As if angel wings descended from the heavens. the hussars were like a waterfall pouring in a pool. Under the sun, they appeared like whitewater plunging into the backs of men slashed awide and their necks pierced by lances. Gunfire crackled, and seeking the scent of fresh blood, the winged men hunted. Chasing down the breaking army, their horses clobbered over mountains of corpses forming rolling hills that slowed both the cavalry and infantry from advance and retreat. But the momentum of the rapids continued to build against the front as thousands piled on. They were like waves against a steep beach, slowly wearing away the coastline who knew only to retreat. The rear guard was no more as masses of Confederate soldiers fled as far as they could from the terror that gnawed. But in the panic, some unfortunate souls found themselves drowning from the currents that swept them from their feet. Tripping or pushed, they were crushed by the stampede. Yet, as much as it may seem to allies and enemies that there was chaos in their retreat, for the hetman of the hussars, he found one thing odd. The deeper they permeated into the Confederate lines, the more unnatural the Rus’s movements grew. He expected from the enemy that they would have rallied themselves, turned and fight. But they took flight without an end. Or perhaps, they were not. The hetman then realized, peering over the hundreds of ranks of heads before him, the fire of the Confederacy had crept on the walls and had been ordered to assault its battlements which would crumble under the might of a whole army. The attack filtered away troops unripe, the youth and the inexperienced, and the defense of their rear was bestowed on a legion of elites. Finally, the sense of danger that the hussars had sought returned. Dismounted knights in the lamellar of royals bore shields like towers and spears making certain that the charging horsemen could not assail them. They were a force belonging to a king, a responsibility that fell upon a colonel general, but then instead of the Summer Lion, there was one young man. A colonel mounted on his precious white steed with an ominous air about him and a single, under-fashioned glaive.
But his disappearance from where he was meant to be, leading the charge, went unnoticed as the threat of hussars pillaging his army’s rear side left another general desperate and uncaring. The heat of battle had stolen his mind, choosing only to entertain his comrades with his show of heroism and bravery, and instead, stole the glory which he had promised his noble men. The third general rode with his vanguard, his agile rapier keeping peasants away from ever nearing him, deflecting the thrusts of pitchforks and spears, soiling his breeches in blood, as his golden blade whipped about. When the enemy tired, their comrades would rotate themselves into danger to assist, but in the instance they did, the narrow corridor of opportunity was realized by the battle-crazed general. He extended his arm and sword, jabbing at each of the foe who surrounded him, piercing their skin and striking their vital points. The colors of their eyes and skin rushed away, dozens fell around. Motionless, they collapsed as blood squirted and sprayed, showering his troops who advanced beside him. He prepared to move on but a bannerman stormed into his presence without a sense of respect, although the general reckoned that there was good reason for even a lower-ranking noble to betray regular courtesy.
“General!” The panicked soldier yelled, weaving his mount through the current of troops. “T-To the west!” He warned, pointing at the front that he had everyone adjust their eyes towards.
Rzhev turned around, guarded by his companion cavalry who halted with him and came to discover together the beginnings and ends of a new front developing in the distance. They were not of the hussars in the north, but a dust cloud even greater had emerged from the west, threatening to envelop their army that none, no less than a force equipped like the levies of the medieval past, could do.
Reeling on his reins, the messenger drew a long breath and gathered himself. “A second cavalry force has appeared, and the right wing is wavering.” Spoken quickly, as if he was in an attempt to end his transmission and flee before he would see the battle reach himself, his words were those commonly uttered before disaster.
“Damn that Serov!” Flicking his sword dry, Rzhev cursed and scorned, “If only he had admitted that he was unworthy of leading such numbers—”
Flashes of eifer behind him interrupted his complaints. The wind was cutting but the sounds of its source of power were not heard, especially beneath the roaring battle that led on without pause. His troops looked over their shoulders at the spectacle that they hoped not to see for themselves but wrapping around them was a tempest, the spawn of greater adversity that seemed more and more likely they could not evade. Their comrades in the rearguard saw no aid and their friends on the right flank were facing pending defeat. They could only pray that their ally cavalry could reach the battle before it is done, to avoid the complete destruction of the Rus deployed across the river. But hope alone could not be relied on. Rzhev ruminated whether to trust his instincts or not, for a plan as daring, as sacrificing, as costly as he has envisioned, and whether its worth was an agreeable enough cost to be exchanged for benefit. The companion cavalry sought his orders as his footmen kept the lines steady, their ears similarly ready for his any command.
Steeling his heart, the third general turned ahead and reared his mount out of a sudden conclusion that he had reached. “My countrymen!” With one action and two words, he had caught the attention of those immediately near. “If we were to return to the lion without a feast in our hands to answer for, then we’ve just as well have secured our own nooses!” The threat of death coated himself and his men’s spirits in fire until all they saw in the Aelon foe were prized heads.
Putting his rapier forward which pointed at the gate nearest that was within vision and could soon be within an arm’s reach, he knew that the enemy would not be able to withstand the brute force of their greater numbers. Even so, the peasantly reserves poured out of the safety of their walls truly believing that they have secured their chance of victory.
“Sign yourselves not to fate,” Rzhev roused his men who began to chant and tighten their formation. “Charge and wither their hearts, brave of the Rus!” Adorning his troops with a title, he locked them away from the thought of surrender.
To prove himself worthy of generalship, agitated by his own faults, the third general kicked and charged, his spirited cavalry passing him. A gap in the infantry opened for their advance, which like a piston, punched through the Lecher ranks caught in a bind by their surprising speed. The Confederates pushed on together with whatever brutish strength they possessed to crush their mangy prey lacking the same discipline and defense as they sallied out, hardly an obstacle. Even when the Rus’s heads were exposed to the wrath of lead and arrowheads raining down from the walls, the completely renewed confidence that they had believing that the day would be won drove men like a force of manipulated undead.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡriN5MVT2Py
