A blade pierced through his heart and surfaced out his back, with a fury, it was torn out of him by a young lancer who then hacked his blade into the man’s neck. Before pain came, his head flew, shaven off his shoulders. The chunk of bone and flesh landed and rolled along the ground as the internal streams of where his throat once was bursted and sprayed the victor’s face with a new coating of paint. But he was however undisturbed, worn from battle, and was forced to defend himself from another who leapt into the fight with fierceness. Her bravery was foolish, racing towards Arminius who was taken by surprise. His body knelt before the thought to act came and he drove his sword forward, his palm against its pommel. The blade pushed into the ribs of the girl who only 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, time around him slowed. Nothing ever became his concern. His comrades chased the Confederates as they fell back, their rifles drawn which fired mercilessly into their fleeing rear. Embroiled in heartless murder, the gunpowder smoke thickened around them and the smell of hellish fire burned. The boy’s head was ignited with ache and it took the dismissal of his sight to calm him. Removing his sword out of the already limp body, he stood, though his legs slowly gave way. Time resumed its natural course but volleys of lead continued to discharge. The squad competed as if to see who could quicker expend their ammunition on the Rus who were seemingly broken. Having rammed themselves disorganized and disunited into a front of patriots full of drive with little to lose, just the morale of the Lecher had beaten back their enemy. They fled and the temporary victors cheered and jeered. Latched onto sense, when killing seemed so addictive, few lancers knew to stop out of their own will. Before a trigger could launch its next projectile, Arminius held onto the barrel of his comrade’s rifle. Only then did Arber halted and their friends followed. The backs of the horde disappeared but their voices remained as prominent as if they were beside them.
Retrieving an arrow, slid into his quiver, Károly blew on his hand, a hot spring of eifer. It was not yet needed for his powers to be unleashed, however his face was gladdened simply by having a chance to fight on the frontlines. Staring into the clouds which were blank but moving, he could not help but realize that his nervousness remained however. Perhaps it was his instinct, but his instinct was rarely wrong. When his comrades beside him began to notice the sinister silence did it confirm his fears.
“I don’t like this,” Lev paced about, steadying his breath. “Not one bit.” Sweat ran from his face like rivers of tears.
Wiping the powder residue around the chamber of his rifle, Gin rose from his knees. “Wha’, now ya’ve got cold feet—” The brute jested, searching for another battle that would satisfy his bloodlust, but before long, he was answered favorably.
The ground trembled and its pebbles jumped, ending his words abruptly. Their rifles charged froward and they aimed down their sights. But on the ends of their barrels, their eyes gaped at what they saw emerging out of the clouds. Where the enemy had fled, came the enemy again, renewed of strength with a profound change of weaponry and troops. Breaking through the smog, hooves of a regiment’s worth, sabers and shields, and armor that weighed an extra horse and rider, the cataphracts and noble companions appeared like devils out of hell. The moving wall enlarged as they neared, exploding a well-rehearsed cry that attempted to shake the Aelon of courage. Some wavered but most kept steady as if their feet were glued to the earth. But when the cavalry’s cogs began to turn, charging ahead and cutting away the curtain of gray, it revealed, behind them, a vast army who followed. United by a common goal, the infantry sprinted, hoping to reach to the Lecher lines first before their comrades. The squad nor their allies had ever seen such a quick recovery from a force coldly repelled and could only wonder what had spurred them on to gain this newfound strength. The nine knew that their rifles would do little against the behemoth wave, and withdrew their firearms before unsheathing their swords. They braced in defense.
“Hold, men!” The colonel waved his saber, rallying his troops. “Polearms, ten paces forward!” Running to the right flank, he commanded and shored up the front.
Wielding whatever armaments that could possibly keep the cavalry at bay, scythes and forks, and those of wealth made from loot marching with spears and pikes, ranks of men leaned against the next in a tight formation which they hoped, with heavy uncertainty, their numbers could withstand the overwhelming foe. But as the cavalry sealed away any remaining chance for the Lecher troops to retreat behind the walls did their terror strike.
Sensing that their hearts had been stricken by an illness of fear, the commander could not do much except do all he could. “First rank, kneel, all units, brace!” Composed, Florian directed, his head itching in unwanted anticipation.
Paces away, the cavalry sped into a gallop, committing themselves without the means to disengage from the fight any longer. The lancers and the corporal pulled themselves into the middle ranks, sheltering far behind the front. Together, they secured what they naively believed was to be safety. Denied of the sight of the approaching enemy, the squad however heard. Soon, it came to their realization that nowhere then could assure that they would exit the battle unscathed. Determination and desperation filled the Confederates’ chants, seconds away from contact. The last prayers were said by the devout as the Lecher braced, digging their heels into the earth. Words of holy scriptures flooded their ears and those who never believed in higher power began to mouth its words in repeat, near begging for divine intervention. Their blades were raised against the swings of sabers when soon, the cavalry met the shore and boldly smashed into the ranks of spears. Not the will of the men nor their polearms could contain the brutal contact and the first wave of the charge was joined by another. A hole was punched into the Aelon and was spread awide from that of a crevice to a cavern in the formation. The longer spears and pikes who could have fared better against the lighter-armored horsemen were snapped by the impenetrable lamellar. Thrown from their feet, the vanguard was trampled mercilessly. Arminius closed his eyes as many did, worrying that they would have to face fate that has come to take them from life. Their insignificant bodies gave way and without a true fight, they were tossed to the ground. Riders stormed past, crushing his comrades, only avoiding the squad guarded by the giant, Miklós, a boulder who stood as their shield. His fiendish eyes steered away both creature and man. But when they had yet to recover, standing themselves, they heard an order that was most outrageous.
“Advance!” Somehow, the colonel dared utter, having narrowly avoided his perishing from the charge, and issued what the squad thought they had heard wrong. “Lend our archers and rifles some targets!”
It seemed that only for those who had not fought with the Lecher of Warneńczyk’s that the order may appear unconventional and sense would only come to them when they realized that the sole army that could adhere to such orders was that of the one surrounding themselves. Its troops may have worn the attires of land-working men, however, their spirits were otherwise soldierly, perhaps more so than the foe. Pulling themselves together without much of a care how many they could lose, the patriots advanced as commanded, instilled with temper to be unleashed on the invaders. The straggling cavalry were avoided, caught 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 walls and the bridge, surely, their objective was near-realized, but revealing itself from the battlements were barrels and bows pointed at them. Flowering gunfire flourished along its length and arrows rained down. Horses panicked from the blood pouring down its mane 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 steeds, fragments of lead and armor punctured their bodies. From a unit feared, the cataphracts and mounted guards had been reduced to a second-rate troop in pitiful disorder. Then, through the open gates, reserves poured out, slaughtering the survivors. The reinforcements soon overwhelmed the overconfident and moved on, mobile and blood-seeking.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgwXrDKjo8z
