"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.
