On the frontlines of the Lecher Army…420Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzbGYiIHE4c
A blade pierced through his heart and surfaced out of his back, torn out of him by a young lancer who shaved his head off of his shoulders. The chunk of bone and flesh rolled along the ground, while the streams from his severed throat burst forth and sprayed the victor’s face with a fresh coating of blood. But he was undisturbed, worn from battle, forced to defend himself from another who leapt at him with fierceness. Her bravery was foolish, racing towards Arminius, who, taken by surprise, knelt, and he drove his sword forward, his palm pressing against its pommel. The blade pushed into the ribs of the girl, who plunged herself deeper into the steel. Yet on the cusp of death, she still reached for her enemy, possessed by adrenaline. Leaning away from the tip of her sword that barely scratched his face, the lancer let her fall further, having dug herself a grievous wound. Blood trickled from her mouth, and as Arminius looked up, a familiar face replaced hers. Out of horror, he froze.
His comrades chased the enemy as they fell back, their rifles drawn, which fired mercilessly into their rear. Embroiled in heartless murder, the gunpowder smoke thickened around them, and the smell of hellfire burnt. The boy’s head was ignited with ache as he removed his sword out of the limp body and stood up, feeling his legs slowly give way. Time resumed, and volleys of lead continued to discharge as if his squad were competing to see who could expend their ammunition quicker. Disorganised and disunited, they had rammed themselves into a front of determined patriots with little to lose. It was only the morale of the Lecher that had beaten back the Confederates, who fled from the cheers and jeers of the temporary victors. When killing seemed so addictive, only he knew when to stop, and before another round could be fired, Arminius held onto the barrel of his comrade’s rifle, halting Arber and their friends, watching the backs of the horde disappear.
Sliding his arrow into his quiver, Károly blew on his hand, a hot spring of Eifer. His face was full of joy, having experienced his first battle on the frontlines, but he could not help but notice that his nervousness stayed. Perhaps it was his instinct, but it was rarely wrong.
Looking up at the skies, the half-blood Rus paced about as he steadied his breath, his expression drained. “I don’t like this. Not one bit.” Lev muttered as sweat ran down his face in streams.
Gin rose from his knees and brushed away the powder residue from the muzzle of his rifle. “What? Ya’ve got cold feet?” The brute jested, searching for another battle that would satisfy his bloodlust, but before long, he was answered favourably.
The ground trembled, and they spun around with their rifles aimed at the veil, but emerging out of the clouds was the enemy again, renewed of strength. Breaking through the smog, hooves of a regiment’s worth of sabres and armour, cataphracts and noble companions appeared like devils out of hell. The moving wall enlarged as they neared, unleashing a well-rehearsed cry that attempted to shake the Lecher of courage. Few wavered, but most kept steady as if their feet had been glued to the earth. However, when the cavalry appeared to hasten, it revealed behind them a vast army who followed in their tracks. The squad’s allies had never seen such a quick recovery from a force coldly repelled and were left wondering what spurred them on. The nine knew that their rifles would do little against this behemoth wave and withdrew their firearms before unsheathing their swords.
Bracing himself, the well-learnt colonel waved his sabre to rally his troops. “Polearms, ten paces forward!” He yelled. “First rank, kneel!” As he shored up his front, Florian ran for the right flank, where he believed the battle would be fiercest, and commanded them.
Holding scythes and forks, while the wealthy had spears and pikes, groups of men leaned on each other in a close line, hoping, though not very confidently, that they could stand against the much stronger enemy. The cavalry committed themselves to the charge without the means to disengage as the squad pulled themselves into the middle ranks, sheltered behind the front. Together, they secured what they naively believed was safety, denying sight of the approaching enemy, but they soon heard from the contact paces ahead of them that they would not leave the battle unscathed. Determination and desperation filled the Confederates as the last prayers were being said by the Lecher, digging their heels into the earth. Words of holy scriptures flooded their ears, and those who did not believe in a higher power began to mouth its words, begging for divine intervention. Their blades were raised against the swinging of sabres when the cavalry met the shore and boldly smashed into the ranks of spears. Neither the men’s will nor their polearms could withstand the brutal contact, and another wave of the charge joined the first. A hole had been punched into the defenders, and a crevice in their lines spread apart. The impenetrable lamellar snapped the longer spears and pikes, which could have been more effective against the lighter-armoured horsemen. The vanguard fell from their feet, trampled mercilessly.
Arminius closed his eyes as many did, worrying that they would have to face fate that had come to take them as their insignificant bodies gave way without a fight and were tossed to the ground. Riders stormed past him, crushing his comrades, only avoiding his squad, which was guarded by the giant, Miklós, a boulder who stood as their shield. His fiendish eyes deterred both creatures and men, but before they could stand themselves, they heard an outrageous order.
“Advance! Lend our archers and rifles space!” Somehow, their colonel had the courage to press on, having narrowly avoided his death from the charge, but it seemed he was not alone.
Those who had not fought in Warneńczyk’s army may have deemed his command senseless, but the sole army that could adhere to such orders was that of the one surrounding them. Its troops may have worn the colours of land workers, but their spirits were otherwise soldierly, perhaps more so than their foes.
Pulling themselves together, the patriots advanced, infused with a fury that they intended to unleash on the invaders. The straggling cavalry were avoided, caught out by the few spearmen who remained, but their fates were no different from those of the main force who rushed through the formation into the open, finding themselves before the palisades and the bridge. Surely, their objective was near-realised, but revealing themselves from the battlements were rifles and arrows pointed at them. Gunfire flowered along its length, and arrows rained down upon them. Horses panicked from the blood pouring down their manes and the steel shower that pierced their skin. Riders were thrown from their saddles, and if not for becoming a carpet to be trampled on by their fleeing horses, fragments of lead and armour would have punctured their flesh. The cataphracts and mounted guards had been reduced from a feared unit to a second-rate troop in pitiful disorder, and then, through the open gates, reserves poured out, slaughtering the survivors. The reinforcements soon overwhelmed the overconfident attackers and moved on, mobile and blood-seeking.420Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡe3rg4Pp2ws
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