A flustered flurry of arrows was bound for the general’s head. However, he dodged and deflected every one that was fired by the orange-haired boy. His bowstring did not cease, and its rate of fire was relentless. He kept his comrades close to him, but they could not withdraw. They seemed to have not been able advance despite all their efforts, and their hope for something as simple as a stalemate began to waver too. The battle soon entered a phase that sealed their path to certain defeat, when the archer’s quiver ran empty, but he would not let his comrades fight alone. He slung his bow around his chest and, without a second thought, unsheathed his knife, intending to undertake a foolish venture. When Károly sought to charge into the melee, those who had tasted the pain of close-quarters battle held onto his shoulder before he could throw himself into tragedy. Once again, the corporal had to bear the shame of being a spectator. Tied down by his weakness, he could only watch Rzhev grow fiercer.
Despite the reservoir of his Eifer having perished, his rapier was still immeasurably quick. Openings were poked open in the defences of the remaining two lancers, who began to falter against the general’s erratic attack. Arminius and Colt knew of each other’s patterns, their movements working in tandem. Leaping back, the lancers dashed forward, hoping that it would be the strike that would finally break the general’s guard, but he simply retreated, and brought his sword back like a sling, waiting for the right moment to release it. His foes sensed the threat, however, knowing that they had to attempt it regardless of the risk, they took the gamble, charging forward with a cry. Rzhev’s rapier was thrust forward when it was unexpectedly deflected by the surface of a steel fan.
Forcing himself between the general and the lancers, a fourth warrior appeared from the frontier. His fan slanted, and the tip of the general’s blade was flicked aside, scarring the surface of his face. A sabre swung at Rzhev’s neck, narrowly avoiding a fatal wound, and forced the general, who knew no defence, to retreat and reorient himself.
Standing before Arminius and Colt was a man not of their squad, but he was an ally, as his colours implied. He wielded a peculiar choice of weapons: a fan and a sabre, simple but they had countered the Rus. The facade of impossibility had been broken, and their enemy seemed mortal again.
“Colonel?” Sounding half-sure, it came to Arminius, who was in shock and relief.
His eyes were pinned on his foe, with the lancer appearing only on his periphery. “Is the corporal here?” Florian replied, the safety of the general’s grandson firstly on his mind.
When Arminius pointed behind him, the colonel simply remained fixed on his opponent. On his other flank was another lancer whose face had begun to pale and his body slowly ailed from the wound he received in his stomach from the cavalry charge. He was in pain but he would refuse to show it in his face, concerned by the enemy rather than his affliction.
“What is your purpose here, interferer?” The third general interested himself in the disturbance.
Florian lowered his sabre. “To ensure our retreat.” It would seem he wished to engage in civil talk, as he spoke truthfully.
By Rzhev’s command, his hand being raised up, his Confederates marched inward by five paces. Angling their blades, they were ready to spring on the numbered prey. “Retreat to where?” He asked with a chuckle, opening his fist, before drawing his arm along the horizon where a fort lay. “Your walls will be assailed and your people enslaved.” His plan sounded as if it were the inevitable.
“The sons of Lech shall never be enslaved!” Florian roared, breaking the whistling wind.
The general clicked his tongue and shrugged. “Then be killed, I would presume.” Rzhev corrected himself.
Loathing the man who joked of his country, the colonel glared at him, his hands tensing, but he knew his strength was inadequate. It would be a feign of effort to fight the general alone. Though Arminius and Colt may have been the most able among the nine, for how much longer they were capable of standing their ground was impossible to know unless it was a lie. Behind him, the remainder of the squad remained immobilised. Many were breathless, and they were unsure whether one of them would ever wake again. Neither could the colonel rely on his retinue, who stood still on the boundaries of his battlegrounds. For the time being, the armies were in a truce, staring at their commanders, praying that they would overcome the evil in their eyes. But Florian realised that with weakness, success could come in many forms.
Looking down on his sabre, he tilted its blade and captured the muted glint of sunlight. “I propose this, Rus.” The colonel decided to parley with him.
Rzhev listened respectfully to the proposition, which raised his eyebrows, but he appeared to agree to hear out his enemy’s idea.
“If this battle is yours, my men will take my head as proof, and your terms of surrender will be met.” Florian set bold terms and raised his sabre up against the third general. “Otherwise, your head is brought to your general, and a day of respite shall be granted to us.” Swinging his sword downward, he divided a cloud of powdersmoke that had polluted their vision.
Twirling his moustache, Rzhev considered his terms. While his ego could have denied him this chance, victory was in sight, and it would have cost perhaps tens of thousands more casualties, yet this price was gladly paid by him and his officers. However, the thought that he could secure victory with just another three deaths, honourably and through a display of the prowess that he was so proud of, could not escape his mind. A set of hooves drummed into his presence from behind, and when he looked back, he saw his colonel appearing out of his army. On his white steed in shining armour was a rider clad in silver, and a decapitated head was strung onto his saddle, discoloured and leaking. Many saw its appearance as an omen from the heavens.
Believing that his luck had not failed him thus far, Rzhev nodded, consenting to the pact. “Very well, it is agreed.” He signed their treaty by voice as his hand was already tensing around the grip of his rapier.422Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMrYcfysQoT
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