The artillery had stopped, and there was peace among the reserves, going about their camp duties, cleaning out rifle barrels, polishing blades, and feeding mules and horses, despite the misery where the clouds were thick. Irregular gunfire rang out across the battlefield as swords screeched and fists clashed. Blood and fire painted a distant world in which every man sought only survival. However, among the slow and weary was one officer hurrying towards the headquarters, where his commanders were already exiting with plans for further action. The war waggons remained stationary, watching as the crowd thinned, when the artillery captain dashed into the open-air command centre, hoping to secure an audience with the general. Two spears crossed over and stopped him. The general sat slouched with his chin touching his neck, peeling his nails from his fingers. However, he would occasionally tilt his head up out of paranoia, at which point he noticed the captain standing outside, restless despite having become idle since his guns had turned into scrap parts. Sighing, the general slammed his hands on the table to get his guards’ attention, and with a wave of his hand, their spears retreated, allowing the captain to pass.
Straightening out his jacket, he hastily marched towards the end of the war table and halted sharply. “General, you must come.” The artillerist spoke in a mildly impatient tone, but he did not say what it was exactly that he hoped the general should see for himself.
Unsettled by the general’s gaze, the captain flinched, but the general remained tentative about moving from the comfort of his seat. Whatever it was, it was perhaps undeserving of his attention, but it could have been the break he needed to save himself from total disaster. He sighed again as he peeled off a hanging nail and stood up, taking his time to tuck in his chair while keeping a hand on the table as he followed its edge. The captain pivoted around to lead the general out of the headquarters, and the sight of his appearance startled his men, who were gossiping about their slacking commander mere minutes ago. They became curious and joined his pilgrimage wherever he went. Passing through the encampment until the hilltop meadow opened up to the general, who had forgotten the sight of clear skies, they swiftly made for the ridge where the captain had not minded to hide his failures. Reminded of the shortcomings of his battery, he paid no heed to the bodies of his crewmen crushed by shells and the steel and brass that had been mangled and scrapped as the surviving bombardiers sat by, indulging in cigarettes that they hoped would smoke out their recent memories. When their commanders came by, they hurriedly tossed out their smokes and stood to attention, but the captain assured them that they could be at ease before he brought the general to the ridge’s edge, where the scene, which they could then see, was almost unfathomable.
The general’s eyes widened in disbelief, and his core had been shaken by the surprise—a gift of the ages, moulded by his men, whom he abandoned to fend for his country. “My army… they’ve broken through…” The man named Adrien Nikola stared on and uttered speechlessly.
The artillery captain gestured with his head, which hooked his general’s sight on the miracle. “That is hardly the extent of what your army has achieved, sir.” He emphasised, which seemed to renew the general’s confidence.
The front had begun to curve from the brutishness of the League’s spearhead, which was much smaller and whose forces had penetrated and infiltrated the enemy’s flesh. The Confederate formation appeared to be collapsing, with no place to retreat. They could only stand their ground and fight as their headquarters drew dangerously close to the frontlines, and it appeared that the lion’s banners would inevitably fall. Inviting his aides to witness the tide change, the general’s shock was reflected in every soul that had thought the battle was lost until they saw it unfold and realised that miracles were possible. For once, they felt the favour of the heavens by their side, realising that their dream was born of desire.
“Gods…” Awestricken, only one word came to Nikola’s mind.
Crossing his arms, the captain glanced at the general, whose eyes remained fixed on the battlefield. “Forgive me, general, but the gods had no part in this victory.” Gazing outward at the spearhead led by the famed robber general and his foreign allies, he told the general what he should have known, “We did not fight our wars for nothing but in readiness for this great test—”
“T-The Rus are pulling back!” A corporal suddenly cried out, breaking the officers’ chatter.
The enemy lines snapped, but they did so calmly, as they organised themselves for a withdrawal. It was as expected of the lion’s men, who knew they could not afford any more losses, and they gave in to the League’s elation. The infantry wedge had driven a stake into the heart of the Rus’s army, and they appeared to be on their way to victory, an unexpected turn of events for the Bohemer as well as their adversary. Wondering what had caused such a stir among their officers, the reserves gathered around the ridge to see what had happened for themselves, and they soon discovered cause for celebration, hurling their cries into the air for their comrades who were still fighting bravely. The artillerist smirked, but the general was still not convinced. He could not help but think that they had been deceived by the Summer Lion, who had wanted him to be blinded by his brief success, but for reasons he did not yet understand. He saw faces filled with joy and cynicism, and the fog in his mind finally cleared when he realised what was about to happen. The lieutenant general’s army’s final ranks were ordered to advance and join the melee, but their flanks were completely open, leaving the fates of thirty thousand men in the merciless hands of the Rus, like a rock swallowed by a lake.
Searching for a messenger among mindless spectators, he snatched the corporal by his collar among those he could find and yelled at him. “Have those blasted fools withdraw at once!” Discomposed by his revelation, the general stunned his subordinates, but he had good reason to, for defeat seemed to have always been shadowing them from the beginning.
On the battlefield…
The army moved steadily forward, their feet digging into the ground and churning up the soil, transforming the field into a mud swamp. They cried out as their enemies were gradually felled, cut down, and trampled, the larger army being forced further into the forest as if without retreat as the League neared victory. The Confederates surrendered their land by paces, which may appear insignificant, but the force of such a minor foe composed of untrained levies and volunteers should not have been so capable. Even after the battle had been turned around, they remained calm, the voices of their sergeants and captains blending together as they began to shift the weight of their lines to their flanks. The bulk of the Bohemer army rushed through the only gap like rainwater seeping into a boulder’s crack, forcing the Rus to pull back as more troops arrived on the battlefield.
A squad of foreign soldiers, separated from their century, charged towards the enemy army alongside Žižka, whose prowess forged a path forward. A blade fell and cut into an enemy’s heart and spine, sparing him the opportunity to suffer, but his comrades did not show the same mercy. One danced among the corpses without regard for his safety, and a brute, his fists as steady as his blade, smiled as he smashed them into the faces of what he saw as prey. A giant beckoned fear with the pommel of his sabre, which crushed a dozen skulls in a single swing, and it was not accidental that the quiet had turned brutal as his dark hatred for the enemy grew. A proud soldier felt his true might when he discovered the ease of battle, whereas a girl born of a goddess and designed to wage war killed without hesitation. Only one boy’s blade had not been wetted, as he was still afraid of taking another’s life, but despite their training, strength had become their new enemy. Waning at every action, their blades dulled to the point where they needed to saw through flesh, and even the most enduring had given their all.
Hacking through bone, Gin stayed his ground and found his breath. “They keep comin’! It’s endless!” Seeing a challenger charging towards him, he swung his sabre in a frenzy and paralysed him with his fierce voice.
“Onwards! Let this day be ours!” Far ahead, the lieutenant general continued to rile his men.
The Bohemer army continued their desperate attack, while the squad fought as directed. However, they were unable to ignore the distracting noise from elsewhere that had broken their focus. The air rumbled and the ground began to shake, and the bellow became a quake. Their allies had also noticed it, as if the earth was about to open up and swallow them whole, and the spearhead was suddenly brought to a halt, not out of necessity, but out of curiosity.
Listening to the heavens, Julien looked up to the clouds that echoed the noise that began to dishearten him. “What is that sound…?” Fearfully, he muttered.
The squad halted and tensed their fists, drawing inward to defend their comrades, their keen ears also hearing the clamour coming from afar. On both their flanks, the sound of thunder rolled, and the drumming of footsteps mashed together, forming one answer that few managed to realise in time.
Arminius slackened his grip on his sabre, coated in blood, which dripped from the blade. “Cavalry…” Familiar with its deathly sound, he warned his comrades and allies.
The same warning began to be repeated among the Bohemer until it flustered the entire army, their hearts frozen with the realisation that disaster was unavoidable unless they had an immediate plan of defence or their own cavalry force to defend against the oncoming attack. The levies quickly wavered, their faces turning cold and their bodies still at the sight of the brewing dust clouds that closed upon them.
On the Bohemer’s hill…
The flicker of an ember’s light bounced around a warm tent, which was vast and luxurious, but its decor was modestly hidden by the chamber’s shadows. Incense was burnt to ward off evil spirits and safeguard the treasures that everyone needed and desired, from jugs of water and wine, which were always full, never empty, to the basket of bread and fruits on the fragrant honeywood table, but none appeared to have satisfied the resident’s appetite. The wool and silk on the ground were gentle on the feet, and the carpet, reminiscent of one’s homeland, was embroidered with golden flowers and wild forests that swirled and intertwined. In another corner of the tent, painted panels concealed a round wooden tub with bathwater from the previous night, with steps leading to a bed fit for a prince. Its blankets had been folded and tidied, and with little else to do, the boy who resided in this tent sat on his velvet couch, fiddling with the tip of an arrow in his hands, bored from playing the violin at his side. Despite his comfort and wealth, he showed no affection for any of it, with nothing else to satisfy his blood but battle alone. When the wind blew through the flapping tarps, a glint of natural light illuminated half of his face, as if nature was summoning him to battle. Unfortunately, the guards stationed at the entrance to his tent had consistently denied him exit for as long as he had been a member of this army, and his sulking eyes returned to the shine of the arrowhead that accompanied him.
“Lienz!” A booming voice suddenly called for him from afar.
The boy whipped around and froze in disbelief, but when he heard the man shout for him again, he realised it was not a dream. His eyes gleamed with delight, and he jumped up from his couch, spinning his arrow into his quiver on his hip as he ran for the light, snatching his bow from its stand and charging through the tent flaps to reveal a world he had been waiting to be set free in for far too long. When the light struck his face, he sharply halted, skidding along the ground, his boots tearing a track into the grass as his red, baroque-ornate half jacket flapped in the wind. The ends of his belts jangled as he excitedly stood under the sun, shielding his eyes which resembled embers with his gloved hand. Lowering his arm, the archer peered up to the clouds fleeting overhead that tinted his orange hair with a lighter shade. His face, like his expression, was boyish in appearance, yet nothing about this archer was telling of why he deserved such noble treatment. Acting unlike most boys belonging to the nobility, he had no care for gold or silver. It seemed his heart belonged on the battlefield, and whenever a smile befell him, it also brought gladness and hope to soldiers who walked by, greeting and sharing words of how their day had gone by. This was Lienz Károly, a name that radiated joy that every man needed in the face of hardship. He looked around for the one who had called for him, and as he approached the ridge where the voice came from, the crowd of curious soldiers and officers, having witnessed a spectacle turn into misery, dispersed in haste, revealing the general, who turned around to see Lienz. He motioned for him to come over, and the boy weaved through the troops, dashing towards him, his agility an advantage of his short stature.
When his hair surfaced from the sea of soldiers, the archer skipped over the scraps and bodies of field guns and artillerists and landed before the general, undisturbed by the sight of the gore littered around him. “General Nikola, got work?” Lienz greeted him cheerily without care of formalities, but the general seemed to have long accepted the lancer’s childish bluntness.
Nikola glanced at the boy and replied with gravity in his voice. “Unfortunately. Our comrades require your marksmanship.” The general pointed at the battlefield, telling of an issue that required an archer’s solution.
Lienz’s eyes were drawn towards the dust clouds encroaching on the robber general’s army, and his realisation of what needed to be done saw his smile of excitement turn into discontent. “What? Can’t I ever take to the field for once?” Bothered by another task, an excuse to keep him away from the frontlines, the archer begged for another order.
Even though he was the boy’s superior officer, Nikola apologetically lowered his head. “Your grandfather would have my head, and country, if I ever let you on the battlefield.” He explained in a way that the archer would understand, but it did little to soothe his frustration.
Lienz groaned and pouted, yet however annoyed he was, he spun around and took up his position on the ridge. “Fine…” Shedding a glance at the general, the boy gave a half-satisfied response.
Nikola stepped back and let his archer bring forth his silver-winged bow, which was taller than its master and decorated with white gold laurel leaves. Lienz took two arrows from his quiver and nocked the first on the bowstring, its tension bending the course of air. However, when the archer drew his arrow, he appeared to do so with little force. His aura burnt and transformed his blood into Eifer as he held the fletching by his scarred cheek and unwaveringly aimed his arrow at the cavalry, pivoting and adjusting his body. The archer carefully raised his bow until he was certain he would hit his target, when his eyes sharpened and his posture tensed. Taking a deep breath, a blaze erupted in his lungs, and as he released his arrow, it became coated in the same flames. The arrow took off and shook the ground as if it had been launched from a howitzer, with the tip flying through the low clouds and spinning into a vortex of light and flames. Black smoke trailed behind the arrow, eventually raining down on the Confederate cavalrymen, who peered up and felt a burst of heat sanding their faces. One unfortunate soul was struck on the shoulder, and before his final memories could form in his mind, his blood had turned to petroleum, igniting his body like a firecracker before exploding into a shower of sparks, each droplet which met the skin of his comrades reacted, setting them ablaze, erupting a wave of inferno that swept the earth with red tar. A great plume of black and amber smoke shot into the sky, and the earth shook. Before his creation of hell could cool, Lienz drew his second arrow and unleashed another world of damnation that aggravated the chaos. His enemies were charred and crushed by their own panicked horses, and few survived the attack as they crawled out of the thick smoke. Fleeing, the screams from within faded beneath the clapping of confused hooves, and the boy’s Eifer eventually boiled away in his own sweat. Steam escaped his mouth as his legs shook, and he fell to his knees, having seen his duty fulfilled, but the Confederates’ wounds quickly clotted through the gaps in the clouds. Another wave of cavalry rushed past their comrades, ignoring the fact that their formation had been mauled, and charged forth as quickly as their mounts would allow.
Upon seeing the ineffectiveness of even the archer’s power, Nikola sighed and muttered. “Our fates are to be toyed with by the gods after all.” The general turned his back on his doomed army, his fists clenched with another plan in mind.
The archer knelt on the ridge, helpless, his eyes turning to dismay as Rus sabres slashed into the backs of his allies. He suddenly felt the weight of thousands of lives rest on his shoulders, as the devastation he thought could have stopped the enemy was inflicted on his own allies, who fell rank by rank from the Confederate’s onslaught, which suffocated his hope.
As he retreated from the edge, Nikola frowned in anger when the footfalls of a young man halted before him. The general paused and reeled back in surprise, recognising not his face but the famed blades on his waist, his presence shocking him. “Apollo…” He uttered the name of a god, but the man standing before him was far from it.
Tapping his cigarette, the lieutenant, who he called Apollo, let its ember cool as the ends of his smoke turned into ash that fed the earth beneath him so that life may burgeon again.
In the midst of battle, again…
The earth rumbled and clouds descended as sabres fought for blood. The cavalry approached, and the infantry pushed back, their spirits shattered by the onslaught that they could not withstand, having chosen to abandon their hard-earned front and land that they had given so much for. Tumbling over their retreat, they embarrassingly clawed their way through their comrades to the rear, streaming out of the miraculously formed gap, which was quickly sealed by the enemy. The lion’s jaws sank into the devoted Bohemer, ending their moment of glory.
The lieutenant general continued to fight off the footmen who tried to dismount him as his attack came apart, and he noticed that everyone was looking to him to concede the battle. “Withdraw! Withdraw!” Žižka shouted, turning his steed around, before riding for safety.
It eased the army’s heart knowing that their general was saner than those who gave the order to charge, but they had already been humiliated. The advancing Rus, known for their defensive prowess, swept the rabble of Bohemer troops back, and the levies withdrew in disorder. The century’s numbers had dwindled to no more than a fifth of their original strength since the beginning of the melee, and their faces had already changed—grown old within a few hours, their eyes sapped of colour and their sabres dragging in the mud as they were being led by their major. However, one was convinced by his strength that he could fight on. He sailed his blade into the flesh of his enemies, and his attack appeared even more frenzied, having forgotten about everyone else beside him. The lightning in his eyes pierced the hearts of the Confederates, striking fear even in the shadows of men who slowly retreated away from the fiendish boy.
Unsure of why he would wish to stand his ground, a friend grabbed him by his shoulder and held him back. “Stayin’ here won’t do you any good.” Colt tried to reason with him.
Arminius spun around and smacked Colt’s hand away. “We are gifted, Colt! When else are we going to use it?” He bluntly asked his comrade.
Although he seemed entertained by his tenacity, the Easterner could not deny his friend the truth that they would not be able to do much with their numbers. “What would you have us do? There are two of us and tens of thousands of them.” Colt scoffed and retaliated with some sense.
The squad stood their ground beside Arminius, whose judgement they believed in most, but in that instance, they began to question their choice of leadership as the stubborn half-blood lancer began to show recklessness in the face of adversity.
Arminius marched up to Colt and looked into his eyes with fury and distraught at how the battle had turned out. “Then would you rather return defeated? Must we wait until we find another opportunity as good as this?” He dug into his former classmate’s pride, knowing that it was one thing that would stir his spirit.
“An opportunity to what?” Julien budged in, bringing composure to the argument, but even he could not water the fire searing in his friend’s heart.
“The head of a general.” The stubborn lancer turned to him and answered, luring his comrades in with something that they could not deny was an enticing reward if they succeeded, but how they would take it was another matter to consider.
Their allies began to trickle away, and the standards of the Confederate army rose over the waves, their cries growing nearer. The effort by the colonels of regiments to command their retreat wavered until the withdrawal simply became a swarm of men moving in one general direction. In time, the squad had become the rearguard, a buffer between their comrades’ swords and the enemy who stripped them away, but over the mountain of helms and hats, the banner of the Summer Lion came into sight. Its colours shone over the thousands it commanded, hazed by a mist of sweat and dust.
Arminius pointed it out for his comrades, pinning their eyes on the one thing that drove him in that battle alone. “Can’t you see? This battle can be won with one more death or thousands more.” Lacking reason in his words, it seemed his composure had worn thin, not being able to bear the sight of his comrades torn and hacked apart or the thoughts of what would happen to the people in the surrounding lands if they lost the battle.
A girl came in between Arminius and Colt and pushed the two away from each other, raising her sword and knife at their chests, threatening to end their quarrel in an instant. “You can entertain your desires, whatever they may be, but I am not dying here today for the sake of your dreams.” Alexandria bid her comrades good luck and glared at Colt, in whom she had hoped to find some commonality.
She lowered her blades and kept her gaze on the two lancers before joining the army’s currents, firmly believing that some battles were worth fighting another day. Thus, seven remained. As their allies passed by, some were selfless enough to encourage their retreat, but their words, like their bodies, were easily cut down by the varying thoughts that clouded their judgement. As time passed, the squad’s legs remained fixed to the ground, while the Rus’ faces became more defined. A whirlwind of conflicting ideas overwhelmed the squad’s typically calm demeanour as their desire for glory clashed with what seemed sensible in their minds. The game of patience in times of war was harsh, and many understood it. However, while they quarrelled, one of the few suffered no such traits, as if his decision was motivated by a single-direction hatred and unforgiveness.
Wiping down his blade with his sleeve, he chose to speak up then, however rare it was for him to do so. “You make a valid point, Reichner.” Arber approached Arminius and pledged his life to the action his leader chose to believe in. “I shall trust you in this.”
Scratching the back of his head, the other half-blood seemed hesitant to accept his input, yet he knew that it was impossible to fight a battle without some risks involved. “Why did it have to be now for when you speak, Arber?” Lev joked, but it appeared as if he finalised everyone else’s decisions.
Grunting and pacing about, the brute punched his temple and bounced his sword in his hand before letting out his answer also. “For fuck’s sake…” Gin joined his comrades even though his instincts were telling him to do otherwise.
Julien knew it was fate, and he could no longer question but believe in his friend. As he looked around, his comrades appeared to be more optimistic, and Miklós gave a gentle nod as well, leaving one lancer’s opinion in the air. Their allies had almost completely withdrawn, and the Rus were just a few ranks away, hacking through a forest of stragglers. The sight was frightening, but they knew that their futures could not be decided passively, especially the Easterner, who had previously opposed the idea.
“You better not fuckin’ run off.” Colt placed a finger on Arminius’s chest and warned him that he would have to endure his wrath if he did.
Twirling his sabre, he chose to lead their advance into the abyss, pushing aside his retreating allies who were unconcerned about the surreality they were witnessing as the seven chose to fight rather than withdraw. As Arminius took to the rearguard, protecting Julien in front of him, he set their attack’s pace against the beating of drums and the blaring of horns, ordering them to do otherwise. Thus, their foolish incursion began.
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