At the northern gates of the encampment, an hour later…430Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNxoALfuogg
The sun had risen, but he did not bless those who fought beneath him. Bodies were deconstructed into fluid flesh that leaked into the river, filling it with blood from the bed to the surface. Screams of fear and smirks of rage depicted the army, less able, armoured, and armed, once thought to be mere peasants fighting for survival, but they sent their prey fleeing in terror at the sight of their pitchforks and spears, hammers, and dulled sickles. Makeshift shields and waggon walls cordoned off the battlefield, which became a maze, and a Confederate corps became trapped by two forces until they were funnelled into a field of death. Riflemen and archers emerged from the battlements, which were wooden but thick and reinforced with scrap metal and stakes, and unleashed volleys and hails of bullets and arrows on the Rus, who formed a line of gunmen and returned panicked fire. Projectiles flew over the defenders’ heads and were absorbed by the palisades, with few hitting their target. By the time they realised their lead had been squandered, their enemies had already retreated to the safety of the fort. In chaos, the Confederates banded together and attacked again, only to suffer more defeats. Throughout the three mornings since their clash, the cycle of battle has not stopped. Each day began with thousands of deaths and three times as many wounded, but the Rus were confident that they were grinding away at the enemy’s skin. The lion persisted in his strategy, committing to a battle of attrition, knowing that the besieged would eventually relent and victory would come within sight.
This dilemma was contemplated by a man of noble status at the head of a detachment which had been entrusted to him, lining the main street which ran through the village of houses repurposed into officers’ quarters and field clinics. The colours of the white eagle flew above soldiers aiding soldiers, strapping on their simple helms and unsheathing their blades for prayer. They awaited their commander’s orders, but it was not yet the right time. His arms crossed, the man stood before a gate manned by a number of brave troops giving constant fire. The wounded were dragged down from the walls, and more would fill their gaps. However, the enemy made progress in tedious fashion. Their sappers were soon upon the encampment’s perimeter, and one breach was enough to end the battle. Before he considered the possibility of a complete disaster, the final pieces to his preparation arrived.
“Colonel, what’re you doing here?” Spotting him out of his usual post, Károly called out for him, ahead of his comrades, jogging around the column of men with a bow and a quiver in his hands.
When the colonel heard footsteps approaching him, he turned around to see a squad emerge, each armed with a rifle and a sword, luxuries few could afford in the old man’s army. They were, however, still dressed in Commonwealth colours, standing out among those who did not wear uniforms, who stared at the eight forming up beside Károly. Their heels clicked together, and they saluted the colonel, but the archer stood back awkwardly, as if, even as a corporal, he had never properly addressed his superiors before. Károly retreated and joined their ranks, believing he should learn from the example of those he admired, and gave the colonel a salute he had nearly forgotten.
Florian nodded and answered them. “Our legates are scarce. Generals, scarcer. So, this duty has befallen unto this lowly colonel.” He looked up, fixing his gaze on the ridge overlooking the village with an expression of uncertainty. However, he remained faithful to his commander’s decision.
First to lower his salute, which his squad duly followed, the corporal tilted his head to one side. “I thought you’d be with Grand—I mean, the general.” Károly quickly corrected himself.
The colonel’s gaze stayed undisturbed as his hands withdrew behind his back. “Skowroński commands his bodyguards, and I must trust him to perform his duty without incident.” Even if he was unsure of entrusting this crucial role to his new subordinate, he forced himself to believe that all will fare well.
Wondering what had caught his eye, the squad looked over their shoulders to the tree graveyard that lined the ridge where they had camped for three nights. The army’s banners were regularly chained to the ground, encircling the headquarters, whose troops patrolled the paths around it, and its officers remained few. A cone-shaped tower made of firewood and twigs had been erected beside the elderly general, who had one hand in his pocket. He sipped his coffee and gazed out at the battlefield beyond his walls, appearing unconcerned, which led the colonel to feel the same way.
Bringing his focus down from what did no longer concern him, Florian turned to the squad he had been tasked to command alongside his contingent. “You are all briefed?” He asked only to confirm that Adam did not forget his orders.
The squad turned around and gave Florian a nod of conviction, their eyes telling him that they did not need another lecture. Instead, he simply put his trust in the general’s plan and the squad, believing that they had abandoned their roguery and learnt from their mistakes. Their enemies’ ringing steel was seconds from their gates, volleys of gunfire smashed through the palisades, and blood dripped from the battlements.
Reminded by a memory from youth that would haunt him forever, he sighed and turned around, closing his eyes to forget the searing image of turmoil that boiled his blood. Although his face remained composed, his hands twitched at the thought. Florian unsheathed his sabre and bladed hand fan as he opened his eyes again, his Eifer warming, cleansed of any impure doubt. His objective was clear, and his soldiers gathered on either flank of the gate and hurled chains over their shoulders. They leaned with one foot forward and looked to Florian for their orders. The colonel listened to the crying blades and the feet of his men shuffling into position as the squad looped the slings of their rifles around their chests and bore their steel-edged arms.
Bracing himself, Florian pumped his sabre into the air. The shine of the morning sun caught on the tip of the blade. “The enemies are here, and they shall know no mercy!” The colonel cried out for his allies and adversaries to hear. “Cast them into the breach of hell and bind their souls in limbo!” Standing with his men on the ground, he bore his blood-shedding sword for the first time in thirteen years.
A cry for war erupted from his men, sending the wind away. They beat their shields and chests, then stamped their feet and drummed the earth to declare their intentions, not knowing how the enemy would react to their clamour, but the gates would soon reveal their answer.
The colonel performed a prayer, crossing his hand from his head to his chest and across. Finding that his gatesmen were ready, he gave a staunch nod and commenced his operation. The brawny soldiers drove their knees into the gravel and tugged on the chain, which dug into their collars. Their faces reddened and their arms swelled. Despite being some of the strongest of the army, they slid with little traction. But eventually, the gateway’s two doors budged. The hunks of hardwood were not on wheels, nor were they small, turning on a pivot and rumbling the full length of the wall. Troops were shaken from their feet, and they gathered themselves hurriedly to return fire at the Confederates, who soon noticed movement. The gate opened until the width of the bridge that lay before it was in sight.
The enemy, bothered by the siege and the mounting of walls, had barely any sense of a frontline as they crossed the river and regrouped on the banks of the moat. When they turned their heads and realised the surprise that awaited them, it was too late. The enraged Lecher, its commonfolk, serfs, and veterans charged out from the safety of the encampment, their spirits infinite and unbreakable. Florian swung his sabre, and the gatesmen discarded their chains, picked up their axes, and joined the attack.
Sallying out of the fort, the squad followed the rapids with the colonel not far behind. In one direction, they crossed over the Rus, who stared at their shadows rushing overhead through the gaps in the flooring, skipping over the besiegers as if the gods had given them passage across the skies. Bogged in the mud and reeds of the river, the Confederates tried to hurry out onto either bank, but before they could save themselves, many were slaughtered by men like hounds waiting for them to come ashore. Archers and riflemen packed onto the battlements, hoping to discharge every last satchel of ammunition they could find, their captains issuing orders with voices breaking from their constant shouts. Volleys of arrows arched over the battlefield as rounds of lead battered the wavering front. Even for those who could manage a defence against the pulverising gunpowder arms, arrows rained down upon them. A force that was no better equipped than a militia triumphed over the fearsome Rus, tossing their bodies into the currents that flooded downstream.430Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0t6aJpizt9
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