Two hours later, on the Bohemer’s hill…
Quarrels plagued the day, and no sea could quench their flames. Noble officers engaged in feuds, substituting order with violence and disregarding the rule of military law. As the last wave of troops returned, they found their tents hardly full and their encampment soundless. Trudging towards shelter, their eyes became discoloured as they heard the names of more wounded becoming statistics in the ledgers of the deceased, piling onto the shoulders of surgeons who endlessly toiled away. Decorated soldiers were given the honour of burial, while their men who died with them were burnt in the heaps. The levies and volunteers did not even bother to desert when all they sought was rest under the sun, which began to fall. The shadows of the forest grew again.
A fiery lieutenant general slammed his hands on a table as he addressed his comrades atop the ridge where the Bohemer headquarters had relocated. “He is no warrior. We cannot allow him to take to the field again.” He swore that he would keep his promise even if he had no authority to do so.
A chuckle brought light to the party of officers who had gathered around as another lieutenant general emerged behind them with the stench of battle lingering on him. “You know how he is. One word is decision 'nough for him, and another’d change his course like a kite in the wind.” Žižka spoke, tossing his cigarette onto the ground as he hiked towards them.
A brigadier who was once confident that they could achieve victory was already steadily losing faith in even a stalemate at the rate they were suffering defeats. “If it weren’t for Skowroński, we might as well have thrown down our blades.” His immovable trust in his commander began to waver too.
From their vantage point overlooking the battlefield where their battery once stood, they watched as the enemy remained unscathed while their forces withdrew in disarray. Their sabres ploughed the field as they dragged their feet in retreat, and some looked up towards the hill, praying that they would not be ordered to fight again. An archer who hugged his silver bow looked out of place among the high command, being only a lancer. He lay atop the barrel of a broken field gun, exhausted from draining his Eifer, his legs dangling off the sides of the cannon and his head resting on his hand. Pinned to the moving clouds that ignored him as they sailed by, his eyes did not appear to care about the generals’ complaints, but he listened, knowing that no input from him could absolve his faults as he was tormented by self-blame.
Rolling the tip of his sword on the ground, the bitter lieutenant general shook his head. “The retreat was a fluke, and flukes do not happen twice.” He dismissed the efforts of his army in saving themselves, sensing that something was amiss, and turned his head to see that the Confederates were withdrawing as well. However, it was far too early for them to do so when victory was in their grasp. “But… I fear, before long, this army would have to rely on flukes—” His hands stilled, and he hesitated in saying what many dared not say aloud.
“Whose army would that be?” Another’s voice, disastrously familiar, suddenly disturbed the lieutenant general’s speech.
There was a long silence, and the lieutenant general was frozen in place when a man with boiling anger approached him, drawing the salutes of his men. The speaker who had riled up his troops dared not confront his commanding general until he passed by. When the lieutenant general saluted in cowardice, he immediately stood to attention and withdrew his sword. The general marched slowly, carrying a spear that barely kept him upright, as the weight of his bronze armour slowed him down. His attire was tattered and soiled, his white cape dragging through mud. Wet with blood, he glared at his advisors and approached his seat, which was a single wooden chair. A cup-bearer brought him wine, and he carefully placed the cup on the table beside the chair under an umbrella held up by a servant, but even the prospect of a drink could not keep his composure.
General Nikola unbuckled his chestplate and dropped it on the ground before moving on to the other pieces of his armour, which slumped off his body when their straps were released. “I take to the field, sword in hand, reins in the other.” He began calmly, telling his subordinates of his actions he had taken for the sake of his army, holding onto his helmet as he removed it from his head. “Yet, you lounge here, sulking, while I led my men out of hell only to return to such deviousness!” The furious general barked as he spun around and launched his helmet at the lieutenant general.
The bronze helmet struck the bitter man, ringing out before a bruise formed on his face as he stumbled back. Onlookers shuddered as the helmet rolled along the grass as his grip on his sword tensed, but he managed to check his temper even as blood pooled inside his mouth. However, it was far from the end of his commander’s tantrum.
Swinging his spear that cut into the table, anchoring the polearm in the wood, Nikola looked at his flinching troops and presented a question that everyone should have been able to answer, but he did so as a reminder of their predicament. “How many have we lost?” He watched as they lowered their heads, keeping their mouths shut like children being lectured. “One hundred thousand before a quarter of a year and before their corpses, you excuse their sacrifices!” Nikola raised his finger and pointed at all of his subordinates, accusing them of disrespecting those who had given their lives for nothing.
Growing paranoid of conspiracy, Nikola eventually retreated under the shade of his umbrella, but his eyes remained peeled on his subordinates. Feeling his wrath slowly subside, his lieutenants came to their commander’s side and prepared to deliver their reports and thoughts on the situation, but they were never given permission to speak. They stood around and watched him take his seat and sip on his wine, his quivering hand rattling the cup as he set it on the table again before leaning one arm on the table and holding onto his head, his entire body rising and falling at every troubled breath.
Having only noticed that he was being surrounded by comrades who were not idle as he accused them of being, he wrapped his hand around his cup and sighed. “Convene at sunrise.” Weakly, he uttered, taking another sip of wine. “I expect you all to bear your arms and colours, then.” The general issued his first command since returning from the battlefield, but it did not seem reasonable to his advisors, who had witnessed the effects of the Rus’s capable defence.
“General, would it not be wise to seek the counsel of—?” One of his most trusted brigadiers intervened, leaning in closer, hoping to convince him to consider delaying another fruitless attack.
The general placed his cup on the table and held up his hand, his brigadier withdrawing. “My mind is made.” Nikola responded stubbornly, slouching on his seat, as if he had become one with the chair. “Whence we failed, we must delay our offensive no longer.” He sounded certain that his next attempt at a counter-attack would succeed, but his aides knew that without the material, the reinforcements, or the general capable of doing so, it would crash and burn as it had done.
His brigadier clicked his heels and saluted him before retiring for the evening, followed by the general’s staff. Their conference was in shambles, with files still bound, documents unread, and words unheard. They were quickly reminded of previous defeats and how their general’s stubbornness could lead them to another if they did not act, but they could not bring themselves to betray him. The bitter lieutenant general looked back at the man one rank higher than him and spat out the blood that had pooled in his mouth. Disappointed that he had failed his comrades, the archer leapt off the gun’s barrel and prepared to return to his chambers when he sensed a band of troops hurrying towards the headquarters’ ridge rather than away from it. He stayed his ground, anticipating a development, waiting in the background as a lieutenant brushed by and his major paused when he noticed him. Troops filed in from behind him, wearing colours other than the Bohemer, drawing the attention of some who turned around curiously. The foreign troops halted before the general, who raised his head to meet the approaching lieutenant, tossing down his banner.
Nikola’s eyes unblurred, and he saw a young man standing before him, his outline glowing from the sun against his back. “Skowroński. I did not expect you to return so soon.” The general greeted him, although there was a hint of fury in his voice.
Shrugging, the lieutenant looked back at his former cadets and smirked as he recalled the unbelievable encounter he had with the Confederates. “The general’s more willin’ than anythin’.” Skowroński mentioned, but he did not tell the whole truth.
His name froze the general’s subordinates, who spun around in disbelief. Sure that they were his own, the major pushed past his allies and emerged from a crowd that had formed again. Alexandria stepped aside, and the lieutenant brought his soldiers and lancers before Nikola’s judging eyes, their defeated faces stripped of innocence, their blades rusted with death, and their hands stained with blood. The putrid stench of their clothes, drenched in mud, was no different from a stagnant swamp, but because they were wearing uniforms, the general knew right away that they were not his own and were the ones the lieutenant had been looking for. Nikola rose from his seat, dismissing his servants and cupbearer, with the brigadier marching beside him and his archer approaching what appeared to be a makeshift court.
“Major. I presume they are yours?” Nikola suddenly summoned him and asked for clarity, his sight pinned on the foreign troops.
Taking a step forward, Codrington gulped, swallowing the dread of punishment. “Yes, general!” The major responded loudly to hide his fear.
The general marched towards the five squad members who stood to attention despite their ailments, burdened by the fear of anyone apart from themselves, reflected in their eyes from hours spent alone in a sea of hostiles on the battlefield. “You reported seven missing in action, yet what remains of them would not have been found as quickly as they were unless they were never missing to begin with.” Nikola paced around the squad, assuming that two had met their demise, his unsteady hands rubbing behind his back as he turned to Codrington, contemplating what to do about these foreign youths.
“Two of ‘em are in the infirmary.” Skowroński corrected Nikola who could not care any less.
Nikola turned his attention back to Codrington, who was surrounded by an increasing number of officers and men as word spread throughout the camp about the trouble the foreign contingent had caused. “It disturbs me that a soldier of your century seemed to have known where they were, major.” He looked at Alexandria, who braced herself when he mentioned her, making another correct assumption. “I would not usually concern myself with a matter regarding the lower ranks, but this is a case of international import that I cannot ignore.” His gaze shifted to the major, appearing to have deduced what had happened on the battlefield.
The major’s eyes flickered between the the general and his troops, the former cadets of his former commander, still remaining disciplined. Codrington hesitated, as would any commander, but his answer would determine his fate also. “I… I was made aware of the situation the same instance you were, general. When we met on retreat?” It took a weight off his chest to say the truth but it seemed all the more likely he was cowering away at the thought of potentially subjecting himself to the same punishment Ascot had done for the sake of his men twenty years ago.
“Then you knew nothing?” Nikola swiftly replied, seeking finality to his judgement.
Codrington lowered his eyes, disappointed that he could not bring himself to tell a lie that might have saved his men. “Nothing.” The major reaffirmed his decision.
Nikola sighed, accepting his testimony, before pivoting around to his brigadier, who was awaiting his orders. He tipped his head, and his aide signalled his guardsmen to emerge from the crowd, which they had blended into. A captain of a dismounted cavalry squadron with a plumed helmet and the standard of a lion led his elite guards to grab the five and twisted their arms, placing them under arrest. Those who fought were thrown to the ground, and even the giant was eventually suppressed. Julien, who was last standing and unwilling to submit, fought against a guard and pushed against his hand that was pressing down on his head, and only when his legs were struck by a baton that almost fractured his bones did he fall to his knees with a yelp. Pressed against the grass, the squad had been apprehended, without means of escape, their weapons confiscated before the archer, who stood among the observers in awe and shock, having only seen those soldiers not much older than he was in the light of heroism. Despite her typically calm demeanour, Alexandria attempted to rush in to free her comrades, but an arm against her chest held her back.
In confusion, her lieutenant yelled at the general. “The fuck’s this?” Skowroński spotted the major stepping back in shame, and he scoffed, grasping what was to happen, and perhaps then did he begin to regret returning his former cadets to what he had mistaken as safety.
Nikola grabbed his spear by the end of its shaft and ripped it from his chair, knocking his cup of wine off the table as it rocked. “For crimes of insubordination, desertion, conspiracy, and treason against the Crown, the seven involved are to be executed at dawn.” He thrust his spear forward and pointed it at Julien, finding himself bearing the responsibility of leadership over his comrades before the general, who had disregarded all logic and acted as the sole judge and jury.
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