Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

[Rolman]

The men move out from Berdyczów at dawn in full panoply, with carbines loaded and quivers full. There's no telling where the Tatars may be; at any moment, a dust cloud could herald the coming of sudden battle.

Contact is finally made with friendly troops around Piławce — it's a supply train out of Kamieniec. After some surprise, it's established that the army is actually further to the east, traveling along the Southern Bug, supposedly numbering some six thousand men. They're primarily Ostrogski men but with a significant number of, dammit, Zamoyski troops. Apparently the standing Quarter has been slow to mobilize in these times of interregnum, and the Royal Secretary clearly possesses a similar rationale to yours. It's not like he's doing this out of the goodness of his heart.

As you head east toward Bracław, you find Jewish and Ruthenian villages still standing, but emptied out. Weeds are beginning to grow among the harvest-ready rye; the pastures and pigpens and chicken coops lie empty. Sometimes you'd find an idiot or drunkard wandering about — and you tried to help them as much as you could, as God wills — but it seems like even the most hardy have fled. As you escort the supply train you encountered, the only thing you find on the road is the occasional corpse or a still-saddled horse, which you give to the men as credit for the time being.

The sight of smoke from countless campfires makes your stomach drop. It's only as you approach that you breathe a sigh of relief: the red banners of the Crown and the Zamoyski-Ostrogski coalition stud the horizon over the sea of tents. You order the Radziwiłł eagle and the Pogoń Litewska to be flown high, and you sound your trumpets and hunters' horns.

A little mass of horsemen appear out of the camp's main avenue. and you ride out to meet them with Marszowski, van Gistel, and your other lieutenants.

Ugh! Naturally, it's Jan Zamoyski himself, flanked by the teenaged Prince Janusz Ostrogski and his similarly-youthful brother, Konstanty. Every man dismounts, exchanging bows and shaking hands.

The Royal Secretary smirks a bastard smirk through his mustache. "Your Serene Highness — just the man we were hoping for! Your scout-messengers are safe with us." But, hm, he sounds genuine.

He seems to read your mind. "No, I am not here to ruin you, or lead you to death or dishonor or anything of the sort. We ought to set our differences aside for now." He nods to Janusz and Konstanty. "After all, the good Princes here are friends of your folk — but the realm is under attack by proper barbarians, no?"

Alright, surely he's here to curry favor with the Ruthenians, same as you, there's no doubt of that. But genuinely wanting to cooperate? Well, you suppose that he's got good soldiers and a reputation on the line… Who says he cares about your people, though? You feel some prickles, as it were, as much as you curse the Crab under which you were born for making you so naturally agreeable. You can't help but want to believe him! You suppose that you'll at least work with him. After all, there's only two outcomes: victory and defeat, and the former most assuredly takes cooperation to achieve.

You nod and half-force a smile. "Glad to hear, Lord Zamoyski, truly. Let us squabble over the election some other time."

"It's all concord here, Your Serene Highness!" exclaims Prince Janusz. "Our differences mean nothing for the time being."

"Very good," you say, brightening slightly at the opinion of a man you actually have reason to trust. "I reckon I need some filling in," you say to the men, "things seem very grim."

"Indeed," says Zamoyski, to the nods of the Ostrogski brothers. "But you're just in time. We think we've sniffed out the war-camp; we're packing up tomorrow, and sending forward scouts to confirm it."

"Aiming for an assault?"

"Absolutely!" cry the Ostrogski brothers.

"Indeed, indeed," says Lord Zamoyski more coolly. "One large confrontation and they'll be back over the Dniepr — even if we lose, perhaps. But it's odd they're in this part of the country." He sweeps his arm at the low trees and grassy hills that define this part of Ruthenia.

"God won't allow us to face defeat," you say. Would He? "He is with us." You try to ignore the fact that you've hired Mohammadans to travel under your banner.

"And good cavalry is with us, too!" your perhaps erstwhile rival laughs. "Your column looks sizable, Your Serene Highness! Who have you brought along?"

"Two hundred of my sworn men, hussars all," you say with a sudden swell of pride. "Around five-hundred Litwin Tatars, and a little regiment of mercenary rajtaria. All chomping at the bit for a scrape."

"Very good; we'll need all we can get. There could be up to ten thousand of them. The chambuls are much larger than what's normal," Zamoyski says gravely.

"They must think us disunited," chimes in young Konstanty. "We ought to prove them wrong." Fiery lad.

By dusk, your men have glommed themselves onto the mass of the camp; it's a shame they'll only be afforded a night's rest. You've moved into a command tent with Lord Zamoyski and the brother-princes.

Numbers are reviewed: with the arrival of your forces, the army's numbers have swelled to about five thousand fighting men (earlier reports were exaggerated, it's revealed, conflating camp followers with soldiers). Four thousand are mounted troops of all stripes and caliber, with the remainder bardiche-musketeers. Rumors of possessing cannon have proven false. All in all, a fine force, though you wonder if Tatar numbers — should the reports prove true — would overwhelm it. You've no experience in military matters of this size, though you know from your extensive reading in France that discipline and killing power is ultimately what wins the day. You pray that the muskets and carbines and pistols and even the Lipkas' bows will do good work. Only God is the one who will truly carry the day. Let this become a Lepanto on terra firma, o Lady of Victory.

The men pack their things with haste before the summer dawn even crests the horizon, the sky purple like a bruise, with just barely enough light to work without torchlight. Clear skies and muggy air define the quick march to Bracław, where the army is greeted with tears of joy on the town's refugee-choked streets. But there's no time to revel in a hero's welcome; the army passes right through, only stopping to refill waterskins and buy strong liquor for what is to come.

The men boast fearfully. You can sense it: they trade war stories and feats of prowess in duels and drunken brawls, but there's just the slightest waver in their voices. Not fear — no, not at all — but something else. Something you've felt before, something hard to describe, a kind of dreadful excitement, staring death in the face while steeling oneself to kill all at once. Facing God and Sin and the reality of their profession; they're used to it, but they're preparing for it all the same. That is why they brag and drink and swagger about, and that is why they're so good at what they do. They wear that armor.

On the morning of the ninth, breathless scouts dispatched overnight return home, caked with dust. The war-camp's been discovered, or perhaps some kind of satellite. It's positioned atop a gentle hill overlooking the Southern Bug, with no bridges in sight. However, the waters are not rapids, nor is the shoreline marshy, and the scouts wager they may be forded by men on horseback easily enough.

They reckon that it may contain at least several thousand men, and compare it in size to your own forces' encampment – though the tents of Tatars are greatly different in shape and size, so who's to say? They don't believe that they were detected. Awfully far from the Dniepr, and quite deep in Christian territory, the Ruthenians note, confirming Zamoyski's prior thoughts. To your mind, the Tatars' hubris must know no bounds.

The Royal Secretary indeed suspects that there's a trick of some kind. He reckons they should be much further east and, by placing their camp in the scrubby, rolling hills of this area of Bracław Voivodeship, blunt their ability to fight on their own terms. "It just doesn't make sense," he says. "Besides, the men and horses need a rest."

The young Ostrogski Princes, meanwhile, agitate for an immediate assault on the camp, from multiple directions – they mean to not let a single Tatar escape, such is their thirst for vengeance.

All three men, Zamoyski your senior and the Ostrogski lads barely grown, now look to you.

[] Advocate for caution and further scouting.

Zamoyski's right, damn him: something isn't quite right here. Where are their patrols? Are their numbers really so exaggerated? Of course, if the Christian army is detected, the Tatars may well move to disengage.

[] Advocate for an immediate frontal assault.

The quality of Polonian horses means that even the armored hussars can catch a Tatar, should he withstand their arrows. Forget the musketeers, a speedy ambush will see us roll through their camp like a wave of gunpowder and steel, and render moot any fatigue on the part of our forces. After all, if the Tatars catch wind of a potentially-superior force bearing down on them in a more deliberate manner, they may just run, so time is of the essence.

[] Volunteer to be the hammer to the main force's anvil.

It will fall to you to outflank the Tatars in pitched battle, adding additional pressure and potentially cutting off a retreat – a blessing and a curse, as vengeance will be the Christians', while the foeman will fight like a cornered animal. In the event of a Tatar attempt to disengage, it falls to your force to bog them down until the Zamoyski-Ostrogski troops can make contact.

[] Suggest intentionally revealing yourselves to the Tatars.

Let them make the first move. They'll either run, make a bid to fortify the camp, or sally out for a pitched battle. You reckon that in the first case, you can catch them in an assault, or ford the river to meet them on the other side. In the second case: guns outrange bows, and they may be starved out in a matter of days. The third? Meet them with superior arms and armor.

[] Write-in.

Add a couple sentences describing the plan. Use your creativity!

 

[Rolman]

"My lords," you interject, "what if we meet in the middle?" They're listening. "Surely, it's odd that an entire camp of Tatars haven't sniffed us out yet, and surely we'd be remiss to let the heathens go."

You therefore propose a probing attack, with the main force not far behind to provide support in any potential outcome. "Let's bait them, and see if it's an ambush or if they've truly gotten as lazy as some of us suspect," you say. "No matter what happens, our full weight will be brought down on them one way or another."

Zamoyski cocks his head. "Sounds risky, Your Serene Highness," is all he says, not breaking eye contact with you. The Ostrogski lads suddenly look a little more sober.

It rushes to your mind: oh, right. Someone's got to be the bait. And, given that it's your idea…

"I'll do it myself," you say. "It's only right."

Prince Konstanty splutters a little, tripping over his words. "Let me join you, lord prince!"

"And may I as well," says Janusz, only slightly more calm. Three ranking princes sticking out their necks is really something, but you reckon there's no chance the brothers will be dissuaded.

And you've got to put your money where your mouth is. "I'll take all my men — that's a thousand. Five hundred Ostrogscy on each flank, then, my lords?"

Konstanty and Janusz agree quickly. "All cavalry, of course," you say. "That makes two thousand of our five into bait — or half of our horsemen. Convincingly large."

"I'll set up a tabor here at camp," says Zamoyski. "It's only prudent. The musketeers will take up defensive positions. They can't crack a wall of wagons under gunfire."

"God willing," you nod. "We're, what, a fifth-mile* from camp to camp? We won't be too isolated from each other."

"Whoever hears gunfire first comes to the aid of the other?" asks Zamoyski.

"Yes, and hopefully we'll be able to use mounted messengers."

"Very good," says the Royal Secretary. He looks around at the Ostrogski Princes and yourself. "I'm glad we could find a compromise, and a smart one at that. May your plan be as insightful as it sounds, Your Serene Highness!"

By the time the men are ready and the details confirmed once more, it's a bit after noon. A ring of emptied-out supply wagons surround the camp, forming the tabor, with musketeers perched in their beds and filling the small gaps between them. You hear Mass and you offer up Confession, gladdened to receive Absolution in the face of such oncoming danger. Meanwhile, the Lipkas wash themselves and bow low before their false god, and the Reformed hear a vernacular sermon laden with martial Psalms. You Cross yourself at the sight of the Ruthenians who, after their Liturgy, and to cheers and bended knees, hoist twin banners bearing the halo-crowned face of Christ — one for the left flank and one for the right — their black-robed priests flicking their aspergills and letting men kiss holy icons. You request the Catholic priests similarly bless you and the faithful men; they do without question, of course. Even the godless, hardened mercenary rajtaria ask for such protection this time around.

"You look good!" smiles Marszowski.

It's your first time out of your Western plates. You've kept its Iliad-engraved cuirass, of course, but you now wear lighter pauldrons of segmented plate in the local style. No gauntlets and no greaves — just thick leather gloves and high riding boots. Instead of a closed gendarme's helm, you wear an open-faced burgonet. And Marszowski insisted you wear one of his sashes of exotic leopard-pelt cross-chest.

"Thank you, Sir Marszowski," you say, mind elsewhere. You're not quite like him yet. A proper soldier, that is. Men like him don't even need to think about it anymore or, at least, they can hide it very well.

And the advance begins, with fresh-shined plates and flags raised high, into the unknown: Radziwiłł yellow-black and Ostrogski red-white and the Polish Eagle and Lithuanian Pogoń — if you didn't know better, it'd feel like a fanfare, and it's good thing to be loud and bright for the purpose of drawing the Tatars out. But you cannot hear the birds, and you curse that fact under your breath, almost unsure why you must. Instead, there's two thousand sets of hooves thudding, the men willing to still talk speaking hushed words to neighbors or themselves. You're flanked by Marszowski and your Tatars' commander, Amurat.

You crest a hill and take in the sight before you: a sprawl of circular white tents obscuring the blue of the Southern Bug, stretching from atop a hill down into the plains. "No campfire smoke," you note.

"No…" says Marszowski, humming with thought.

You raise a fist and bellow: "HALT!"

The command spreads down the lines, and you can distantly hear the youthful voices of the Ostrogski brothers repeat your order in Ruthenian. "Let's just listen," you say, your nose tingling and stomach half-lurching. "And look."

The stale air of your exhales bounce off your bevor back into your nose. Your ears ring, but no sound from the rear. Good. The camp is safe thus far.

"Ah-ha!" points Marszowski, craning his neck and looking to the side. "Look at the bastards." He sounds utterly unbothered.

You ride ahead of the battle-line a bit to get a better view: you see little ant-like figures a half-turn to the left over the heads of your host and between the fluttering banners, atop a hill some distance away. "Those aren't ours," you call out flatly.

"No, no they're not."

You whip your head back to look at the Tatar camp: no signs of life. You sigh a short sigh and make a decision. "HALF-TURN LEFT! EYES ON THAT HILL!"

The order spreads and carries, and as your view clarifies without the obstacle of your own flank, you see now the figures multiplying. And approaching at some speed. Voices are carrying on the wind — a rhythmic chant of some kind. More and more and more. The hill is, in a matter of moments, thick with them, all heading toward you. You see sky-blue flags carried by armor-glistening specks appear atop the mound, and the closest figures approaching confirm what you already knew to be true: mounted men in garb of all colors. They're spread out, but there must be hundreds of them and growing, moving in clusters like swarms of flies, yet in waves. They just keep coming, and are growing closer and closer. Their warcry grows louder and louder. You look to the enemy camp, and still see nothing of note.

Your mind is blank. For some reason you find yourself asking: "what are they saying?"

"The language of our Prophet, peace be upon him," says Amurat the Tatar. He snorts. "Funny. They're saying: 'God is great.' That's what my men will be saying, too."

Marszowski looks straight on. "What do you say, Your Serene Highness?"

Oh, right. God help you. Horses stomp nervously; men sniff and clear their throats.

[] "Charge. Sound the trumpets and horns."

Meet them with haste. The Lipkas will only have the opportunity to loose one or two volleys before resorting to their sabers.

[] "Hold. Let them get closer. Then we move."

Make a decision once you begin to take enemy fire, allowing the enemy to enter bow and carbine range.

[] Turn to Amurat. "Let them fight themselves. Screen them with your men, mirza."

Send the Lipkas forward to skirmish.

[] Write-in.

A few sentences.

*using the 1613 measures of Tomasz Makowski. 0.87 Imperial miles, or 1.4 kilometers. A mounted messenger at breakneck gallop can travel that distance in a few minutes.

 

[Rolman]

The enemy Tatars seem to be letting themselves get close; they've been within range for a while. Your men, likewise, are waiting to fire. Were they to be properly charging, there'd be about ten seconds til impact.

 

[Rolman]

More like thirty, sorry

 

[Rolman]

You turn to Amurat. "Let them fight themselves. Screen them with your men, mirza."

"With pleasure," replies the Tatar captain. "Tatars of Lithuania," he booms, "it's time to go to work! Takbir!"

The Lipkas break ranks to a resounding Allahu Akbar! Horses whimper and snort loudly in reaction as their masters bid them forward with the flicking of reins and encouraging cries; arms reach downward or behind for quivers.

"Get ready," says Marszowski, still calm as ever, ducking slightly.

Your question is answered before you can ask it, as an arrow whizzes past your ear and, by the sound of it, breaks on the breastplate of someone behind you. You remember the dread wrought by that snapping Muscovite arrow, when it dented your cuirass and punched you harder than any man ever had, knocking your wind out. You took that boyar's hand for it. Thirteen months since you've last had to do this, survive this. But now you've got two thousand men to keep alive, not two hundred.

And more arrows are coming, sailing over the heads of the Lipkas, who are already diverting themselves to the left and right, a few tumbling and sliding off their horses or having their steeds shot out from under them. You can't tell how well they're doing against the enemy. God, you can't see the killer things until they're already flying by: little specks that grow and grow and then make a horse scream or man grunt or armor clank. You look around and the men, like you, are stooped low atop their horses, the few with shields using them. You grunt with frustration, with a sense of what's almost helplessness, and turn your head back to survey the scene to your front.

The Crimeans are nearly on top of you, probably only fifty feet away at this point, looking nothing like your native-son Lipkas, and yet looking oddly familiar: the men who want to kill you wear fur hats not unlike a szlachcic's – the peaks are taller, you notice, and others seem to wear black skullcaps – alongside tunics dyed in a variety of colors, ribboned with vertical stripes. You can see their black beards and their mouths chanting to their god. Their arrows continue to fly, denser and denser, now directly at you, and you clamp yourself down onto Sztylet's neck, praying for the misses to continue. Something grazes your helmet. At least, praise God, you can see the Lipkas' projectiles in profile flying into the mass of foemen, felling more than a few.

You weather the storm with your men, the sound of metal on metal and horses dying all about you. Someone near you sounds like he's choking.

All at once the enemy Tatars pull hard on their reins, their horses stumbling to a stop or rearing up as contact is nearly made directly with your line. You can see their shocked faces, wide eyes. It's remarkable that the Ostrogski boys haven't broken ranks yet; they must be scared or brave or both.

"Now, lord prince, now!"

They must have thought you wouldn't stand your ground, though God knows what the casualties may be. But whoever's saying that is right. In an eyeblink you find your arm reaching for and firing one of your three pistols, and the din of hooves are at once drowned out by terrible thunder. It's apparent that your entire force was merely waiting for a first shot, and in a matter of seconds you find your ears screech-ringing and the air around you wreathed in acrid smoke. It's a devastating volley: through the haze you see a heap of writhing men and horses stretching back at least ten yards, and the survivors making a full turn about. All you can hear are your own eardrums, but the ones not killed outright must be raising a mournful wail, the way the ground's come alive with the dying.

The horses want to break badly. Even the strong ones bred for warfighting, like your very own Sztylet, pace in place, chomping on their bits and trying to step back. But we are not scared animals, not all the time, at least.

No, we are not. You raise your lance high and shout at the top of your lungs, though you cannot hear yourself:

"Saint Michael, Saint George! Bóg nam radzi!"

And you will your horse forward with your mind on survival and a Christian victory, in your peripheral seeing pistol-arms extend and sabers point forward, lances dropping down into a couched horizontal. You madly reach for your second pistol, aim at nothing in particular, and squeeze the trigger. You scream and scream and scream, like you're being born, howling with pride and fear and anger. They're running. The Tatars are running. They must be. Through your ringing, plunged-underwater ears, you can hear the boom of guns and over a thousand men joining you in an angry shriek.

Sztylet weaves through the first volley's carnage without need for your aid and now it's nothing but open field, peppered with men and horses lying still. Out of the powder-cloud you can now see the Tatars riding breakneck for the blue-flagged hilltop from whence they came. Your Lipkas, holding their Lithuanian standards high, ride parallel to the fleeing Crimeans some distance away, peppering them with brown-black streaks that lose themselves in the clumps and clusters of riders.

You breathe and fight the urge of reaching for your third and last pistol, even as the Tatars turn back in the saddle to loose their arrows mid-retreat. Your charge is moving at about the same speed as their retreat, and they're still well within range of the men's pistols and carbines, which they use to good effect. The Lipkas have them boxed in and under fire on their flanks, and you feel as if this initial Tatar attack must be a failure.

Well, breathe-breathe-breathe-breathe! You cannot give in to bloodlust, at least not yet: there's still the issue of the camp, which you can no longer clearly see on account of your own right flank. And Tatars are more than known to feint retreats – you cast your eyes up to the hill where the sky-blue banners fly, surrounded by glimmering armored men. Who knows what may await you atop it. Or behind it.

There may still be time. An emphatic may. The flanks haven't parted from each other yet, which means that people, once more, may still be able to hear you, or at least note if your banner suddenly changes direction. But those gleaming mirzas or whoever they may be up there… What a prize – for capture, for the sword, anything. Your head's all foggy, everything is (literally) moving very fast, but you do your best to make a decision.

[] Continue the charge.

God is with us. We have a bull's head of heavy troops and horns made of horse-archers; we can withstand a counter-charge and then some. And it's not as if we can't take the hill and *then* change directions.

[] Attempt to turn towards the camp.

Put this mystery to rest once and for all. The Lipkas can become a blocking force to protect the flank we'll have to expose to bear down on the camp. Perhaps attacking their tents – which may contain some of their loot, spare horses, slaves, things of that nature – will spoil whatever surprise they could have planned for us in the hills.

[] Halt the charge; allow the Lipkas to pursue, and dispatch a rider back to Zamoyski's camp.

Let the skirmishers do what they're meant to do, and allow the heavy cavalry to catch their breath and reload their guns. In the meantime – and recall that it will be perhaps a seven-minute round trip – dispatch a messenger back to Lord Zamoyski to explain the situation and solicit his cavalry, if they're not already on their way.

[] write-in.

No more than a few sentences.

 

[Rolman]

You draw your saber with your free hand and point it to the right, yelling as loudly as you can to your lieutenants and standard-bearer. They seem to get the message and begin to turn; your hussars and rajtaria simply follow, while the inertia of the turn brings Prince Janusz's flank wheeling about alongside you.

As you look to your left and then over your shoulder, though, you see Ostrogski red-white in the air moving away further and further. Dammit! Konstanty's section must've not noticed the turn, and they're continuing on toward the hill, their guns puffing smoke up into the skies. You motion to a horn-carrying hussar to blow; he does with haste. You pray that the fugitive Ostrogski flank will notice eventually and, you realize in a jolt – hopefully the Lipkas don't think they've been abandoned. In any event, you make a little wager to yourself that an assault on the Tatar camp will shift things to being on your terms.

The expanse of round Tatar tents now lies before you and your howling, hoof-thundering charge. To your surprise, figures begin to emerge from the nearest ones and begin to run deeper into the camp. You laugh maniacally: the rambling cackle of a man still alive, not just alive, but winning. You forget about your missing left flank in your excitement to run them down and force an angry panic. They'll be alright, surely! At least for a while. After all, the tide is swinging in our favor. You're afraid and excited and alive and you've never felt this way before on the field. The wind of the charge rushes over your face.

Some of the figures halt and, after a few moments, the arrows begin to whizz by again. A man just barely in front of you – one of your bodyguards – is thrown viciously forward off of his horse, and through your ringing ears you can hear his armor crunching underhoof. Your stomach drops but you can't quite care at the moment. The distant Tatars turn and run again, disappearing amongst their tents. So, they're still armed. The charging line begins to break up some as men anticipate which gap or little avenue they'll ride up.

You enter the camp and set your sights on a fleeing Tatar. You make contact quickly and drive your lance into his back, buckling his knees and dragging him for a moment before you tense up your arm, desperately holding onto the shaft, and withdraw – you've never done that before. You're glad you couldn't see his face. The few riders to your front grind to a dust-kicking halt, though, as more and more heathens emerge from their tents, gripping cavalry lances and sabers. Your peripheral catches a rush of dyed fabric and you whip your head to the tent closest to you; he's coming at you with a war ax! Without thinking, you use your last pistol on him and strike him right between the eyes, a terrible flash of pink and white yawning out of the former top half of his face as he flies to the ground, face-down. He got so close that he actually bounces off Sztylet. You curse with shock, and look about to see the camp's dusty lanes filling with Tatars on foot. Pistols boom and you can just barely hear the sounds of swords crossing through your still-shrieking ears.

Damn it! Think. Think. Everything will probably be alright. A good hussar can fight two or three men at once, surely. We've got good armor and plentiful firearms and the Lady of Victory watching over us, and they've got none of those. You can only hope that She's doing the same for your infidel allies and Konstanty's detachment.

Oh, Christ! Here comes another one – this time with a lance of his own. "No!" you yell, as he begins to stab at a screaming Sztylet. He's on the side of your sword-arm! You lean down off your staggering mount and just barely manage to catch him with the tip of your saber, slashing him with a blood-filling cut over the eye. The Tatar staggers back and trips to the ground, and your dear horse slides forward, almost throwing you from his back, braying and grunting. His front legs have given out. "No-no-no!"

You clamor from the saddle and skitter up to your feet, finishing off the injured Tatar with savage hacks to the neck. He leans back and rolls about in the dust. Sztylet lies panting on the ground. You wheel around wildly, making sure no one else is coming for you. Chaos is spreading all about. Horses are falling and more than a few hussars are on the ground, straddled or mobbed by foemen.

A shock of blond hair crosses your sight in the mouth of a tent. It's a woman?! Slashing a Tatar's throat?! She drops her victim to the ground and shields her eyes from the sun. You rush over to her. More Ruthenians in dirt-smeared peasant garb emerge from the tent, squinting and looking near-drunk. Young men and pretty girls. You've seen what they do to the too-young and too-old. You hear her through the ringing: "what's going on? Is this why they were hiding?"

"You're safe!" you manage to blurt out. Both her eyes are swollen near-shut, all black and puffy.

She points her knife down at the corpse. "Now that he's gone, yes, and God bless you all!" she shouts. "They took most of us to the center of camp, where the ones in the chainmail stay, the big bosses!"

"Just – get out of here! Run!" you yell.

But the peasants begin to backpedal, cowering, pointing behind you. Right as you turn around you're hit hard on the head, setting your scalp on fire. Praise God for this helmet!

And praise God that this one only has a sword and dagger; he leaps back to dodge a slash you take at him. Young, bearded, wearing a conical helm. You twirl your wrist and come at him with high chops, and you realize from the way he parries that he knows what he's doing. You begin the dance. Just like the duel from a year ago – strike-parry-riposte, strike-parry-riposte – and you try and keep an eye on that wicked, curving knife in his off-hand. A slip in your guard and a harmless slash at your pauldron is a mercy of sorts; so desperate were you to stay alive, to fend him off, to do anything, that you forgot that you've got something he doesn't. You close the distance, grab his sword-arm at the wrist, and slash his throat.

You feel the sensation of being punched in the upper leg, making you grunt. Blood seeps out of a tear in the fabric of your trousers – your inner thigh, close to your manhood. You feel a sense of disbelief for some reason as you look down at the Tatar, kicking about in the dust and gripping at his throat. You scream and start crashing your saber down on him anywhere you can reach – how dare you try to kill me! How dare you try to kill me! – like a peasant clearing brush with a sickle.

As you pant raggedly, sweat and blood cooling on your face, you look up to see yet another heathen charging you, and you steel yourself for more. But there's a boom behind you, and he goes tripping and stumbling down onto the ground. You turn around to find Marszowski, carbine in hand, nearly falling off his horse as he slides out of the stirrups. Is he hurt? Oh God, is he hurt?

He shouts over his shoulder. "I found him! I found him!" You turn and look to see your other bodyguards and standard-bearer riding up. He grabs you by the shoulders and looks you up and down. "Heavenly Father, you've got blood all over you!"

"Not mine, not mine," you say breathlessly. "But– well– he got me in the leg."

"What?!" his mouth is agape. "Let me see!"

He tears your pants down and you can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. "That's not where the big vein is!" he shouts out, voice cracking. "You'll be okay, lad– lord prince!" You pull your trousers up and you both assume your guards, looking about for more assailants. "Where's your horse?"

You notice that the Tatars have, again, turned tail, and your men are either riding them down or re-mounting the surviving horses to do so. "We've got them on the run!" you cry, only now realizing that you stand amidst a bloodbath: the tunics of the Tatars make the ground look like a macabre carpet, studded with red-splattered heaps of hussar armor. A headless body peeks out a sliver of spine at you, only feet away. You gasp and Cross yourself and look to where the captives once stood – they've long since fled, it seems. You exhale and look at Marszowski. "My horse? Dead, I think, God damn it."

"Take mine then," he says, "we've got to keep after them."

"Agreed," you say, "agreed. The sooner we clear this camp the sooner we can go help the rest of us!"

You mount up onto Marszowski's steed and take a moment to collect your thoughts. You look around at Hell and know you must plunge deeper into it still. The men are blood-mad and are carrying on the charge, even if it would be wiser to withdraw and help the forces back at the hill. And, so, you must join them. You must join them. No time to catch your breath, no time to reload, nothing. This must end. Now.

And so you carry on, onward toward the center of the camp. Dead Tatars mingle with orderly rows of murdered slaves. The heathens are playing a terrible, brutal game: if the mirzas and beys cannot have their slaves, the lords and princes cannot have their serfs. Indeed, things grow more and more surreal as you ride deeper and deeper into the camp, facing no resistance but seeing signs of a Tatar rout. Smashed pieces of glass and ceramicware litter the lanes, unfurled, randomly-strewn Armenian carpets smolder and burn – even entire tents are up in flames.

All you find in the center of camp are heaps of dead serfs, an awful shock of Saint Bartholomew's Day shooting up into the front of your mind. Split necks and severed heads and not a living enemy to be found. The men have accumulated here; some of the hussars are wiping their eyes. Most are cursing and swearing oaths of vengeance. A cry rises up and spreads as the men begin to sprint toward you: "the prince is alive! Glory to God, Mother Maria's mercy!"

A richly-armored man rips off his helmet: it's Prince Janusz. "I somehow knew you'd make it, Your Serene Highness," he says, face caked with dirt, looking angry and fearful. "I have no clue where my brother is!"

"He missed the order to turn and split off toward that hill; he's with our own Tatars!" you say.

"Well… Well, we've got to go get him!" He lowers his voice. "He's my brother."

A hussar you've never seen before rides up from behind and interjects; you wince at the sudden appearance of someone in your blind spot. "Your Serene Highness! We've got ourselves a great dust-up back out in the fields: Lord Zamoyski and his riders have arrived, and the musketeers rode on their backs when they could! His Highness the Prince Konstanty is trying to take the hill covered with heathen flags, but he and the Litwin Tatars are outnumbered – they're raining down arrows from above! My Lord Zamoyski is maneuvering to join the fray as we speak, and the musketeers are drawing up their lines!"

Hm. "Thank you. Now hear my words, messenger."

You raise a fist to the men: listen up. You have never been so furious in your life. Blood pours down your leg and you don't care. You are hungry, thirsty, dying for revenge. But you are a commander on this day, not just as a servant-warrior of God.

[] "Men, we must turn back! Prince Konstanty and Lord Zamoyski will be in need of aid!"

No time to waste. Forget the monsters that lived here; they'll be hunted down in due time. Fellow Christians are in need of aid, and there's a second battle to be won still, for all intents and purposes.

[] "Men, let us slaughter these animals to the last! Sweep this camp and kill every heathen!"

The river bounds them in. They're either hiding or spilling out of the camp's sides. Surely, with nearly two thousand men fighting in a separate melee, they can hold their own while we mop up here. After all, a living Tatar is a fighting Tatar, and they may be moving to aid their brothers at the fight around the hill.

[] "Men, reload your pistols and carbines and gather to me! We move as one!"

Let everybody catch their breath and prepare for another bout, whether here or there. Preparation is key. Some of the men have lost their horses, for God's sake.

[] Write-in.

Phrased as a verbal command.

 

[Rolman]

"Men, reload your pistols and carbines and gather to me! We move as one!" You turn to one of your bodyguards. "Blow your horn. Anybody still alive ought to gather here."

As the rallying call blares, you remove your helmet and streak a little half-dried blood through your sweat-drenched hair with a sweep of your gauntlet. You didn't mean to, but you can't avoid doing so. You're marked all over with the signs of what has happened, and your stomach lurches as you replay each of the day's kills. But it had to be done. You sigh and listen out as you begin to reload your pistols, one by one. Hussars and rajtaria with and without their horses clank to the horn's call from all directions, covered in blood and dust. You hear gunfire in the direction of the hill, and can just barely see its top over the tents: armor-shining men are heading down it, on horse and on foot. They saved their best for the hillside.

"How many did you drop, Your Serene Highness?" asks Marszowski. You both have to raise your voices to be heard over the clamor of men arriving and your half-deafened ears.

"Four, I think."

He claps on your shoulder. "I only killed two! How's your leg?"

You look down at your bloodstained trousers. "Fine, I think. That doesn't look like too bad of a bleed. I think?"

"Well, I saw what it looked like and I think you can keep going. I think I've been stuck worse than that before."

"Good."

"Good," agrees Marszowski. "You're alright? I know you've been in dust-ups before but the scale can be…"

"Jarring, yes, Hell on earth," you say frankly. "I'll be alright." You think.

Marszowski opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted: a few of your men come running up with fresh, slender Tatar horses. "The corrals are all full!" they exclaim. "Might have to ditch some of the armor, but we can ride again!" You look down the corpse-filled camp lane and spot more than a few brown and black and white humps. Poor Sztylet. He was a good horse. Damn it! Nothing good ever comes from war.

You're snapped out of it by the sight of the live horses being led in from the flanks by dirt-caked soldiers. The corrals are all full, huh? Ah hah. Perhaps they were planning a flank with their light lancers and a few more horse archers, but weren't quite ready yet. Maybe the ambush was a last-second venture. You don't know. But you decide that this is an occasion to grin with pride, despite the grimness of it all: your forward probe must've thrown everything into disarray for them, one prong sprung prematurely and one never set into motion at all. Or perhaps everything was disrupted.

There's neither need nor time to think about it, though. This little fight's been won. And this awful plaza – charnel house – with its pile of slain slaves, is filling to the brim with your surviving men, angrily gathering around the heap of bodies. It's a smaller number of fighters now, to be certain. Perhaps some of the mercenary rajtaria have set themselves to looting, you're not sure, but it'd be typical of the brutes. It took a lot of fist-shaking to ensure they wouldn't brutalize friendly serfs.

It's been minutes now, though, and there's no time to waste. Those who are here are here, those who are alive are alive, and it's time to move. Men have ditched their cuirasses and ride bareback or with oversized saddles on requisitioned Tatar horses. Everyone looks to you.

"Alright, listen up!" you yell. "We're back out into the field – we've got unfinished business up that hill, don't we?"

The men exclaim in agreement. They're somehow still eager. You see the heap of innocent bodies behind them and feel a numbness, replacing your initial sense of shock, disgust, even fear. France feels more and more like nothing. You've lived it now, not just watched. You can do what they did, and stop others from doing it to you. Praise God, in a way.

You shake your head like a dog trying to dry itself. Stay on-task. "Let's do it, then! Full gallop" Sabers and lances are raised triumphantly high as translations are yelled out in Ruthenian. "Prince Janusz, my lord, to me! Let's get his lordship your brother out of that mess!"

The Ostrogski scion rides up. "This is your first fight?" you ask with a lowered voice.

"Yes," he replies.

"Terrifying, no?"

"I'm not a coward."

You think you said that once. "Sure you're not. You haven't run or pissed yourself," you smile. "Fear is fear. I'm scared. But we're born to lead, so let's lead and win doing it. By the grace of God and our steel." You're a little shocked you can talk like this all of a sudden.

"Right, Your Serene Highness," he nods gravely.

You point your saber toward the hill after making sure your standard-bearer's beside you. "Bóg nam radzi! S nami Bog! Let's put an end to this!"

The men cheer as the thundering begins anew, only half-hindered by the dead and dying upon which you trample carelessly. Your own wounded will have to be cared for later, as much as the thought gives you pause.

The camp opens up back into the scrubby fields, and you take in what you're able to see. Beneath a foggy haze of gunsmoke, a melee between cavalry has broken out, a great cluster of wheeling and spinning horses, of men armored and unarmored crossing glinting sabers in the distance. Red-white and red-yellow flags still fly, but there's no clue to truly know who's winning. As you saw back at camp, chainmailed riders and footmen pour down the hill, Crimean blue still raised high atop the mound. Horse archers of unknown allegiance swarm like flies around the conglomeration's edges. Your attention is then drawn to a dustcloud emanating from the direction of Zamoyski's camp: a jogging mass of infantry in tight ranks. Those must be the musketeers.

Given the direction from which you're coming, you can either slam directly into the fray or bypass the fracas for the hill proper.

[] Head for the melee.

Prince Konstanty and Lord Zamoyski are in there, and probably need all the help they can get. The chaos of the fight renders the musketeers useless for now, you reckon.

[] Head for the hill.

Prepare for a flanking maneuver, or otherwise interdict the heavily-armored Tatars, who must be the mirzas or their companions.

 

[Rolman]

Yes… Yes, indeed, there must be a good farmer's field worth of space between the melee and the hill from which the armored Tatars are emanating. Capturing that hill and seizing their banners – and perhaps their chief mirzas, maybe even a bey – the appearance of their enemy behind them could turn the great scrum into an easy rout.

"Toward that hill! Bear right! Let's claim those wondrous blue flags, eh?" you shout out to your closest men. As yourself and your standard-bearer make the gentle, curving turn, so too does the rest of your force, however much the battle-line has been broken and replaced with a loose column. You look over your shoulder and wave them on with your saber, a mass of now-dulled armor trailing behind you with their own blades held high. Bóg nam radzi – maybe there could be some glory in this. It's hard to really say if that's what you're feeling or rather the thrill, as one could maybe call it: the joy of still living, the throat-choking and heart-pounding urge to save Christian lives, the odd sensation of knowing that hundreds upon hundreds of fighting men, many of whom your elders, look to you to show them a mighty victory. You are a prince, a very alive and even buzzing one, caked with dirt and blood and reeking of sulfur and metal and survivor's stink. That camp has been slaughtered by your hand, at your command. You steer your new horse around some of your killed men, struck by the arrows volleyed from within the camp itself during the initial assault.

Onward through the fields, bearing down on that hill of chainmailed foes, capped with banners that almost disappear in the beautiful summer sky. A lovely day, either tarnished by death or made shining with valor as you once more feel the rush of wind, the sun on your face. You notice that a few of the armored figures stop in their tracks as they were making their way down the hill; it looks like they may be pointing. A few turn around and begin to head back up.

Fleeing already? You certainly hope so. Either that, or rallying to brace for impact. In any event, there's no turning back now, as the figures draw closer and closer.

A few horse archers peel off from around the melee in your direction – not friendly! Another bee-swarm of arrows whizzes by, and one of your bodyguards slides out of his saddle to be trampled by his own friends. "Forward! Forward!" you scream, half-mad again, under and on fire.

You ascend the hill facing next to no resistance, the few Tatars standing their ground quickly lanced or shot or cut down with sabers or merely bowled over by the wall of horseflesh. You shoot a man for the second time in a day. But as you reach the top, you find a mass of chainmail and pointed helms running at you from the non-visible slope before you, on horse and on foot, running and riding around their flags planted in the ground. You're among the first to make contact with one of these armored foes, and find yourself deafened again by the pistols going off around you.

My lance! By God – Hellfire – you left it somewhere in the madness of the camp battle, and forgot to ask for another one. You beat on the shoulders of the Tatar to no effect, before realizing that you've got to defend yourself; you desperately force his spear to glance off you with hacks and blade-flat slaps from your saber, unsure of what to do. Back at Orsza, you caught that boyar on the wrist, but this heathen's lance is keeping you at bay. You fear that any second he'll shift his attention to your horse, and reaching down to grab your second pistol from the saddle holster would be a distraction too great.

He indeed goes for your mount, stabbing the poor beast straight through the neck, eliciting a screaming neigh-gurgle. Your first thought is on death. Your death. You feel yourself falling, and you feel cold and afraid and like nothing all of a sudden. It won't be the Tatar that kills you, but the unfolding battle around you. Stomping hooves and falling horses are deadly things indeed. Your steed is falling onto its side, you realize, and you rip your foot out of the stirrup but groan as you hit the ground hard and your leg is crushed by the beast.

Your senses are screaming at you to live. You throw your hands up to shield your head and try to make yourself small, to survive the lance or the horseshoe bludgeons or whatever it is that's about to happen to you.

But men all around you are screaming: the Prince! The Prince! You're not forgotten in the murderous shuffle. You start laughing and you don't know why. You can just barely, through your still-hurting ears, the throat of the Tatar open up with a splutter. You stay curled up. Voices are calling out and asking men to protect them; through your half-covered eyes you see boots on the ground.

A familiar voice yells "push-push-push-push!" and to grunts of exertion you feel the terrible weight on your leg travel down, down, knee to foot and then off of you. Several sets of hands hoist you to your feet, and you're shoved behind Marszowski and your bodyguards.

You somehow have the presence of mind to remember who you are. You rip off your helmet and turn around to your side. "I'M ALIVE!"

A roaring cheer to that – cries of Saints' names and appeals to the Lord – and you turn around to see the Tatars balking. Not running, but backing up. Your men's pistol fire is at point-blank range, and the holes being punched into their bodies and battle-line are having quite the effect. This may all be over soon. A thought springs to your head, and you lean forward to yell into Marszowski's helmeted ear. "Do you know what's happening down the hill?"

"Nope!" he laughs. "And you now owe me a horse, lord Prince!"

You manage to scoff, despite the clamor all about you. "God keep you, Andrzej Marszowski!"

"We'll see if He will!"

It seems that you get to take a breather; you're very little good on foot in a mix like this, even though some of the Tatars are desperately fighting without their horses. Marszowski and your lieutenants mount up once more. "Keep pushing, men!" Your voice is turning raw. The Radziwiłł banner flies high over your head. "Push! Push!" You bend over and grab a pistol from your fallen horse, firing through a gap in your own men into the mass of Tatars, unsure if you hit anybody. Indeed, the deafening gunfire that defined this second – no, third – bout is dying down as your troops exhaust their weapons.

You hear a new thundering through the clashing of steel and the screams of the dying. Distant, but there. Tatar heads turn and their chant of Allah! begins to die down, replaced instead with the odd sound of hundreds of men suddenly stammering and yell-speaking amongst themselves. Of course, the front of the battle-line remains locked in a terrible struggle, but then the oddest thing happens: hands reach out from behind the foremost Tatars and grab their shoulders, the men on foot and on horse, grabbing through the tangle. And a heathen throws down his blade. And another. And another. Many still fight.

They're… Oh, my God! "Give me your horse!" you shriek to the closest man. "I am your Prince – give me your horse!"

He obliges and you throw your hands up in the air and swing them downward, over and over, trying to get the message across. "They're surrendering, stop fighting! Hold back, by Christ!"

A bilingual cry of stand down! ripples through the ranks and slowly, slowly, the clamor turns to nothing. You hear men distantly and you think – it's hard to tell with such terrible ringing in your ears – behind the Tatars echoing the command. An encirclement! That's why they didn't just break and run. People are screaming down the hill, not battle-cries and death-groans, but wailing. You begin to hear volleys of gunfire. You feel nothing, but in your mind's eye see Moncontour again, when three thousand men all died at once, on their knees. The Huguenot made into a pincushion, mocking his killers all the while: am I your Sebastian? You clear your throat.

You remove your helmet and push your way to the very fore of the battle-line, your borrowed horse shuffling carefully over the dead and dying. You stare down your vanquished foes, chainmail dusty and blood-soaked and looking not unlike your own men. Scowling faces stare up or at you, their sabers in the dirt below the quivers on their waists. They're silent, and look ready to listen. Nobles recognizing nobility, you suppose, even if they're murderous savages. God, it's quiet. Up here, that is.

"Do any of you speak a Christian tongue?" you ask in Polish. You try again in Latin: nothing. But when you speak Ruthenian, you're answered with a smattering of phrases and broken sentences, and the Tatars part for a tall man in a frightful silver mask – now-tarnished and dirt-caked and flecked with blood – bearing the visage of a mustachioed fighter. You can't see his eyes, but you know he's staring. "Well, who are you?"

A murmur through the Tatar ranks. The masked man shakes his head. "I am the leader of my people," he says with a rustic peasant's accent, mixed with something foreign and lilting.

"That doesn't quite answer my question," you say, feeling as if the bastard is trying to be smart. "Who are you? And take that thing off." Everything you've seen today makes it easy to say: "or shall I send you to Mahomet?"

The Tatar's shoulders sag, and after a moment he removes his helmet. He's as young as you, maybe younger, with short brown hair and a clean-shaven face, high cheekbones, and dark, almond-shaped eyes. It's strange to see a face so clean on the battlefield, after all this. "I am Saadet Mirza, lord bey, grandson of the Great Khan and, how do you say… These are my people, they serve me."

"You speak Ruthenian well, mirza."

"My mother was a slave. She was of the Qazaklar – a Zaporozhian – and she taught me her tongue from the cradle, for my father was kind enough to let her bring me up," he says. "And I ask your nobleness for parlay." He stares at you steely-eyed. "Though I do not beg, for we all are prepared to see Paradise on this day. We never offered up a mercy to your people, even though they are of the Book. So why give it to us?"

That's a brave man; you scratch your chin. Perhaps they all ought to die for what they've done, for what you've seen at their camp, for what you've seen across all Ruthenia. It would send a message. But with their weapons at their feet, and in their armor? It'd be better to bring them back to camp, strip them down, and then do it. But on the other hand… ransom money, a hostage Tatar prince…

"We shall collect your weapons and armor and take you prisoner," you say, to the groans and swears of your men. You may or may not be telling the truth – at the moment, even you're not quite sure, but this is the way it will be for now.

You excuse yourself as the Tatar nobles begin to strip down into their underclothes, and take in the scene from this hilltop vantage point. Behind you, one voice begins to sing, then all of them. Bogurodzica, the hymn of Grunwald, the song of holy victory. The Lady placed Her mantle upon us on this day, praise be to God and the Spirit and Our Lord Jesus Christ.

But what is it you're looking out upon? A tangled mass of people, their souls out of their bodies, crushed under horses. The foot musketeers, at last on the scene are leading the tunic-wearing Tatars like flocks of sheep into great clusters, the heathens' hands pleading and outstretched and their faces to the summer sky. A thundering volley sends them to the ground. Sabers are drawn for the survivors. Noble hussars cut the throats of the dying and pick through the heaps of dead, probably looking for loot. Horses writhe on the ground, trying and failing to lift their heads, to stand. You look down from the scene, and unmoving eyes stare up at you with a mouth agape. Like he just saw a shooting star. The man draped on top of him makes it impossible to know what side he was on. The Tatars look more like you than you expected.

Meanwhile, the heathen camp is beginning to burn. Little figures with torches run from tent to tent, and a gray-black miasma blows in the southerly direction, obscuring the blue of the river. Flames are licking the horizon from the center of the place, emanating outwards and outwards as more of the white tents go up quickly, aided by the unaccounted-for. Bastards.

You're not sure if you're feeling that glory anymore. The Lipkas were bloodied badly, what with their lack of armor. From your detachment of two thousand, a horrendous quarter is gone, mainly lost to the ambush at the camp, your lieutenants estimate. Konstanty's flank barely held on, and sustained similarly brutal losses; Zamoyski's relief force lost around one in ten – much more typical – while the musketeers never even saw the fight proper. Many more groaning men are draped over the backs of horses or carried on makeshift stretchers or are even left in the field, awaiting the tabor to be broken down for its wagons. You want to go home, but all you've got is the camp from which you embarked that late morning, around noon. The light of the day is now golden, but it felt like you spent weeks shedding blood out there. You cannot wait to sleep, if your mind and body allow it.

You ride with Zamoyski and Janusz and a surviving, wide-eyed Prince Konstanty at your side. The young Ostrogscy do not speak. You won't press them; you know how it feels.

"You made it in the nick of time!" says Zamoyski, "I was getting quite worried they'd overwhelm us. Damn those horse archers, peppering us all the while – they all got away!"

"But not the men we kettled," you say grimly, thinking of the fusillades.

"No, no, and they were well taken care of," grins Zamoyski, looking almost pained. "Nasty work, but deserved."

"But deserved," you echo, quietly unsure. You wanted those Muscovite raiders to live, so they could atone for themselves. But perhaps they got what they deserved, too.

Screaming begins anew as the surgeons begin their amputations and arrowhead removals, wafting over what should be a friendly place, a place of respite. Instead, it just sounds like the day. This is the sound of the day. There is no denying it. Glory? There's that word again. Perhaps at court, perhaps before a Sejm. One must live it to understand it – how can people like Krzysztof and Marszowski handle it? Jokes and drinks, you think, making you laugh despite yourself. A simple way of handling it.

There's something you must handle, of course, too: the fate of the stripped-down Tatar mirzas. No matter what you decide on, you don't expect to sleep tonight anymore.

[] Kill them all.

Every dead Christian ought to be answered with ten slain heathens, but this and the massacre on the field will have to do. It's only right for the terror and slaughter they've unleashed on these peaceful lands, and wiping out a few hundred Tatar noblemen – including one of the Khan's grandsons – may settle things down for up to a generation. A strong message.

[] Kill all of them except for their commander, Saadet. Hold him for ransom and as a hostage.

The princeling is worth too much alive – emphasis on worth. Your hussars and mercenaries will be expecting a pretty penny for such a terrible fight, and you'd like to compensate the families of your fallen sworn men, too. Dispatch messengers to Bakczysaraj with gifts for the Khan: a couple severed heads and a handwritten letter from his grandson, begging him to withdraw.

[] Spare them all: hold them for ransom and as hostages.

There's lots of money and bargaining power to be gained from such a menagerie of mirzas. The only problem? They may come back someday, and that day could be soon, especially if the election goes… poorly.

 

[Rolman]

​

 

[Rolman]

You know, the more I think about the 1,300 figure, the more I'm thinking it may be a little high in absolute numbers. Those Wikipedia articles aren't always reliable, yeah?

But the important thing, the unchanged thing, is to understand that losses were borderline-catastrophic among the 2,000-strong advance force — aka you and the Ostrogski brothers — at least double of what's typical for a pitched battle. Zamoyski's people took "average" losses, and that the Ostrogski musketeers never engaged and lost no one.

Another small thing that I left implied but will now make explicit: the guys burning down the Tatar camp (disregarding the Tatars who began to scorched-earth it themselves) were elements of your mercenary rajtaria who abandoned the hill charge to pilfer the joint instead. Not all of them did it, but a noticeable amount.