Apollo had risen but he bid no blessing on those warring beneath him. They crushed the skulls of men they have been tricked into believing who were enemies, deconstructing bodies into fluid flesh that leaked into the river, filled from its bed to the surface with blood. Screams of fear and smiles of rage illustrated the army, less able, armored, and armed, once considered thoughtless peasants battling out of honor. But they sent their preying foes fleeing with fright at the simple sight of pitchforks and splintered spears, hammers and dulled sickles. Makeshift shields and walls of wagons cordoned the battlefield becometh of a maze. A Confederate corps found themselves trapped by two forces pushing against them until they were funneled into a field of death. From the battlements, wooden but thick and reinforced by scrap metal and stakes, riflemen and archers revealed themselves and unleashed volleys and hails of bullets and arrows. The Rus gathered themselves, forming up into a line of gunmen, and returned panicked fire at empty space. Projectiles whizzed over Lecher heads and were absorbed by the palisades, with few only ever striking those more unfortunate than most. By the time they had realized that their lead have become waste, their enemies on the ground had long withdrawn into the safety of the fort. In disorder, the Confederates rallied and attacked again only to suffer mounting losses. Throughout the three mornings they have since come to clash, the cycle of the battle did not retire. The beginning of each day was marked by thousands of deaths and twice as many wounded, but they were certain that they were grinding away at the Aelon’s skin. They had a shield of confusion, lightweightedness, and spirit, yet all such attributes were facades of true strength worn by the greater army. Vasilevsky may have chose to throw away ten thousand more lives and it would have been but a pinch on his arm. Warneńczyk may lose ten thousand men and it would feel as though his chest had been stabbed. Knowing this, the lion never changed his strategy committing himself and his enemy into a battle of attrition. The besieged would relent eventually, and victory would come in sight.
This dilemma, a man of noble status contemplated. A detachment of an army had been entrusted to him, lining the main street which ran through the village of houses repurposed into officers’ quarters and field clinics. The colors of the white eagle flew above soldier aiding soldier, strapping on their simple helms and unsheathing their blades to pray. They awaited their commander’s orders, but he caved in not to his troops growing angst. It was not yet the right time. His arms crossed, the man stood before a gate mounted by a number of brave troops drawing and 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. One breach was enough to end the battle. Before he considered the possibility of complete disaster, then arrived, the final pieces to his preparation.
“Colonel,” Spotting him out of his usual post, Károly addressed. “What’re you doing here?” Far ahead of his comrades, he lightly jogged around the column of men and approached the colonel with a bow and a quiver in his hands.
Then, on hearing a band of footsteps nearing him, the colonel turned around. Out of his troops, a squad emerged, equipped and armed with a rifle and a sword each, luxuries that few there could afford. They were however still dressed in the colors of the Alber, standing out among those without uniformed attire who stared at the eight forming up beside Károly. Their heels clicked together and they saluted at attention. But the archer, seeing such a small act command respect, had always stood aside awkwardly, as if he, even as a corporal, had never addressed his superiors in this manner ever before. Perhaps, believing, he should learn from them, those he admired, Károly gave his thought a second chance and retrieved from it, humility. He retreated and joined their ranks before pledging a salute that he had near-forgotten.
Receiving their hails, Florian tipped his head and answered, “Our legates are scarce. Generals, scarcer.” His eyes turned upward and his sight was pinned on the ridge over them. “So this duty has befallen unto this lowly colonel.” The breeze dried his face carrying a demeanor uncertain and lacking confidence, but he retained his faith in his commander’s decision no different.
First to lower his salute which his squad duly followed, the corporal hung his head over one side. “I thought you’d be with gra—the general.” Károly corrected himself.
“Skowroński commands his bodyguards.” Florian’s gaze was undisturbed as his hands withdrew behind his back. “And I must trust him to perform without incident.” Even if he was unsure of entrusting a 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. A graveyard of a forest lined a ridge that they had camped atop for three whole nights. There was nothing immediately peculiar nor seething for attention. The banners of the army were regularly chained to the earth, surrounding the headquarters whose troops patrolled the paths around it and its officers were still few. A stack of firewood and twigs, pieced together into a cone-like tower, was erected beside an old man with a hand in his pocket. He fed himself sips of coffee and gazed out at the battlefield over his walls. Without a worry in his mind, the elderly soldier felt no threat, and his appearance gave his colonel the reason to think so too.
Bringing his focus down from what did not concern him any longer to the squad before him, Florian asked to confirm, “You are all briefed?”
The lancers and the archer returned, pivoting around, though one who had not been distracted gave a sure nod knowing that his comrades were similarly readied. Florian sought to affirm, with air pulsated half its way out of his lungs, when he saw their eyes masked with conviction. They were enough to tell that he did not require an additional intended lecture. Instead, he simply poured his trust into the general’s plan and the squad that they have forsaken their roguery and learnt from their faults. The colonel spun around on hearing his enemies’ ringing steel, seconds from their gates. Volleys of gunfire smashed into the palisades and blood dribbled from the battlements.
Reminded by a memory that would forever haunt him, he sighed, “Thirteen years I have not touched the soil nor breathed the mist of the battlefield.” Stilled, Florian meditated with closing eyes, searing an image of turmoil into his mind that heated his blood. “Yet, I remember everything that unfolds.” His hands twitched with the thought though his face remained composed.
From their scabbards, Florian unsheathed a saber and a folded fan. Taking in a breath, he opened his eyes as his eifer warmed, cleansed of any impurities of doubt. His objective was clear, as if a string appeared to lead him towards his goal. Soldiers gathered on either flank of the gate and hurled chains over their shoulders. They leaned ahead 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. The squad looped the slings of their rifles around their chests and bore their steel-edged arms. Last to ready himself and the last to commit his spirit, without the general to give his rousing speech as it had been for however many years he had fought under the banner of the Peasant King, he had to find his own morale.
Bracing himself, Florian pumped his saber high, where the shine of the morning sun was caught on its tip. “The enemies are here and they shall know no mercy!” The colonel declared for his ally and adversary to hear. “Cast them into the breach of hell and forsake their souls from the judgement of heaven!” Not on horseback, but with his men on the ground, he signed a truce with his ink-giving pen and bore his blood-shedding sword.
A cry for war erupted, sending the wind away. Beating their shields and chests, the men stomped their feet and drummed the earth to declare their attack. They did not know how the enemy would react to their clamor but the gates would soon reveal their answer.
At peace and with a presence of control, the colonel performed a prayer, crossing his hand from his head to his chest and across. “For you, my lord.” Florian pledged his deeds.
Finding his gatesmen set, he gave a staunch nod and commenced his command. The brawny drove their knees into the gravel and tugged, their chains digging into their collars. Their faces quickly reddened and their arms swelled. They were some of the strongest of the army, yet they slid with little traction. But eventually, the weight of the gateway and its 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 gathered themselves hurriedly to return fire at the Confederates who soon noticed movement. The gate opened, wider and wider, until the width of the bridge that laid before it was in sight. Bothered by the siege and the mounting of walls, crossing the river and regrouping themselves on the banks of the moat, the enemy had barely any sense of a frontline. When they turned their heads and realized 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. As Florian’s saber swung down, the gatesmen threw down their chains and 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, across the bridge, they crossed over the Rus who stared at shadows rushing by overhead, over the gaps in the flooring. The Aelon skipped 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 metals arched over the battle as rounds of lead battered the wavering front. Even those who could manage a defense against the pulverizing gunpowder arms, arrows rained down upon them. A force that was no better equipped than a militia succeeded over the trained and paid, tossing their bodies into the currents where corpses flooded downstream.37Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡozkozO0plK
