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.
