A colonel and a corporal, saber on saber, blade against blade, revolved around each other in a duel amongst mayhem. From his stance to his expression, the Rus seemed to hold better chances of victory yet neither made their advance. Testing their opponent’s range attentively, they moved on their heels and kept the other at bay. But suddenly, fearing that he would be defeated if he did not act, the colonel lunged forward. The corporal reeled back and lost his balance in a misstep, and his battle was already lost. The edge of a saber slashed into his shoulder and he stumbled back as the blade carried on through his collar, sealing his journey into a valkyrie’s embrace. Blood spat from the gorge and his eyes whitened when the force of the strike shattered his bones and brought the lifeless corporal to the ground. The victorious Lecher pulled his saber from its sheathe of flesh, somewhat lacking the strength to do so, and had planned to retreat to let his soul some rest. But ahead, more battles surrounded him. The comrades of his fallen foe gathered around, hounding for revenge, however, they were less studied in the martial arts and blindly charged at the colonel who dropped to his knees and dashed forward. In an arc, his saber swept, gashing the stomachs of his enemies from where their life poured out. As he stood and half a dozen men fell, his legs began to waver. His knees trembled for fatigue had finally touched him. Sweeping his hair back that was wetted and dyed red, the colonel’s shoulders rose and fell exaggeratedly on each breath. However much they were in dire need of reinforcements, his troops who caught sight of him thought little for their own survival and hurriedly encircled and guarded their commander, withdrawing together from the frontlines as reserves filled the thinning ranks.
Deflecting the blow of a sword, a veteran beseeched, “Colonel, please, fall back,” His fellow patriots withdrew into defense as offense became an impossibility. “We can’t afford your loss.”
Florian surveyed his army upon regaining his senses and realized that his command was absolute. The little voices of his lieutenants made few difference. Reinforcements streamed over the river mindlessly because of his presence alone. There was nothing else except the trust that they have placed by his feet and if he was to maintain much needed order, then an order seeming productive had to be issued. Otherwise that trust he had gained would be lost indefinitely.
Glancing at his flanks where soldiers awaited his command, the colonel wiped his brow and began with his withdrawal. “Retreat and hold the bridge!” Florian cried, pointing his saber at the skies. “Riflemen and archers, form along the southern bank and hold against the foot of the walls!” He maneuvered around his men and signaled for those closest to rally around him.
In a swarm, troops moved, relocating themselves across the bridge with their backs against allies. They steadily marched back, compressing their formation against the crossing which they trickled over. Spearmen and foot soldiers held onto the bridgehead and entrenched themselves on the chokepoint their enemy would be forced to assault if they wished to suffer fewer losses. But believing that their numbers were greater than any tactics that stood before them, many Rus began to wade the waters only to be caught by the currents and massacred by volleys of gunfire and arrows. The flanks of the colonel’s army continued to shrink but their withdrawal induced a vital thought that he had forsaken. Noticing that there seemed to be a specific number of troops which had disappeared from their midst, including a corporal who was supposed to have been beside him throughout the engagement as promised to his commander, they were nowhere to be found. He peeked over his retinue but not even their bright distinctive colors were anywhere to be seen. Seeking a clearer view, Florian escaped his cage of guards and scoured his column that bent from the gravity of the Rus army. He could not locate them. The chance of ever finding them in the violent seas that swallowed every ripple that grew against its waves grew slim.
Panicking on remembering his sworn oath to his general, Florian began softly, “By the mother of gods, where are my lancers?” The colonel continued his futile search. “Where’s Károly Lienz?” To whom he was bound by honor to protect, he called his name but the wind was unresponsive.
“I last saw them in the left van,” A soldier beside him recalled. “Uniformed, weren’t they?” It was undifficult to reimagine their appearance, uniquely bound to a country not theirs.
The fear of his mistake ticked a stopwatch that counted down in his head, and providing no additional words his troops, Florian dashed off for the left flank as he was told. He sprinted towards the center, parallel to the front that began to close his gap of chance. His feet could not have been lighter or quicker, forgetting his fatigue as his limbs were charged by an energy overriding even his adrenaline. To his retinue, whatever or whoever it was must have been more than important for him to react in such a manner, but nevertheless, they could not allow his own recklessness end himself.
A soldier tried to recall his colonel but his reaction came too late for he was already far beyond understanding to reason. “Colonel!” Chasing him, he and his comrades shouted.
All they did in an attempt to retake his attention was to no avail. At haste, the colonel had muted everything except for the repeat of his own words, chastising himself for neglecting his foremost duty: to protect his general’s grandson. But more so, to protect the prince and heir of his liege lord. The troubles that would follow circulated him like the whispers of fate that had begun to reshape the future. Knowing that he would not slow, his soldiers pursued him, giving chase across the treacherous land of a surging tide of enemies that did not bode catastrophe as worse as shrinking time did.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlT46VG8xcC
