Post

Count Josef’s Field - Part I
Copost Prompt Competition
Copost with Straulechen

Count Josef of Halbenstein stood calmly, his arms crossed and a faint smirk on his face, as he contemplated the field before him. His servant, Sir Rupert von Hirschtal, stood by him, bearing an expression similar to that of his liege. The two were atop a small hill overlooking the nearby plains and meadows, their eyes fixated on the nearby city of Leuchstal, which straddled both banks of the small Roer River, the grand spire of the settlement’s cathedral towering over the surrounding lands like a watchful guardian. The Count’s gaze turned to the road just below the hill, where his men—and those of his allies—marched. Nearby, the remnants of a camp were evident; poorly torn down tents, an abandoned wagon or two, the remains of a few camp fires, and churned up dirt and ground, places formerly occupied by great bombards and cannons. The Syrds had left in quite a hurry it seemed.

The Count, a man of the age of thirty, was dressed in a white doublet, covered in small fine cuts that revealed a golden fabric below. His chest, though, was covered by a steel cuirass, which was there mostly for show, for he wore no other armour under that. His legs, on the other hand, were dressed in a fine green hose, and he wore narrow-pointed shoes to cover his feet. His bronze brown hair, cut to just below the ears, was adorned with a red felt hat, nestled comfortably atop the man’s head. His posture was relaxed, and he moved with an energetic vigour, as if he had just become Count and was still a man with few hairs on his chest. For Josef, this was not the case. His father had died of sickness when he was young, and his early years were wrought with enough turmoil for him to grow to be an experienced ruler. Yet his enthusiasm, his confidence, his charisma, his pride—they had not waned during the years. If anything, they roared like a growing fire, especially now, as he commanded his men-at-arms to battle against the Syrds.

“What do you think Rupert?” Asked the Count, turning to his servant. The knight, older than the Count, looked at the marching army below them, then stole a glance at Leuchstal, its proud image invoking thoughts within his mind, which he proceeded to say aloud.

“We certainly gave them quite a fright. They’ve abandoned the siege with their tails between their legs!” He chuckled, remarking at the fact that the enemy had departed Leuchstal upon hearing of the impending Hallish army sent to relieve the city.

“So it seems. We should pursue, no? Give chase before they’re on the other side of the Geber.” Suggested the Count, his spirit rising as his thoughts turned to battle. His defeat at Uzhental the year prior had not been forgotten, and the Count was indeed motivated to make up for his loss, and the shame he had incurred in front of his vassals. “I would like to get back at them now that they’re the ones with their backs turned. Make up for lost pride, you know.”

“Of course. We should follow them. I heard they’re still not too far from us. Perhaps if we can make them give battle…why we could rout them in a good fight!” Exclaimed the knight, his mind too brightened at the prospect of the glory that could be achieved.

The two heard the sound of trotting behind them, and they turned to see Landgrave Jan Sigismund dismounting from his horse, accompanied by a few of his servants, who helped him down to the ground. The Landgrave was a much older man than Josef, who reckoned he was on his last days. They had fought together against Duke Martyn the past year, and were at the meeting in Grafsburg as well. While Josef had thrown himself into the League without much thought, the Landgrave had acted with more caution, though in the end he had still put his seal on the parchment along with Hans Albrecht and the others.

Leuchstal was his city, and so were the lands that both the Syrds and the Hallish were marching through. When the Syrdish Count Jakob and his army of mercenaries, having crossed the Geber by way of pontoon bridges, crossed into his Landgraviate of Eltenhof and besieged Leuchstal, the aging nobleman had taken up arms once again, and joined forces with Count Josef, aiming to relieve the prized city, arguably the capital of commerce in his domains. Now it seemed that they had succeeded—Leuchstal had been relieved, the siege abandoned—but he was certain that battle was not far off. They would have to pursue, after all, and he had just heard that the Syrds were closer than thought. He had no doubt that his allies would propose battle.

“Ah, Jan Sigismund!” Greeted Josef, making a short curtsy, as did Sir Rupert. “You came at the right time I’d say, me and Sir Rupert were just discussing the campaign. We think it would be wise to pursue.” He explained, and the Landgrave’s wrinkled face twisted into a wide smirk, the old man not surprised at all by Josef’s decision.

“Indeed, Your Grace, indeed. I have just heard from my scouts that the Syrds are closer than we thought. Perhaps they were bogged down trying to cart those great bombards of theirs.” He remarked, and Count Josef smiled.

“It’s just past dawn.” He commented, his eyes turning to the sun, which had only just begun to rise high into the sky. “We have enough time to catch them today, perhaps. And if not today, then tomorrow.” He said, before he turned around, looking back to the road below of marching men. “Now where is the Palsgrave?” He asked.

Airmanreik grunted from atop his mount, his eyes weary on the hill before him, the small figures no doubt of the men he’d come to rely on in these desperate times. He wore that plain doublet over a thick wool shirt and thick breaches, with a cloak dangling from his aging body. The march had contributed to his condition, but he felt the Greatest’s call looming over him even now. He’d felt uneasy the whole journey, two of his son’s, his heirs in company, along with four thousand of his own men, two thousand cavalry, the rest foot. The men sensed the coming battle, its cloud swallowing the land, alike to the days of Heinrik, he pondered.

Beside him rode Leudbold, his face prickled with the beginnings of a beard, his eyes heavy with the burden he carried, the torch he would have to walk with when his father drew his last breath. He wore plate armor, though lighter in build, his stature not strong enough to handle the heavier armor of his brother Heinrik’s set, or even the poorest of knights. He did not dwell on his disadvantages, knowing he’d likely not fight in the battle, if one was to come. Still, he thought he should look the part of the soldier, even if he was no soldier.

Heinrik strode atop his horse like the King’s in the legends, his hair blowing gently in the breeze, his mouth in a permanent smirk, as he looked down on the men who watched their party ride in silence. He had an unending thrill for the coming day, the moment he heard they rode to break the siege, he’d known the Greatest had answered his call, a chance for glory, he thought. He could not help but stay excited, even when he heard the Syrds had run from the siege, the excitement bounced in his mind, as he thought of the coming clash of steel.

“Father,” Heinrik began, riding forward to his father’s left, “Do you believe we will clash with the Syrd invaders?” He asked, his words exposing a tone similar to a child receiving a treat from a mother.

“Greatest willing brother, there shall be no battle today.” Leudbold commented from his fathers right, the bags on his eyes revealing his sleepless nights to his brother, who only glanced at him, before returning to his father.

Airmanreik sighed, his son’s enjoyment of the conflict troubling, but not unfound in children, or boys barely into manhood. He’d been that way in his own way, the thrill of the fight, all consuming to one in their youth. He could not look at this boy who shared in every feature and judge. “We will see.” He said quietly, as they approached the end of the hill, the party stopping, as they began to dismount. “Come, both of you stay silent as I discuss strategy with the good Count and Landsgrave.” He said, as he began to make his way to the Count Josef and Landsgrave Jan.

Hearing the familiar sound of footsteps, the Count turned his head one more time, and catching sight of Airmanreik’s approach, his face broke into a small smile, as he greeted the Palsgrave with open arms. “There you are! That’s all three of us then. A proper war council, I’d say.” He chuckled, his tone half serious, half humorous. The Count extended his arm to welcome Airmanreik’s arrival, his energetic vigour contrasting with the older manner of his two counterparts. The Landgrave meanwhile, gave a small curtsy to the Palsgrave, a false smile crossing his lips.

“Shall we discuss strategy, then?” Spoke up Jan Sigismund, older than Josef by some three decades, and Airmanreik by nearly two. His tone of voice showed it, as he spoke softly and quietly, the noise of his words barely reaching his two compatriots.

“Indeed!” Exclaimed Count Josef, his voice loud and resounding. “As I was saying, to both Sir Arnulf and then to Jan Sigismund here, Your Grace,” He began, gesturing to the knight and the Landgrave, while addressing Airmanreik. “We have the Syrds on the run, and as Jan Sigismund’s scouts report, their army is closer than we thought, bogged down by those large war machines of theirs,” He continued, taking the Landgrave’s hypothesis on the enemy’s tardiness as fact. “We must pursue! Pursue, and catch them before the day is lost. We have plenty of time before noon strikes, let alone afternoon or evening, but I say we must get a move on before Count Jakob’s force escapes from our clutches.” He said, his tone authoritative and firm, and his eyes immediately darted between his two counterparts as he awaited their response.

Airmanreik processed what was said, as he turned towards his back, his glance examining his forces he’d brought, then shifting to that of his peers forces, smaller than what could have been hoped. He swallowed, his throat dry, as he turned back to Josef, weary in voice in posture, “Do we have any idea on the force we are trying to catch, your Graces?” He asked, his eyes examining the pair, before landing onto the elder Jan, eyes that had lived and seen things far more ancient than himself.

Count Josef was silent for a moment, as he attempted to recall the details recounted to him by numerous reports and the such, which he had difficulty in remembering. He pondered it for a second, and looked about ready to respond, but it was the Landgrave who spoke first, opening his mouth to answer Airmanreik’s question. “They number some ten-thousand men, perhaps a few more. The same composition as the Syrds had at Uzhental, no doubt. They have knights, of course, but we can imagine that the bulk of their army consists of those mercenaries. Pikemen, halberdiers...the full lot.” He explained, hoping his words would satisfy Airmanreik.

Count Josef, who was interested in another aspect of the army, gave another response shortly after. “They’re led by that Count Jakob Zalan. He owns estates on the Kostuan…well…Namarian border. Yet there are few notable names in that army apart from the Count himself. Mostly mercenaries, as Jan Sigismund said.”

“Pikes and mercenaries, Greatest look at what has become of the honourable tradition of the Syrds, Heinrik must rock in his grave.” He grumbled, as he stepped forward, “We could run them down, aye, before they cross over the river, likely they won’t stand ground, no?” He asked, unsure of the professionalism of the force they spoke of confronting. “And this Count Jakob, he’s a fine general, or at least competent, might be he’d expect our lancers…” He paused, unsure, his glance returning back to the army encamped around them, thousands of horses, large enough to crumble any formation no doubt. “Aye, hitting them in the rear could work.” He said, seeing if the men agreed.

“Yes, they’ll be crossing the Rönster soon, if they haven’t started crossing already.” Replied the Landgrave, his knowledge of the land proving useful. “We should be able to run them down, whether they’ve crossed it or not. The lands here are fine meadows and small forests, few obstacles to warriors like ours. Fine ground for battle, if my memory serves correct, and I know from experience. I’ve sparred many a robber baron in these lands, and won. The Palsgrave’s words are sound. We should hit them in the rear.” Concurred Jan Sigismund, and the tone with which he spoke those words at once gave them a certain air of authority, as if they had to be true. Count Josef, perhaps dismayed that he hadn’t been the one to suggest cutting them down, simply made an expression of agreement.

Airmanreik nodded silently, as he turned, “Who’ll lead this vanguard? I would offer myself, but I must decline the honour, my body not what it used to be.” He mumbled, as he looked at Count Josef, the youngest of the three.

The Count’s eyes visibly brightened, and he saw at once the chance to seize what perhaps would be a good part of the glory during the battle, so he volunteered. “I would like to put forth myself as a potential leader of the vanguard. I do not wish to offend, and I know that you two both have more experience in these matters perhaps, but as Airmanreik said…”

The Count trailed off. Jan Sigismund shrugged, and answered. “I have no quarrel with this. I suggest you as leader of the vanguard as well, Josef. If Airmanreik’s body is not what it used to be, then you must imagine my state of things. I should be at the rear, or in the centre, perhaps.” He explained, giving a small chuckle at his own expense. Again Josef’s eyes gleamed, and his wishes having been confirmed, he seemed almost visibly jumping with excitement. He laughed, and his face was alight with a joyful expression.

“Then I accept the honour, goodsirs.” He cried out. “Greatest lead us! By His will we will cut them down!”

Heinrik stepped forward, his eyes wide as he bowed his head to his father, and then peers, “Father, your Graces, I’d ask to ride in the Vanguard with you, Count Josef.” He said as elegantly as he could, but the thrill in his voice was apparent.

Airmanreik’s heart jumped, but his posture remained stoic, as he glanced at his son, then the Count Josef, “It is not my place to deem your battles, if his Grace will have you, he can use you.” He said in a half whisper, as he turned to Leudbold, “I forbid you however to fight in this vanguard, I can’t risk losing two sons on the same afternoon.” He finished.

Josef smiled, and as he looked Heinrik up and down, taking in his youthful figure and brazen attitude, he was reminded of his own early years as Count, and felt a strange connection to the man. His lips curled to form an even wider smile, and he gazed fondly at Heinrik, before saying: “I would be glad to take you, dear boy. But…I and the good Heinrik here can’t alone take on the Syrds. Which banners should I bring along with me?”

The three men at once began discussing the matter of which banners should compose the vanguard, listing off the names of notable and well-liked barons and knights who they thought would be suitable. Josef listed off a majority of the names, always mentioning minor details or anecdotes about the knights and lords that he proposed to send, and always speaking fondly of them, perhaps recounting how he had fought with one of them, or shared a nice conversation with another, and so on. Jan Sigismund kept mostly quiet, and elected to send those who did not know personally, preferring that the knights and barons that he knew well to stay with him in the rear or centre. The discussion went on without much debate or interruptions, until Count Josef suggested sending a knight by the name of Sir Wernher von Keilswald, and Jan Sigismund’s expression soured, and he grumbled, his ears pricking up.

“Von Keilswald? I didn’t know he was here. What business has he in this war?” He questioned, his tone bitter and harsh, and Count Josef’s face took on a confused expression.

“Why, he used to be in my service for some time, and we met up again recently. He elected to come to battle, a fine decision I’d say. You have some quarrel with him?” He replied.

“Then I must question the men you choose to take into your service, Your Grace. I mean no offence, but I must object to your suggestion of von Keilswald. The man is a robber, and a fiend. He and his company spent a year marauding through my lands, only to be driven out after fierce fighting. I’d call him anything but honourable.”

“You insult my choice of the men in my service? I was not aware of von Keilswald’s actions in Eltenhof, but I have always known him as a fine and honourable man.”

“Not aware? My dear boy, he was notorious!”

Airmanreik sighed, as gestured for his son to get him a chair, before taking a seat, the two men still arguing as he held his temple, “You two argue over a sword who’s willing to strike down our shared enemy? Is that not honourable enough in times such as these? Greatest knows, I have had to let grudges go since this uniskrenist ordeal began, and likely will again.” He stated, before sighing deep, “Every moment we are still throwing words on this tiny hill, is another village burnt, another home raided, another widow created.” He finished, as he gestured towards Heinrik to pour him a cup of ale.

Count Josef’s face reddened, ashamed of himself after hearing Airmanreik’s words. Jan Sigismund, as Airmanreik’s elder, did not react in such a manner, but recognised the merit of what he said, and relented. “He’s right, I suppose. We mustn’t waste any more time squabbling over petty disputes such as who to send, when with every passing second the Syrds grow further and further from our clutches. If we are to pursue, we must seize the initiative, and now!” Proclaimed the Landgrave, and there was a murmur of agreement from Count Josef. They discussed the dispositions for a moment further, but ultimately Josef decried the need to march, and he rode forward to the head of the columns, sending word to those who would be in the vanguard.

Airmanreik took a long sip of his ale, before handing the cup to his son, not even glancing at which one took the cup, “Then we are decided.” He smiled, as his hand moved towards his stomach, the pain unbearable, but not important, not now. He pointed out towards his own horse, before looking at Heinrik, “Take my own horse, and ride well.” He said, placing his hand on his son’s shoulder, “Greatest willing we will win this day.”

***

A few miles out, Ferenc’s company of Huszars, along with a few others, had been sent to watch the Syrdish army’s rear. The army had by now crossed the Rönster River, and was ahead of the Hallish by some distance, but Count Jakob took no chances, delivering instructions for the huszars to watch their rear, aware of a potential pursuit by the Count of Halbenstein. The army moved cautiously, perhaps even slowly, abandoning Leuchstal and taking the southwest road, all too aware that the enemy could give chase. The Count’s vanguard of knights had taken front place within the army’s column, followed by the heavy baggage train, while the mercenaries had taken centre stage, shadowed by the huszar rearguard.

Ferenc’s company lagged far behind the mercenaries and some of the other huszars—although on horseback, they rode at a leisurely pace, taking stops for foraging and plunder, and disregarding orders to keep up with the rest of the army. Shortly before noon, with a blistering sun hanging high over them, a number of men under Ferenc’s company took a small detour off the road, and came to a small fenced farmstead, in which they wasted no time in scouring for the smallest trinket or bauble.

Lyrenz was with them. That day he had taken to wearing his plate armour, unnerved by the possibility of seeing action against the enemy. It was a decision that he was coming to regret, as he hobbled around in the sweltering weather, the visor of his sallet wide open, occasionally raising the palm of his right hand to wipe off the sweat from his forehead. His left hand rested atop his pommel, as he strutted about, his face frowning, while he observed cautiously the movements of his companions. Sólyom, the man who had a strange quality to him that had made him both detestable and charming to Lyrenz, was sitting down by a nearby bench, his red felt hat resting by him, as he curiously examined his sabre.

Csaba, one of the more unremarkables of the group, was fixated on the entrance to the small farmstead, his eye finely tuned to the art of looting after years of experience. He stood there silently, as he turned around every now and then, casting a glance at his surroundings with a dull face, his eyes droopy and sunken. He livened his mood by whistling a popular camp tune, tapping his right hand on his yellow kaftan to keep with the rhythm, while his legs jumped and moved about, making a poor imitation of the dance that came along with the camp tune.

There was a shuffling sound from inside the farmstead, and the ears of the three men pricked up, as they heard the movements of their other companion, Antal, who had taken to searching the main house of the farmstead itself. The small home was downtrodden and dilapidated, the walls on the outside showing signs that a good cleaning of the house was needed. The upper floor, covered by a shingled roof, the small green patches of moss interspersed throughout the tiles only contributing more to the farmstead’s air of abandonment. A small ladder on the outside led up to the attic, resting against a large open window.

Csaba called out to the huszar in the house, who answered, saying that he had found nothing, which provoked a small grunt from his partner, who walked around the edge of the house, his eyes setting on the ladder that rested against the open window. Deciding that he would search the attic, he began to climb, his whistling still not having ceased. A second later, the other huszar bursted out of the front door, a grimace crossing his face and his hand clutching his sabre, as he let out a curse or two before withdrawing to his horse, which he began to tend to.

There was a crashing noise from the attic. The ears of the three men outside again pricked up. Lyrenz’s grip on the pommel of his sword tightened; Sólyom rose from his seat with some alarm, and the huszar who had gone to tending to his horse turned his head with a sudden jerk, his hand making a quick movement to his belt, which his axe was fastened to, as it shone in the gleaming sunlight of the day. Sounds of a scuffle were heard from above and Sólyom moved quickly to the ladder, and began to climb, as the crashing continued, and the groans of two men resonated throughout the farmstead. The other huszar entered the house, disappearing from Lyrenz’s view, as the young knight walked over to the ladder like Sólyom. He tried to peer into the attic for a moment, going on his tip-toes, but Sólyom’s slender figure obstructed his sight, and he felt unsure of what was going on.

“You’ll pay!” Spat one of the voices from the attic, a harsh bitterness in its tone, and Lyrenz recognised it as Csaba’s.

There was another shout from the attic, then a cry, and Sólyom—who had just finished climbing—suddenly swerved, as the figure of a large man, his forehead wrinkled and his hair cut to his ears, stumbled towards the openless window, blood streaming down his face, before losing his footing and falling from the attic, cracking his head against the ground below. Lyrenz recoiled, as the man’s blood gushed out, and there was by that point no doubt that the man had died, his corpse motionless and still, and his head split open. Things were silent then, or so it felt to Lyrenz, a blank expression having crossed his face. It felt to him as if a moment was being dragged out a minute long, as he stood there frozen, before the image of Csaba again crossed his face, though it was visibly changed. A few streams of blood trickled down from the edge of his temple, as he held his right hand up to support his wounded head. He had been struck in the side of the head by a pitchfork. The huszar hobbled away, then sat down at a nearby bench, taking his seat with a loud groan.

It took the grimacing face of Sólyom for Lyrenz to be snapped out of his strange trance. Turning his gaze slowly to meet the man’s eyes, he heard his words but did not process them in his mind, instead simply withdrawing to his horse, rubbing his hand once again against his forehead to wipe off the sweat. He turned his gaze back to the three huszars, and saw that Sólyom was peering over the dead Hallishman’s body, his face betraying the fact that he was in deep thought. He walked over to a shovel that was resting against the wall of the house, and grasped it with his hand, before going to a small grassy spot by the fence, which was partly covered by the shadow of a small willow tree. He tested the ground with his foot, then set to digging. The two other huszars, including Csaba—who had just finished applying a bandage to his head—mounted their horses and prepared to ride off, signalling for Lyrenz to follow.

“A good Iskrenist you are, Sólyom! Don’t take too long now.” Chuckled Csaba.

“Bah! I’ll catch up later, no? Now be off!” He replied, digging up more and more dirt with each strike of his shovel, and again invoking that same strange quality which had been so perplexing for Lyrenz.

By noon, Lyrenz, Csaba and Antal had ridden back to their Company: a small column of some two-hundred huszars, marching along the dirt road. Their spirits were dampened slightly by the fact that they were retreating away from the Enemy, and that they had been caught on the back foot, but they nonetheless maintained their lively mood. One of them had taken to playing a tune on the recorder, which was picked up by others who knew the instrument also, while the rest joined in with their voices, forming a song that resonated within each and every man throughout the column. Lyrenz smiled as they sang, his hands firmly on the reins of his horse. He listened attentively, and once he felt that he had grasped the lyrics well enough, he joined them too in the singing, contributing to the merry tune that they had all begun to recant.

Yet as he listened to those words and recalled the events of the hour before—when the Hallishman had been slain—he at once felt a certain revulsion to the whole thing, and felt utterly ashamed of what he had done, and was doing. Csaba’s words rang loudly in his mind: “A good Iskrenist you are, Sólyom!”. Turning his gaze to meet the faces of those who rode next to him, he saw only their expressions—their lips had twisted into wide smiles as they sung—and as Lyrenz again remembered the death of the farmer, his head split open against the ground, his shame only grew, as he understood all he had done, and sulked. “Now I’ve done it! I’ve…associated with these men far too much! Partaken in their murders. Now I’m no different, aren’t I?” He thought to himself, as he turned silent, though his companions kept on singing.

Sólyom joined the column a few minutes later, his face sweating, and his breaths quick and numerous, betraying his exhaustion. Within a minute he too had joined in the singing, his face alight with excitement like many others, as they rode along at a slow pace, their horses making a loud trotting noise as their hooves beat down on the dry dirt below. They were all basking in the oppressive sunlight, their eyes squinting, and Lyrenz especially was suffering, feeling that he was about to collapse from the heat any second. The weather had not been clement to him nor the army in the recent months. First the great snowstorm of the winter prior, then followed by an unusually hot spring, as the trees blossomed with new life and the sun shone with an unusual brightness. Each day of marching had taken its toll on the Syrdish army, and though Lyrenz was far removed from the affairs of the main army—a product of his assignment to the huszars—he had heard from Ferenc that men had begun to succumb to the harsh conditions. This was true for the huszars as well; the week prior they had buried two of their fellows, who had died of dysentery and a sudden fever respectively. The thought of sickness terrified Lyrenz more than battle itself and the idea of succumbing to a simple ailment, which had no glory in it, drove him to take certain precautions that he had not done before.

The trotting of their horses was overtaken by the sound of a single horse galloping, and turning his gaze to his right, he saw another huszar—dressed in a red kaftan and yellow riding boots—riding along quickly, before making an abrupt stop as he reached the captain of the company. Ferenc looked at him with some confusion, assessing his state; the huszar was panting, as was his horse, which appeared worn out and weary, exhausted from what must’ve been a long few minutes of galloping. There was some muttering along the column, as speculation abounded, while the exhausted huszar spoke softly and in a tired tone, stopping between each word to catch his breath.

“Ferenc…Iskren’s sake they’re…not that…far off…good Lord…” He said, provoking yet more murmurs, and Lyrenz’s face twisted to form a confused expression, as he tried to overhear what the captain and the huszar were saying.

“The enemy…” He continued, and Ferenc’s eyes widened. He turned at once to two other huszars (Csaba was one of them), and told them to ride off to warn the others, before his gaze switched back to the rest of the column.

“Go! We must all go! Before they catch us! Hyah!” He shouted, kicking his horse to a gallop, and he was followed by the rest, along with Lyrenz, who was only now beginning to make out what was happening.

Not far off, the banner of Count Josef of Halbenstein fluttered slightly in a sudden breeze, before going limp once again. Having caught sight of some of the Syrdish scouts, and seeing that the rearguard itself was not too far off, the Count, who had crossed the river with his vanguard far ahead of the rest of the Hallish army, now appeared to be in the perfect opportunity to strike. The knights he led numbered some one-thousand men strong, their plate armour basking in the sunlight, and their lances raised high in the air, waiting for the moment to be lowered.

Sitting idly atop his horse, the Count, positioned in the front line, caught a glimpse of his Sir Rupert von Hirschtal who was riding back from a small scouting mission. As he approached the Count, he raised the visor of his sallet, a sly smirk on his face, as he gripped the reins of his horse and spoke. “The first company of huszars is not far off at all, Your Grace. I caught sight of them here, saw them with my own two eyes, I did. We should charge while we have the opportunity to cut them down.”

“The rest of the army is still crossing the river, we’ll be far removed from them if we do decide to charge.” Spoke up one of the knights, who was overhearing the conversation. Yet by that point the whole vanguard had been caught up in the glory of it all, and Count Josef, who had been barrelling towards this moment with all his momentum and energy, merely brushed aside the knight’s words. “You would see us forsake this moment now, Sir Werhner? Where’s your spirit?” He exclaimed, his words proving a biting remark for the knight, who cowed, and lowered his sallet in response. The Count brushed the sweat off his forehead, then turned his attention to the crowd of knights, his gaze meeting the eyes of Heinrik, who was in the row just behind him. He smiled, and with a cry of “Greatest willing, we will win this day! Let’s charge and let them have it!” he provoked a cacophony of cries and shouts, as they formed up for the charge, lowered their visors, and kicked their horses to a gallop.

They rode with full speed as rows upon rows of knights in plate armour, the colourful banners of each baron and lord limp in the windless day, but nevertheless striking an imposing figure for all to see. They galloped along the road, and it was there that they caught sight of the first company of huszars, which too was riding away as fast as possible. The Count’s smile widened, and he laughed. Here now was the thrill of it all, and he felt as if he was on the hunt for a hart, chasing the animal with his hounds, who barked and cried out for blood. He lowered his lance, and prepared to strike the first huszar he could get close to.

Heinrik struggled to breath, the world around him moving so quickly he felt like a man flying through the wilds. His eyes were squinted as he peered through the visor of his helm, the sound of hoove breaking earth like a rhyme. No, like a drum. Soon screams began to add to the choir, as man came upon man, or were those beasts. His mind raced as the sounds of splintered lances filled the air, the weight of his own lance threw him off for a moment, his breaths short, his eyes wide, he’d just driven his lance through someone, but there was no time to think or even dwell, the screams were now all around him.

One of his companions, unknown who, screamed in agony, Heinrik turning to see one of the Syrds had driven him through with some sort of lance, piercing his armour. The man slumped over and died right before Heinrik could even process who had struck him, already he was charging his own foe. Some young lad, not much older than Heinrik likely, but the man dropped quickly, as Heinrik’s crimsoned covered lance pierced his belly. Heinrik gazed for a moment at his dead eyes, his stomach clenching as he felt sick, before getting swept back into the chase.

The man beside Heinrik rallied the men forward, as more of the enemy ran at their sight, but their mounts were slower than what Heinrik would have imagined. Perhaps the Greatest truly did favour them this day, he thought, the idea an encouragement as he let out a cry. The front of the vanguard however came to a sudden halt, as the sounds of steel pierced his ears, the huszars must have stopped to stand and fight.

Heinrik galloped to the front of the vanguard, and as he’d expected a couple hundred of the huszars had stood to fight, the bodies of a few dozen friend and foe already staining the ground as he jumped into the ever moving frey. Heinrik thrusted his lance forward, knocking a man onto the ground. Before the man could even stand, Heinrik trampled over him, as he went on to the next man, his eyes grizzled. Heinrik thrusted his lance, but it fractured from the man’s horse, as both Heinrik and he fell in a tumble of death.

Heinrik stood slowly, his head throbbing as he stood up, looking to see what had happened. His horse lay dead, along with the huszar’s, but the man still drew breath and the will to fight. Heinrik unsheathed his sword, thrusting forward with all his weight, as the man stepped just away from the blade’s edge. The man then struck Heinrik once, then twice with his sabre, the damage minute upon his armour, but the sting of it’s strike hurt Heinrik nonetheless.

Heinrik began to move for another strike, but the man was propelled by a lance, killed instantly. “Young Heinrik, grab one of the squire’s mounts, and let us ride them down, for Iskren and the Greatest!” The knight yelled, Heinrik not even aware of who, his armour so battered and discoloured from the blood of battle he was unrecognisable. Still Heinrik raced his arm in agreement, before being brought a new mount from a young man, his eyes wide with excitement as he helped Heinrik upon the new horse.

“Lance.” He said harshly, his throat dry, as he breathed a deep sigh. He raised his visor revealing his dirt covered face, gesturing for the young man to hand him water, “Does Iskren guide us this day?” He asked, as he took the water before drinking it down quickly.

The young man gestured a little ways west, “The vanguard continues to run down those they find, and with great success.” He said, as Heinrik handed him back the pouch. The young man then gave Heinrik a new lance, and gestured towards the west past the hill to regather with the vanguard, their sounds of cracking steel still loud, even some distance off from the battle itself.

Heinrik thanked the man, before galloping over the hill, his thoughts only of continuing the fight, as his father would want of him. Before him was carnage, as friends and foes in the hundreds were dead upon once fields of green, but there would be time to give rights and burial to the dead, he thought, comforting himself from dwelling.

Heinrik rode up next to a large number of his peers, before stopping just next to Count Josef, raising his visor to hear what the Count was saying to one of the men beside them.

The Count had his visor raised, his face sweaty and exhausted, as he panted, taking in deep breaths to regain his composure. His armour was bloody, and he had his hand resting on his injured shoulder, which he moved around as part of an exercise to see if it’s condition would improve. “Nothing too bad.” He remarked with a chuckle to Sir Rupert, who was by his side. He then turned his gaze to the rider who had approached him, and as he caught sight of Heinrik’s figure, he again smiled. “Ah, my boy! Made it here in one piece, you have! Excellent…excellent…” He laughed, before his gaze turned to Airmanreik’s steed. “Lost your mount did you?” He asked.

“Aye,” He said, almost a wisp, his body still burning in pain from the pressures he’d put it through. “An unlucky blow threw me and the mount for a bad tumble. Shame, but it broke its neck there and then, no pain, I hope.” He said, as he leaned forward to try and remain composed. “What is our next move, Your Grace?” He asked, the other eyes of the party turning to the Count, as they all were curious.

The Count looked around, and saw that more and more men were riding over to his position, while others were recovering some distance away. He had a servant of his sound a horn, which blared loudly as it called for the others to come to the Count and prepare a charging formation once more. “A good charge, this one was, but we still have time. We should press on.” He exclaimed, his words reverberating throughout the crowd. “We won’t be catching the enemy in a spot like this a second time, I can tell you that.”

The men around him, all seized by the momentum, the thrill and the glory of the charge, could see no other option. Their minds had been seized by a thirst for victory and blood,and their confidences were boosted by the sight of the dead huszars sprawled out across the field around them. It was no longer a question on whether they could win the battle—in their eyes victory had been practically achieved. The only thing left was to form up, charge, and end the Syrdish threat for good.

“Aye! Aye! The Syrds will rue the day they took up arms against us!” Cried out Sir Rupert, and his words were echoed by some of the others.

Heinrik glanced around to see if anyone disagreed, but of course, none would raise a question of doubt, and neither would he. “Aye, I am with you, Your Grace!” He cheered, throwing his arm up with a fist.