckers.” The lieutenant general withdrew his hand cannon and passed it onto his subordinate, who struggled to hold it up. “Seurdi, ötsche! (Blades, unsheathe!)” He reluctantly commanded, bearing his sabre, as signal flags were being waved on the hill.
Punching his temple, he was ready to mount the hill and take his commanders’ heads, but more frustrated were his soldiers, who had to listen to their new orders. Panic started to befall them as their captains and sergeants yelled at them to steel their resolve. Slinging their rifles onto their backs, they trembled as they drew their swords, ringing as their blades were being taken out of their sheaths. Many had never fought in melee before, much less one that would involve tens of thousands of men, and when the enemy slowly came into view again behind the dispersing smoke, they felt their hearts drop at the sight of the disciplined foe.
Žižka pointed his sword at the Confederate general, who was standing among his men shifting into a defensive position. “Fortyward! (Advance!)” He pressed onwards, following the beat of the drums as he cursed his generals under his breath.
Arminius drew his sabre, its blade dull under the sunless sky, ensuring that Julien was behind him as their regiment moved forward. The blonde-haired lancer caught his breath after witnessing Arminius’s fortitude and the fearless expressions of his companions, but he realised that the squad he had trained with shared his dread. Nevertheless, they marched on with conviction, not for something as complex as peace, but simply to survive this battle. Julien then asked himself why he should be afraid when his comrades were not, and it quickly became his reason to forget his fears as they approached the enemy lines.
The smog thinned, and the Confederate army came into clear view. Their rifles were aimed at the League, and it took no longer than a second to discharge. Bullets pelted and ripped through the advancing forces like a blade on a sandbag, and the levies were spurred on by the memories of their lives prior to the war as they continued their suicide. They were halfway across the field, and there was halfway to go in no man’s land. The lieutenant general lashed his reins and kicked his steed into a trot as his loyal soldiers started to jog beside him. Ushering a war cry, the thunderous march rolled into a charge. The Rus slung their rifles onto their shoulders and bore their sabres as regiment upon regiment revealed themselves out of the treeline, forming a great wall of steel. At twenty paces, Žižka spurred his horse into a gallop, and his Eifer glowed in the steel of his sabre. At ten paces, the features of the opposing soldiers came into view, and the Rus braced themselves against the crazed Bohemer rushing towards them. The smoke had entirely cleared out, and at a one-pace distance, the edges of steel met. Swords pierced and slashed, and outlying gunshots rang out and bodies collapsed. Their corpses tripped the following troops, whose faces were sprayed with blood before meeting their demise.
A dozen paces ahead of his lancers, Codrington let out a cry and charged as the rest of his century followed him mindlessly into the fray, but Arminius slowed down. Seeing his hesitation, his comrades also came to a stop. The seven stood like a boulder in a stream as troops avoided and bumped past them. Everyone turned their attention to Arminius, but they were uncertain about the reason for his pause.
In a state of confusion, Lev looked back and forth before approaching Arminius and staring at him. “What?” He asked, wondering what it was he had spotted or realised that halted him.
A petal of a daisy had been trampled beneath him, and the other half-blood lowered his head in contemplation despite it not being the best of times to hesitate, and only when he raised his head did his oldest friend know what he desired from the glimmer in his eyes. “Do you trust me?” Arminius returned them a question of his own.
Arber and Alexandria formed a perimeter around their allies, while Miklós guarded the central vanguard. Lev and Gin drew inward, eager to understand his brilliant plan. Julien, always under protection, protected himself from the troubles of battle, keeping a vigilant watch on the frontlines in case they shifted. Chuckling as he walked closer to the front lines, tapping the ground with the tip of his sabre before he stabbed its blade into the earth, the Easterner turned to Arminius with a smirk and held out his hands cusped like a platform for him to stand on. Arminius glanced at Julien, who carried an expression of concern, but before the blonde-haired lancer could utter even one sound of disagreement, his friend dashed off, escaping the hands of his comrades who tried to catch him, but his sudden movement managed to throw him from their grasp. Stepping onto Colt’s hands, Arminius braced himself, and with a burst of strength, he shot into the sky, over the heads of soldiers. Priming his sabre, he aimed his blade at his chosen prey, and a bolt of lightning snapped across his eyes. Swiftly, Arminius made his landing and spun around with a cloak of dust between him and the Rus, who were startled and stumbling backward. A footman who had heard a disturbance land behind him turned his head, sensing that somehow, the enemy was behind him, but before he found out who the infiltrator was, blackness severed his sight. His head felt alleviated, and he stared at the spinning world, separated from his neck with a clean, swift strike. He suffered no pain, and only after death did his blood gush out like a fountain as his comrades were thrown into a frenzy, charging at the lancer. Blades and gun barrels aimed at him, but in the lead of his squadron, a corporal felt the sharp end of steel pierce his neck with its edge running down his back. The weight of the attacker dislodged his sabre and tore the corporal’s head from his spine. From the heavens, landing on the two beheaded bodies, Colt grinned maniacally as his lust for blood came to light, his back against Arminius between enemy lines. They had two hundred thousand more to bury, and that was their only thought then, a thought that would only exist in children of fiends. One turned his blade toward the throats of circling troops, eager to dance to a warrior’s song, as another opened his defence to lure the thoughtless men into overreaching themselves with the guilt of a killer of necessity.436Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8wiQaiT1np
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