[X] Plan: Night Reconnaissance
Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
- Pronouns
- He
[X] Plan: Night Reconnaissance
"Bleeding Dusk." Pt. I. July 6, 1574. Witebsk Voivodeship, Grand Duchy of Lithuania.
- Location
- United States
The sky's turning the color of a sick man's gums. The day is near-dead. The waiting has, shockingly to some extent, emboldened you; your fears melted away rather than escalate and escalate. All you feel now is a grim calmness, a desire to make it through the dusk and night in one piece, with as many men alive as possible, and with your honor intact. You know this upcoming Confession to be a difficult one already, but hope that you're at last gaining some nerves. You'll need them to lead.
You sigh. Kmita, Marszowski, and van Gistel squat in a wagon before you.
"Alright, we've got to do something," you say. "Forget the silver. If we win, we get it back." They agree. "They're probably banking on inaction." Power. Declare it. You're not used to it, but you can't help but commit the sin of pride. God has decreed by birth itself that you are to lead. This may well be war, and I am a prince.
"Which we've been giving them, Your Serene Highness," says Marszowski, a little fire in him. "We ought to find them and put them down."
"Sir Marszowski," Kmita throws a cautionary hand up. "They're all mounted. Uphill battle, sir." He looks back down the road, at the snorting horses and wagons increasingly turning to shaded silhouettes. "Goddamn it. It'll be Hell to try and turn around and form a tabor. Unhitch each wagon one by one, turn them by hand..."
You itch at the blaspheming, but he's right. You place a hand to your temple. "We have a good deal of mobile troops, too, of course. Terrible to lead them through this brush."
"Then we let the foot do it?" asks van Gistel.
"The scrub's not that bad, and we're burning daylight. My riders are more than suited, sirs," says Kmita strongly.
"I defer to the Zaporozhians," you manage to chuckle. "Lithuania's plenty forested," you say with a nod to van Gistel. "Let your men lead the way, Lord Kmita."
You want to be the one to find the bastards. "And let me accompany you."
"Gladly, Your Serene Highness," he nods.
"Van Gistel, you'll lead the foot," you say. He gives a toothless smile, eager. "Take the rearmost wagons and turn them about – move back out into the fields and form a tabor. Dump the silver. We can't be too safe."
"Very good, Your Serene Highness." He can't stop his grinning. A command again at last.
You look at the three of them. "Any objections, sirs?" They shake their heads. "A force of such size can't hide for long."
This isn't the tallest forest in the land, but it certainly doesn't feel that way. Ribbons of now-blood red sky loom overhead, sliced into strips by trunks and branches. The forest watches a scattered group of a few dozen mounted men, fresh-lit torches in hand, wade into its midst.
The crunching of hooves keeps you on edge. The sound of your side moving could easily drown out the enemy doing the same. The frogs peep and the crickets chirp and the air is cool. A summer night. It grows darker and darker.
Thumps of gunfire! To the left, and to the rear; they make men flinch and the horses' ears twitch. And a screaming din begins to rise, the pounding booms increase and amplify. They've found each other. Or, worse yet, the Muscovites were simply waiting at the trailhead.
"Turn about! Turn about! Move at speed!" you bellow. Everyone rides hurriedly in the direction of the clamor.
"Lord prince, look out!"
A pair of horses, spittle flying, are barreling at you, nearly flying as they run. You notice that they're without riders, and – move it!
You spur Sztylet hard and, already in motion, he quickly gets you out of the way. It's only then that you realize they're yoked to a wagon. Other men maneuver out of the spectacle as the wagon fishtails into a tree and shatters. The horses run deep into the wood, still hitched together across their backs.
You turn your head back toward the road. The sound is a bad one. It's not the sound of spirited combat. It's a collective scream. Sparks and flashes fly out of wagon-beds, ghostly-looking, crouching figures with swords and halberds chop at swarms of shadowy riders. One wagon's been overcome, where the trail turns to open sky. Muscovite lances, the ends of their shafts silhouetted against the dim, plunged down into the little fortress' bed.
There are men on foot running toward you, into the lightest part of the forest. They're being pursued and cut down with speed.
You're on fire. You want to kill, you want to die. After all, you did this. Now avenge it.
[] "Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"
Move. Move. Move.
[] "Up the road, now! We'll curve around to attack from behind! Fire at will! Kill any man on a horse that's not ours!"
Hunters to hunted. Sow chaos in their ranks.
[] Breathe. "Advance at speed toward the road and halt at the treeline; begin to skirmish."
Beestings of arrows and lead. A deadly distraction.
[] write-in. Not too long please.
You sigh. Kmita, Marszowski, and van Gistel squat in a wagon before you.
"Alright, we've got to do something," you say. "Forget the silver. If we win, we get it back." They agree. "They're probably banking on inaction." Power. Declare it. You're not used to it, but you can't help but commit the sin of pride. God has decreed by birth itself that you are to lead. This may well be war, and I am a prince.
"Which we've been giving them, Your Serene Highness," says Marszowski, a little fire in him. "We ought to find them and put them down."
"Sir Marszowski," Kmita throws a cautionary hand up. "They're all mounted. Uphill battle, sir." He looks back down the road, at the snorting horses and wagons increasingly turning to shaded silhouettes. "Goddamn it. It'll be Hell to try and turn around and form a tabor. Unhitch each wagon one by one, turn them by hand..."
You itch at the blaspheming, but he's right. You place a hand to your temple. "We have a good deal of mobile troops, too, of course. Terrible to lead them through this brush."
"Then we let the foot do it?" asks van Gistel.
"The scrub's not that bad, and we're burning daylight. My riders are more than suited, sirs," says Kmita strongly.
"I defer to the Zaporozhians," you manage to chuckle. "Lithuania's plenty forested," you say with a nod to van Gistel. "Let your men lead the way, Lord Kmita."
You want to be the one to find the bastards. "And let me accompany you."
"Gladly, Your Serene Highness," he nods.
"Van Gistel, you'll lead the foot," you say. He gives a toothless smile, eager. "Take the rearmost wagons and turn them about – move back out into the fields and form a tabor. Dump the silver. We can't be too safe."
"Very good, Your Serene Highness." He can't stop his grinning. A command again at last.
You look at the three of them. "Any objections, sirs?" They shake their heads. "A force of such size can't hide for long."
This isn't the tallest forest in the land, but it certainly doesn't feel that way. Ribbons of now-blood red sky loom overhead, sliced into strips by trunks and branches. The forest watches a scattered group of a few dozen mounted men, fresh-lit torches in hand, wade into its midst.
The crunching of hooves keeps you on edge. The sound of your side moving could easily drown out the enemy doing the same. The frogs peep and the crickets chirp and the air is cool. A summer night. It grows darker and darker.
Thumps of gunfire! To the left, and to the rear; they make men flinch and the horses' ears twitch. And a screaming din begins to rise, the pounding booms increase and amplify. They've found each other. Or, worse yet, the Muscovites were simply waiting at the trailhead.
"Turn about! Turn about! Move at speed!" you bellow. Everyone rides hurriedly in the direction of the clamor.
"Lord prince, look out!"
A pair of horses, spittle flying, are barreling at you, nearly flying as they run. You notice that they're without riders, and – move it!
You spur Sztylet hard and, already in motion, he quickly gets you out of the way. It's only then that you realize they're yoked to a wagon. Other men maneuver out of the spectacle as the wagon fishtails into a tree and shatters. The horses run deep into the wood, still hitched together across their backs.
You turn your head back toward the road. The sound is a bad one. It's not the sound of spirited combat. It's a collective scream. Sparks and flashes fly out of wagon-beds, ghostly-looking, crouching figures with swords and halberds chop at swarms of shadowy riders. One wagon's been overcome, where the trail turns to open sky. Muscovite lances, the ends of their shafts silhouetted against the dim, plunged down into the little fortress' bed.
There are men on foot running toward you, into the lightest part of the forest. They're being pursued and cut down with speed.
You're on fire. You want to kill, you want to die. After all, you did this. Now avenge it.
[] "Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"
Move. Move. Move.
[] "Up the road, now! We'll curve around to attack from behind! Fire at will! Kill any man on a horse that's not ours!"
Hunters to hunted. Sow chaos in their ranks.
[] Breathe. "Advance at speed toward the road and halt at the treeline; begin to skirmish."
Beestings of arrows and lead. A deadly distraction.
[] write-in. Not too long please.
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It looks like the enemy either ambushed the wagon at the trailhead, or out-maneuvered our scouts to strike at an unprepared wagon convoy. Either way, our wagons walked into a prepared position by the enemy who don't know how many riders are away from the main force. Charging in now may surprise the force they've committed to the attack, but there may be a reserve force out there as well.
I would very much like to do one of the tricksy options, either skirmishing or attacking from behind, but it is dark and chances of friendly fire are high. And I'm not sure van Gistel can rally the camp all on his own, though I would very much like to believe that he can.
[X] "Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"
I would very much like to do one of the tricksy options, either skirmishing or attacking from behind, but it is dark and chances of friendly fire are high. And I'm not sure van Gistel can rally the camp all on his own, though I would very much like to believe that he can.
[X] "Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"
- Location
- Colorado
I was going to vote for the flanking option but this persuaded me otherwise.
[X] "Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"
[X] "Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"
Astra Myst
Do you want a wish?
- Location
- Milky Way Galaxy
[X] "Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"
Duke William of
I really need to finish my quests. :V
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"
- Pronouns
- He
[X] "Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"
- Location
- United States
[X] "Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"
[X] "Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"
Let's show some fantasy!
Let's show some fantasy!
[X] "Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"
"Bleeding Dusk." Pt. II. July 6, 1574. Witebsk Voivodeship, Grand Duchy of Lithuania.
- Location
- United States
"Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"
Kill them. Save the men. Save your honor. Let them hear of a victory. You feel every possible emotion, but you are more angry than afraid.
Saint Michael, guide me. Mother Maria, guard me.
You spur Sztylet hard and your riders raise a confident cry. You can hear the Tatars loosing their arrows, watching the fletched needles sail through the dusk-shrouded air. Shadowy figures fall as the wave of muscle and steel moves forward, arrows treacherously flying past from behind and beside. Thank the Lord you're all in at least breastplates and helms. But it shall just be us — the men of Dubinki Castle. The brave men of Orsza are too busy being slaughtered.
It's a treacherous sprint, and the Lipkas peel off to put their skills to use from the treeline. The massacre at the forest's edge blurs as you focus on divots and trunks coming at you, Sztylet weaving and hopping, slowing down the charge.
Pistols and carbines boom all about, the rising acrid smell — they're right on top of you! Men lay like stones in the moss and brambles behind them. They've turned their routing pursuit into a counter-charge, moving into the forest to meet you. Your stomach drops as your eyes calculate that a man is flying at you, lance couched under his arm.
Everything slows down. Your carbine! It's still in its holster, fool! You struggle to draw it. Every strap feels like a gripping hand, every little bit of leather it catches on a terrible snag. chik-BOOM! You see him fold over through the gunsmoke and— move-move-move! Sztylet wheels his hind end around to dodge the horse over which your foeman is draped. The dying man somehow sounds like an angry cat through your ringing ears. You spur Sztylet onwards and exhale.
The road's turned to chaos or, at least, you're able to properly behold it now. Wagons are positioned at various angles, one flipped, riderless horses sprinting and bucking and jumping, dismounted men grappling in the dust and tripping over corpses.
Your charge slows to a mere walk as you wade into the mess with your saber over your head. Looking down from Sztylet, it seems like the earth itself, all around you, has turned to dead men, dying men, fighting men. Riders are picked off from their horses by shot and arrow and you pray the Tatars are choosing the right targets.
You numbly pick a Muscovite — a distracted rider with a lance, stabbing into a silenced wagon-bed — and your horse shimmies its way over to him.
You feel like murder, and that's what you do: his back is turned to you as you start to chop at his skull, his shoulderblades. Totally defenseless, by the time his horse turns around he's sliding out of his stirrups with a gurgle. Another slash across the neck sends blood spraying across your face. You taste the man's death.
"Holy Mother!" It comes out involuntarily. That one felt not so good, not so necessary. You think you even saw his face, a stunned expression on it. You spit desperately, wiping at your face as quickly as you can. "Christ, oh, Savior's bones…"
Breathe in, breathe out. You look around, and see men on foot darting into the woods. Is the rout continuing?
"YOUR PRINCE IS WITH YOU!" you bellow with all your might. "STAND AND FIGHT!"
Through the din, voices cry out: "Bóg nam radzi!"
And a few more. And a few more. The locals, getting the idea, join in with something similar-sounding. You can't tell who's winning, but you swell with hope at the sound. You pray that the Muscovites have, themselves, been ambushed.
The great jostle of groaning men and screaming horses increasingly smells like metal through the sulfur and sweat. The air's humid yet dry from smoke. Keep trying to breathe.
Focus. Focus. You smell blood and sulfur — again, that is — and that's what Hell probably smells like. You see Hell. You hear your ears ringing, and the booms which make them ring further. But through that shriek you realize there are several voices, making a similar effort to project as you did, shouting in Muscovite.
Commanders. Let's find some.
You lose yourself to listen. A necessary danger. Your ears allow you to spot a peaked steel helm atop a rider on the outskirts of the melee, close to the open sky of the trailhead emptying into fields. That must've been where they came from. And where the Tatars didn't go, seemingly; this man is too far away to be anybody friendly.
You look for Marszowski and (think you) see him a sea of tangled men away, atop his horse gripping a Muscovite's lance, hacking off its spearhead like a peasant with a hatchet. He's clearly busy. God keep him. And who knows what of van Gistel.
You don't know what's gotten into you, but you somehow manage to weave through the melee, spurring Sztylet for a charge against this nobleman foolish enough to leave himself unguarded. But, then again, what exactly is it that you're doing right now? You would kill for a lance. Or a brace of pistols.
You scream at the man as you barrel towards him, who starts rifling around on the side of his horse you can't see. A gun?
A bow! You yank Sztylet's reins hard to the right as the boyar deliberately, mechanically, nocks an arrow.
He draws and a moment passes and you cannot breathe. There's a great pain in your lungs. It hit with a metallic crack. You look down. A broken arrow rests in your lap. A deep dent in your Milanese breastplate, warping some embossed scene of Hector or Achilles. Thank God. Thank God. Thank God. It could've been much worse from a Tatar-style bow like that.
You cannot breathe. Burning in your lungs, aching in your chest. Look up!
The man is right in front of you, looking slightly shocked. It's a near-collision; his horse skitters back as Sztylet rears up. You just barely manage to stay in the saddle.
By the time you come back down, he's producing a saber and willing his horse to advance back toward you.
You begin to cross blades. He's decent, but you think you can get him. The Muscovite style is more conservative, it seems. And so you attack, fast and strong, beating on his blade, threatening his stirruped leg to lower his guard. Fighting in the saddle is a difficult thing, almost as if two men are trying to do battle in adjacent rowboats. Without footwork, it becomes a game of leaning in and darting out, sliding forwards and ducking backwards atop one's steed.
You catch him on the wrist and his sword flies from his hand with a yelp. You begin to hack at his upper half as you did your last victim, and it takes a moment to exit the blood-haze and realize he's in a mail shirt. And reaching for a hatchet strapped to his saddle. You chop at his bad hand again and it hangs limply, a mess of blood and pink flesh. You caught him when he was desperate.
"Enough! Enough!" he screams in half-garbled Polish. "I fight no more!"
His wrist is bleeding badly, almost pouring down his leg and the side of his horse. His hand is clamped over it to little aid, and he says something despondent-sounding in his mother tongue. Says something about the Lord.
You swallow. You look him in the eye. He's young. Handsome, blue-eyed, you think – it's getting darker and darker. He's a bargaining chip. He's a child of God. He's a nobleman from the other side of the border. He's better to have alive. Maybe.
"Off your horse," you say.
"What?"
"Dismount. Don't waste time. Pick up that stick," you point at a good-looking one. You hold your sword-tip on him as he climbs down from the saddle using his good hand. Darting your head back into the melee periodically, you talk him through something van Gistel taught you how to do, something surgeons call a tornus. The legionaries used it, too, you think, looking down at the tunic-tail you sacrificed to make into a bandage. Like Saint Martin.
What are you doing?! This may have been but a moment, but your men are killing and dying over there. Halt the guilt, halt it – this is one of their leaders. You put your saber aside and unholster your carbine, pointing it at the now-sitting boyar, his bleeding staunched. Bluff. You never reloaded. But you need to get back into the fray.
You must take a risk. You look at the melee, then back to him, then back to the melee. He can't make it far with one arm. You grimace as you strike down his horse with savage hacks from your saber, probably dulling the blade on its neckbones. If it weren't for your rattled ears, you reckon you'd be able to hear the blood.
No time to ruminate. You ride back into the mix without looking back. More and more of the riders seem to be your own, yelling out the family slogan as they strike down dismounted foes and their dwindling supply of horsemen. Your horse knocks a shaggy Muscovite footman, war ax in hand, down into the dirt. You stoop over and slice him across the face. You can see his teeth through his cheek as he starts to groan; you let out a choked scream.
You turn a full circle – you try not to think about how Sztlyet must now be trampling him – and take in the growing quiet. Relatively speaking, that is.
Just like at that little village a year ago, it starts with one man. Or, in this case, cavalryman: he knocks down men and jumps over a dead horse riding hard toward the trailhead. A brother Muscovite follows him. Then more, and more, and more. The infantrymen begin to desperately surrender. Most of your troops grant it. The riders leave their wounded leader in the dirt; it's a miracle he wasn't stomped on.
"Riders, after them!" You look back. "Footmen, take your prisoners and secure them well. Bóg nam radzi!"
"Bóg nam radzi!"
Hopefully, He is.
You dig your heels into Sztylet and take after the fleeing Muscovites. Your men follow with cheers and taunts. "Send them to Hell!" you scream, nearly in a daze.
You look to your right at the Lipkas outpacing your heavily-armored party. Riding with their chests pressed into the necks of their horses, low and deep; they cock up for but a moment and, with sinewy smoothness, loose their arrows so as to look effortless. They are hunting stray pigs, or driving deer into a meadow.
As the forest opens up into the fallow field, you can see bodies and wild horses from the Tatars' masterful work.
An arrow whizzes by your head! You look back to tell a Tatar to be careful and realize it's come from the other direction – the Muscovites are returning fire themselves!
You struggle to reload your carbine in the saddle. The Tatars eat up most of the fighting, riding well ahead of you and your guard. The arrows sail over and beside but dwindle down into nothing.
Did you want more? More battle, that is? You feel relieved that it's over, yet disappointed the enemy force isn't crushed. You feel proud. But to be a Tatar in the vanguard, killing for fame and fortune? Your own brothers live that kind of life. Do you want more?
[] Yes.
[] No.
[] Well…
As night falls, the chase of the Muscovites is given up, and a trail of scattered bodies and dead horses, Lipka arrows sticking out of them, are followed back to the scene of the main fight. By the time the scene of the melee is reached, you're seeing completely by torchlight. And praise God for that, perhaps. The road, its ditches, and scattered out into the trailhead field, are dozens upon dozens of once-living humps, texturing the scene so as to, in the dark, look like a field of little boulders. You've seen this plenty of times in France, but never so up close. And compared to that skirmish with the bandits, it's the scale of it this time.
van Gistel runs up and drops to a knee before you. "I've failed you immensely, Your Serene Highness, the losses we've taken are… In my country, the forests aren't so thick, the Spanish use less cavalry and…"
You raise a hand for him to stop. You swallow. "van Gistel, it was I who blundered and ordered light foot to move without support. You fought hard and well."
"We're Goddamned fools is what we are," says Marszowski, riding up as if it was always obvious he'd survive. "None of us thought about where they'd be hiding."
"Waiting right for us at the end of the forest," says van Gistel. "They just poured in down the road at us, riding three by three." He crosses his arms and sighs. "Hellfire."
"My lords, Your Serene Highness." Where'd Kmita come from? "May I gently remind you, sirs, that we've won? It doesn't matter how. We won't plan hastily again."
"We lost too many men," you say.
"Eh, did we?" says Kmita, scratching his chin. He didn't lose too many of *his* men. His Zaporozhians, that is.
You look down at the workhorse-humans, huddled on the side of the road. They are caked in blood and dust, the latter clinging to the former, swigging water and harder stuff greedily from skins and wooden ladles. A few pray, others sleep. Most just drink their drinks, or pat down dead Muscovites for trinkets and coins. Their gusli player is starting up; such peaceful music feels wildly out of place here, among the heaped dead. They'll sort the bodies in the morning.
The local militia have lost dozens of good men, were humiliated by a partial rout, and have been shaken by the worst fight of their lives. They're therefore eager to execute the captured Muscovite rank-and-file. Do you allow it?
[] Yes.
The men from around Orsza – some of them have tears in their eyes. They feel as if they stand over vanquished bandits, rapists, murderers. These Muscovites burned down their houses, trampled their fields, wiped out whole families. Who are you to deny good men good vengeance?
[] No. They may be useful.
It's a little odd to bother taking such scum as prisoners, but surely Kmita will be able to bribe and torture is way into learning lots about the latest Muscovite plans for this sector. None of these men are important enough to know anything meaningful.
[] No. They are Christians.
Need you say more?
And then there's the noble with his arm in the tornus. His face is all swollen now. "I tried to stop them," explains van Gistel, gesturing around at the local troops. The Muscovite is in low spirits, understandably, yet happy enough to inform you that his family will pay lots to have him home. This hopefulness continues until your surgeon informs him that he's going to lose a hand. He's still wearing his chain shirt, his once-combed hair greasy and wild. The Muscovite looks up at you, a numb expression on his face, cursing cyclically to himself about the upcoming amputation. If he gets that far, that is – what to do with him?
[] Hang him as a common criminal on the spot.
A fitting end for a man lacking honor, who hunts the weakest among us, rather than find a real scrape; he's a jumped-up bandit.
[] You look at the local soldiers. "Do as you wish, sirs."
Sin by proxy.
[] Hold him for ransom. Get him talking, be generous.
See if you can't loosen his lips through good conduct as you await a nice chunk of silver, too — should his boasts be believed.
[] Order him tortured for information and disposed of.
A suitable end for nothing more than a brigand with a surname. Pull some teeth, a few rounds of the water cure, perhaps strappado from a tree – Kmita and his men surely know some tricks – and he'll tell us anything we need to know about him and his black work. Then, he gets some real justice: a stint of time headless in a ditch.
Kill them. Save the men. Save your honor. Let them hear of a victory. You feel every possible emotion, but you are more angry than afraid.
Saint Michael, guide me. Mother Maria, guard me.
You spur Sztylet hard and your riders raise a confident cry. You can hear the Tatars loosing their arrows, watching the fletched needles sail through the dusk-shrouded air. Shadowy figures fall as the wave of muscle and steel moves forward, arrows treacherously flying past from behind and beside. Thank the Lord you're all in at least breastplates and helms. But it shall just be us — the men of Dubinki Castle. The brave men of Orsza are too busy being slaughtered.
It's a treacherous sprint, and the Lipkas peel off to put their skills to use from the treeline. The massacre at the forest's edge blurs as you focus on divots and trunks coming at you, Sztylet weaving and hopping, slowing down the charge.
Pistols and carbines boom all about, the rising acrid smell — they're right on top of you! Men lay like stones in the moss and brambles behind them. They've turned their routing pursuit into a counter-charge, moving into the forest to meet you. Your stomach drops as your eyes calculate that a man is flying at you, lance couched under his arm.
Everything slows down. Your carbine! It's still in its holster, fool! You struggle to draw it. Every strap feels like a gripping hand, every little bit of leather it catches on a terrible snag. chik-BOOM! You see him fold over through the gunsmoke and— move-move-move! Sztylet wheels his hind end around to dodge the horse over which your foeman is draped. The dying man somehow sounds like an angry cat through your ringing ears. You spur Sztylet onwards and exhale.
The road's turned to chaos or, at least, you're able to properly behold it now. Wagons are positioned at various angles, one flipped, riderless horses sprinting and bucking and jumping, dismounted men grappling in the dust and tripping over corpses.
Your charge slows to a mere walk as you wade into the mess with your saber over your head. Looking down from Sztylet, it seems like the earth itself, all around you, has turned to dead men, dying men, fighting men. Riders are picked off from their horses by shot and arrow and you pray the Tatars are choosing the right targets.
You numbly pick a Muscovite — a distracted rider with a lance, stabbing into a silenced wagon-bed — and your horse shimmies its way over to him.
You feel like murder, and that's what you do: his back is turned to you as you start to chop at his skull, his shoulderblades. Totally defenseless, by the time his horse turns around he's sliding out of his stirrups with a gurgle. Another slash across the neck sends blood spraying across your face. You taste the man's death.
"Holy Mother!" It comes out involuntarily. That one felt not so good, not so necessary. You think you even saw his face, a stunned expression on it. You spit desperately, wiping at your face as quickly as you can. "Christ, oh, Savior's bones…"
Breathe in, breathe out. You look around, and see men on foot darting into the woods. Is the rout continuing?
"YOUR PRINCE IS WITH YOU!" you bellow with all your might. "STAND AND FIGHT!"
Through the din, voices cry out: "Bóg nam radzi!"
And a few more. And a few more. The locals, getting the idea, join in with something similar-sounding. You can't tell who's winning, but you swell with hope at the sound. You pray that the Muscovites have, themselves, been ambushed.
The great jostle of groaning men and screaming horses increasingly smells like metal through the sulfur and sweat. The air's humid yet dry from smoke. Keep trying to breathe.
Focus. Focus. You smell blood and sulfur — again, that is — and that's what Hell probably smells like. You see Hell. You hear your ears ringing, and the booms which make them ring further. But through that shriek you realize there are several voices, making a similar effort to project as you did, shouting in Muscovite.
Commanders. Let's find some.
You lose yourself to listen. A necessary danger. Your ears allow you to spot a peaked steel helm atop a rider on the outskirts of the melee, close to the open sky of the trailhead emptying into fields. That must've been where they came from. And where the Tatars didn't go, seemingly; this man is too far away to be anybody friendly.
You look for Marszowski and (think you) see him a sea of tangled men away, atop his horse gripping a Muscovite's lance, hacking off its spearhead like a peasant with a hatchet. He's clearly busy. God keep him. And who knows what of van Gistel.
You don't know what's gotten into you, but you somehow manage to weave through the melee, spurring Sztylet for a charge against this nobleman foolish enough to leave himself unguarded. But, then again, what exactly is it that you're doing right now? You would kill for a lance. Or a brace of pistols.
You scream at the man as you barrel towards him, who starts rifling around on the side of his horse you can't see. A gun?
A bow! You yank Sztylet's reins hard to the right as the boyar deliberately, mechanically, nocks an arrow.
He draws and a moment passes and you cannot breathe. There's a great pain in your lungs. It hit with a metallic crack. You look down. A broken arrow rests in your lap. A deep dent in your Milanese breastplate, warping some embossed scene of Hector or Achilles. Thank God. Thank God. Thank God. It could've been much worse from a Tatar-style bow like that.
You cannot breathe. Burning in your lungs, aching in your chest. Look up!
The man is right in front of you, looking slightly shocked. It's a near-collision; his horse skitters back as Sztylet rears up. You just barely manage to stay in the saddle.
By the time you come back down, he's producing a saber and willing his horse to advance back toward you.
You begin to cross blades. He's decent, but you think you can get him. The Muscovite style is more conservative, it seems. And so you attack, fast and strong, beating on his blade, threatening his stirruped leg to lower his guard. Fighting in the saddle is a difficult thing, almost as if two men are trying to do battle in adjacent rowboats. Without footwork, it becomes a game of leaning in and darting out, sliding forwards and ducking backwards atop one's steed.
You catch him on the wrist and his sword flies from his hand with a yelp. You begin to hack at his upper half as you did your last victim, and it takes a moment to exit the blood-haze and realize he's in a mail shirt. And reaching for a hatchet strapped to his saddle. You chop at his bad hand again and it hangs limply, a mess of blood and pink flesh. You caught him when he was desperate.
"Enough! Enough!" he screams in half-garbled Polish. "I fight no more!"
His wrist is bleeding badly, almost pouring down his leg and the side of his horse. His hand is clamped over it to little aid, and he says something despondent-sounding in his mother tongue. Says something about the Lord.
You swallow. You look him in the eye. He's young. Handsome, blue-eyed, you think – it's getting darker and darker. He's a bargaining chip. He's a child of God. He's a nobleman from the other side of the border. He's better to have alive. Maybe.
"Off your horse," you say.
"What?"
"Dismount. Don't waste time. Pick up that stick," you point at a good-looking one. You hold your sword-tip on him as he climbs down from the saddle using his good hand. Darting your head back into the melee periodically, you talk him through something van Gistel taught you how to do, something surgeons call a tornus. The legionaries used it, too, you think, looking down at the tunic-tail you sacrificed to make into a bandage. Like Saint Martin.
What are you doing?! This may have been but a moment, but your men are killing and dying over there. Halt the guilt, halt it – this is one of their leaders. You put your saber aside and unholster your carbine, pointing it at the now-sitting boyar, his bleeding staunched. Bluff. You never reloaded. But you need to get back into the fray.
You must take a risk. You look at the melee, then back to him, then back to the melee. He can't make it far with one arm. You grimace as you strike down his horse with savage hacks from your saber, probably dulling the blade on its neckbones. If it weren't for your rattled ears, you reckon you'd be able to hear the blood.
No time to ruminate. You ride back into the mix without looking back. More and more of the riders seem to be your own, yelling out the family slogan as they strike down dismounted foes and their dwindling supply of horsemen. Your horse knocks a shaggy Muscovite footman, war ax in hand, down into the dirt. You stoop over and slice him across the face. You can see his teeth through his cheek as he starts to groan; you let out a choked scream.
You turn a full circle – you try not to think about how Sztlyet must now be trampling him – and take in the growing quiet. Relatively speaking, that is.
Just like at that little village a year ago, it starts with one man. Or, in this case, cavalryman: he knocks down men and jumps over a dead horse riding hard toward the trailhead. A brother Muscovite follows him. Then more, and more, and more. The infantrymen begin to desperately surrender. Most of your troops grant it. The riders leave their wounded leader in the dirt; it's a miracle he wasn't stomped on.
"Riders, after them!" You look back. "Footmen, take your prisoners and secure them well. Bóg nam radzi!"
"Bóg nam radzi!"
Hopefully, He is.
You dig your heels into Sztylet and take after the fleeing Muscovites. Your men follow with cheers and taunts. "Send them to Hell!" you scream, nearly in a daze.
You look to your right at the Lipkas outpacing your heavily-armored party. Riding with their chests pressed into the necks of their horses, low and deep; they cock up for but a moment and, with sinewy smoothness, loose their arrows so as to look effortless. They are hunting stray pigs, or driving deer into a meadow.
As the forest opens up into the fallow field, you can see bodies and wild horses from the Tatars' masterful work.
An arrow whizzes by your head! You look back to tell a Tatar to be careful and realize it's come from the other direction – the Muscovites are returning fire themselves!
You struggle to reload your carbine in the saddle. The Tatars eat up most of the fighting, riding well ahead of you and your guard. The arrows sail over and beside but dwindle down into nothing.
Did you want more? More battle, that is? You feel relieved that it's over, yet disappointed the enemy force isn't crushed. You feel proud. But to be a Tatar in the vanguard, killing for fame and fortune? Your own brothers live that kind of life. Do you want more?
[] Yes.
[] No.
[] Well…
As night falls, the chase of the Muscovites is given up, and a trail of scattered bodies and dead horses, Lipka arrows sticking out of them, are followed back to the scene of the main fight. By the time the scene of the melee is reached, you're seeing completely by torchlight. And praise God for that, perhaps. The road, its ditches, and scattered out into the trailhead field, are dozens upon dozens of once-living humps, texturing the scene so as to, in the dark, look like a field of little boulders. You've seen this plenty of times in France, but never so up close. And compared to that skirmish with the bandits, it's the scale of it this time.
van Gistel runs up and drops to a knee before you. "I've failed you immensely, Your Serene Highness, the losses we've taken are… In my country, the forests aren't so thick, the Spanish use less cavalry and…"
You raise a hand for him to stop. You swallow. "van Gistel, it was I who blundered and ordered light foot to move without support. You fought hard and well."
"We're Goddamned fools is what we are," says Marszowski, riding up as if it was always obvious he'd survive. "None of us thought about where they'd be hiding."
"Waiting right for us at the end of the forest," says van Gistel. "They just poured in down the road at us, riding three by three." He crosses his arms and sighs. "Hellfire."
"My lords, Your Serene Highness." Where'd Kmita come from? "May I gently remind you, sirs, that we've won? It doesn't matter how. We won't plan hastily again."
"We lost too many men," you say.
"Eh, did we?" says Kmita, scratching his chin. He didn't lose too many of *his* men. His Zaporozhians, that is.
You look down at the workhorse-humans, huddled on the side of the road. They are caked in blood and dust, the latter clinging to the former, swigging water and harder stuff greedily from skins and wooden ladles. A few pray, others sleep. Most just drink their drinks, or pat down dead Muscovites for trinkets and coins. Their gusli player is starting up; such peaceful music feels wildly out of place here, among the heaped dead. They'll sort the bodies in the morning.
The local militia have lost dozens of good men, were humiliated by a partial rout, and have been shaken by the worst fight of their lives. They're therefore eager to execute the captured Muscovite rank-and-file. Do you allow it?
[] Yes.
The men from around Orsza – some of them have tears in their eyes. They feel as if they stand over vanquished bandits, rapists, murderers. These Muscovites burned down their houses, trampled their fields, wiped out whole families. Who are you to deny good men good vengeance?
[] No. They may be useful.
It's a little odd to bother taking such scum as prisoners, but surely Kmita will be able to bribe and torture is way into learning lots about the latest Muscovite plans for this sector. None of these men are important enough to know anything meaningful.
[] No. They are Christians.
Need you say more?
And then there's the noble with his arm in the tornus. His face is all swollen now. "I tried to stop them," explains van Gistel, gesturing around at the local troops. The Muscovite is in low spirits, understandably, yet happy enough to inform you that his family will pay lots to have him home. This hopefulness continues until your surgeon informs him that he's going to lose a hand. He's still wearing his chain shirt, his once-combed hair greasy and wild. The Muscovite looks up at you, a numb expression on his face, cursing cyclically to himself about the upcoming amputation. If he gets that far, that is – what to do with him?
[] Hang him as a common criminal on the spot.
A fitting end for a man lacking honor, who hunts the weakest among us, rather than find a real scrape; he's a jumped-up bandit.
[] You look at the local soldiers. "Do as you wish, sirs."
Sin by proxy.
[] Hold him for ransom. Get him talking, be generous.
See if you can't loosen his lips through good conduct as you await a nice chunk of silver, too — should his boasts be believed.
[] Order him tortured for information and disposed of.
A suitable end for nothing more than a brigand with a surname. Pull some teeth, a few rounds of the water cure, perhaps strappado from a tree – Kmita and his men surely know some tricks – and he'll tell us anything we need to know about him and his black work. Then, he gets some real justice: a stint of time headless in a ditch.
*deep breath*
Damn, that was intense.
Damn, that was intense.