The hussars appeared as if angel wings had descended from the heavens, plunging into a lake of men. Gunfire crackled, and the winged hussars pursued the breaking army, their horses clambering over mountains of corpses, forming rolling hills that slowed both the cavalry’s and infantry’s advance and retreat. Their momentum continued to build against the front as thousands piled on like waves on a steep beach, gradually wearing away the coastline, which knew only to fall back. The rear guard was no more, as masses of Confederate soldiers fled as far as they could from the terror that gnawed at them, and in the chaos, the unfortunate souls which found themselves drowning from the currents that swept them off their feet were crushed by the stampede. However, despite the fact that his enemy’s retreat was chaotic, the hetman of the hussars noticed something odd. The deeper they penetrated the Confederate lines, the more unusual the Rus’s movements became. He expected the enemy to rally and turn around to fight, but instead, they fled. The hetman realised, peering over the hundreds of ranks of heads before him, that the enemy were coming upon their walls, which would crumble under the weight of an entire army. The attack filtered out unripe troops, youths, and inexperienced soldiers, which they hoped would overwhelm the Lecher’s defences with numbers alone, leaving a legion of elites to defend their rear. Dismounted knights wearing royal lamellar armour carried tower shields and spears, ensuring that horsemen could not overcome them. They were a duke’s force, under the command of the colonel general, but instead of the Summer Lion, there was one young man leading them, a colonel mounted on his precious white steed with an ominous air and a single, under-fashioned glaive.
His absence from where he was supposed to be, leading the charge, went unnoticed as the threat of the hussars left the third general desperate for victory, choosing to entertain his comrades by stealing the glory that he had promised his noble men. He rode in the vanguard, his agile rapier deflecting pitchfork and spear thrusts that soiled his breeches as his gilded blade whipped about. When the enemy tired, their comrades would rotate themselves into danger to help them, but when they did, the battle-crazed general took advantage of the narrow corridor of opportunity. He extended his arm and sword, jabbing at each of the foes around him, piercing their vital points. The colours of their eyes rushed away, and dozens collapsed around him as blood showered his troops who advanced alongside him. The third general was about to continue his advance when a bannerman stormed into his presence, devoid of respect. However, he believed there was good reason for even a lower-ranking noble to disregard standard courtesy.
“General! T-To the west!” The panicked rider yelled, weaving his mount through the currents of men, warning his commander of the impending danger. “A second cavalry force has appeared, and the right wing is wavering.” He reeled on his reins as he quickly relayed his message.
Rzhev turned around, guarded by his companion cavalry, who halted with him and came to discover the beginnings of a new front developing in the distance. The approaching force was not the hussars from the north. Instead, a much larger dust cloud had emerged from the west, threatening to envelop their army. But he thought no force could have been able to assail the Rus, especially not one equipped like the levies of the Middle Ages.
Flicking his rapier to his side, cleansing it of blood, the third general gritted his teeth in anger. “Damn that Serov! If only he had admitted that he was unworthy of leading—” He cursed and scorned.
Flashes of Eifer behind interrupted him, and a gust of wind swung into his back like a glaive, but he did not know where this power came from under the roaring battle. His troops looked over their shoulders, wondering what it could have been, but they knew they could not be distracted any longer. Wrapping around them was a tempest, the spawn of greater adversity that seemed more likely they could not evade. Their comrades in the rearguard were left to fight alone, and their friends on the right flank were facing pending defeat. They could only pray that their ally cavalry could reach the battle before it was done to avoid the complete annihilation of their corps, which had been deployed across the river. But hope alone could not be relied upon. Rzhev ruminated on whether to trust his instincts or not, for a plan as daring, as sacrificing, as costly as he has envisioned, and whether the worth of its success was agreeable enough. The companion cavalry sought his orders as his footmen kept the lines steady, similarly ready for his command.
Steeling his heart, the third general reared his mount and caught the attention of his men in his immediate presence. “My countrymen! If we were to return to the lion without a feast in our hands to answer for, then we’ve just as well secured our nooses!” Putting his rapier forward, he pointed at the gate nearest that could soon be within an arm’s reach, knowing that the enemy would not be able to withstand the brute force of their greater numbers. Even so, the peasant reserves poured out of the safety of their walls, believing that they had secured a chance at victory. “Sign yourselves not to fate! Charge and wither their hearts, brave of the Rus!” Rzhev roused his men, who began to chant and tighten their formation, adorning his troops with a title, which locked them away from the thought of surrender.
To prove himself worthy of generalship, agitated by his flaws, the third general charged forward, his spirited cavalry passing him. A gap in the infantry allowed them to advance, and like a piston, they punched through the Lecher ranks with a sudden force. The Rus pressed on together, with enough strength to crush their mangy prey, who lacked the same discipline and defence as they sallied out. Even when they were confronted with the wrath of lead and arrowheads raining down from the walls, the renewed confidence of the Confederate corps in the possibility of victory drove men like manipulated undead.447Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡh71DnUub3c
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