|Krakow, Autumn 1288|
The sound of shifting boots, furniture, and the handling of paperwork filled the chamber.
Servants were moving between one noble to the next, taking requests or jotting down comments regarding the topic at hand.
Wladyslaw leaned back in his chair.
A messenger has just arrived from Palanga, informing the small council of Boleslaw's success and Konrad's demise, sending the men abuzz.
"You ought to be proud of your son, my liege," added a man to Wladyslaw's left "He has-"
The Polish monarch slammed an open palm upon the table, commanding the council's attention. He had to repeat the practice one, twice, each time silencing a bigger part of the noblemen, until they all turned to stare at their liege.
"Boleslaw's success is a welcomed breath of fresh air, true- But he also wishes seize the momentum and advance against the Skalvians."
He paused for a moment, allowing his words to sink in.
Advancing into pagan territory was any proper Christian's goal, but that would also mean a continued sink of funds and maintaining a troublesome supply line.
"Virgil!"
"Yes, my liege?" piped the servant to his right
"Fetch us a proper map of the Pagan lands. And some wine," his fingers drummed on the table "A lot of wine."
Once the man left, chaos took hold of the people.
"How do you suggest we maintain our own garrison while Boleslaw is prancing about with more than half of our levy?!"
"What if the Pagans launch raiding parties at our undefended fields? You can't expect one army to maintain the peace!"
The bickering went on, with people supporting each side of the argument. Wladyslaw's lips remained shut, his heavy posture set back against the throne as he patiently waited for the map to be fetched.
"If I may add," another voice pierced through the racket, a smooth, pleasant addition in the sea of croaked and hoarse throats that has thus far dominated the room "Boleslaw is here-" he stopped and snatched a folded map from the hands of a surprised Virgil "Our main concern should not be our fields, because his force is large enough to demand their full attention. Possibly even unite some different tribes."
He dipped his finger in wine and passed it over the map, much to the servant's dismay. Small, crimson lines served to illustration Boleslaw's advance and the unification of different tribes.
"What we should worry about is the Empire to our west, as they may fully commit to advancing on our unprotected rear" his finger moved from Wroclaw towards Krakow, which he encircled. He licked off what remained of the wine before dipping his finger again.
"My king?"
"You may proceed," Wladyslaw allowed and shadowed his words with a gesture
The noble's youthful features shifted to form a smile, his posture shifted towards the table as he continued to lecture the small council.
|Western Lithuania, Sambian land, Autumn 1288|
"Do you think the messenger made it to Krakow?"
The tent's entry shifted sideways as a handful of burly men stepped within.
Boleslaw, and the rest of his retinue's attention snapped at their direction, with Jakob's palm coming to rest upon the hilt of his sword.
"No need to be so tense lads"
"Speak," the heir spat, straightening his back
"There is a large force encamped a four-hour march from here to the east. Their camp is not fortified. I'd say there are around five hundred pagans, five sentries every two hundred paces or so."
"Something caught their attention?" Rafal offered with an arced brow, yet the burly men only shrugged. A heap of leaves cascaded from their cloaks.
"Whatever it is, they're there, and we did what we were told," the scout produced a scrambled piece of paper "Illustration included. Just like you asked."
Boleslaw snatched it and spread it upon the table. His retinue seemed to largely keep to themselves, some drinking wine, some occupying themselves with a set of bone dice or a whet stone and a dull blade.
"Dismissed. I will call you again if you are needed."
The man in charge of the scouts bowed stiffly and made a curt turn on his heels towards the exit.
"What's the plan?" Jakob joined his lord's side, studying the crude map. The pagans were set in a tight square, with several points of interested circled or highlighted.
"We split our force to four different groups, and I will distribute you lot evenly to make sure nothing goes wrong," Boleslaw shot a finger at the extreme bottom right, the point closest to their own camp "One group will infiltrate from here, another from here, here, and finally, there. Since the grounds are so heavily guarded we may simply be lucky to catch them by surprise rather than in their sleep. Which is why we've to dedicate a small number of riders to encircle the camp and shoot down any survivor that escapes."
Jakob blinked, and Rafal left his blade aside to look at the map. Soon, the rest of Boleslaw's retinue shifted closer.
Night fell on the Pagan lands.
A bleak darkness swallowed the sun whole, and the waning moon desperately tried to fend off the overwhelming starless night.
Boleslaw's detachment advanced to the edge of the camp. He ran a cloth over his bloodied blade, which just recently claimed the life of a sentry.
His eyes narrowed, mustering whatever light emanated from the camp to help him study his surroundings.
To his left and right, Henry and Mathias crouched readily, their unarmored bodies tense, ready to pounce at a heartbeat.
His men followed him further into the camp, and while he advanced onwards, men darted left and right, entering and exiting tents like mute angels of death, claiming the lives of the sleeping soldiers within.
Boleslaw's blade found a man's throat and put him to a painless rest.
"Pasala!"
A voice boomed, and suddenly, the entire camp was abuzz- drums and shields battered together, tents were flipped, and confused shouts rose through-out the camp.
Boleslaw's company exchanged nervous looks they tightened their formation. Whatever effort to maintain secrecy was thrown out of the window, and the Polish heir hoisted his blade
"Slaughter them all!"
Rafal lunged forward and impaled an unarmed man through the gut, while Jakob fended another. A man javelin found the neck of one of his soldiers and pinned him to a makeshift wall. Boleslaw exhaled and sliced his throat, ending the man's frantic spasm. More and more Pagans poured to face the Poles, most armed with a simple weapon.
Jakob threw his own spear and impaled a man by the thigh, then proceeded with several other men to hack throw the flesh-made barricade.
"Push onward!"
Steel found steel, and what was not a moment ago a silent camp was held by a nauseating hymn of whimpers, groans, the clashing of arms and the death of men.
The polish detachment cut their way onwards and soon came face to face with their brethren, encircled by a host of pagan spearmen. A small pile of corpses was already mounting, and the grass was sticky with pagan and Christian fluid.
Boleslaw charged onwards with his company and hacked the men apart.
"Olemn! Report, damn it!"
The man in question sported several shallow cuts and bruises over his abdomen and limbs, yet when one ear was supposed to be, only a stick pool of blood remained. The commander seemed shocked at first, and he was forcefully shook awake by another comrade.
Meanwhile, the combined Polish force formed a circle, fending off another charge.
"Eugh...Eh- Some escaped, some escaped to the woods...We were making our way to the alter when we heard the alarm. We were caught off guard..."
A loud war cry caught Boleslaw's attention, and he snapped his attention to the left, where a large, organized force of Pagan warriors was making a slow advance, spears at the ready while a heavily armored individual instructed the men further.
"Men! Form a line to the rear and the right! Don't let them flank us!"
Boleslaw formed a thin line to face the advancing Pagans.
Their spears found several of his warriors, and suddenly, the situation became a desperate fight for survival.
A tip found Rafal's shoulder, but he repaid the man with a jab to the neck. Jakob's heavy blade was far more suited to breaking the spear shafts than to duel the men, but he, too, sustained an injury and was forced back.
Boleslaw's blade found flesh with each swing. His sight went red.
Both of the lines he installed were occupied with fending the Pagans, yet their numbers were quickly dwindling.
"Mirtis ateina Kristian!"
Boleslaw found his line to be pushed back, surrendering more and more ground and men to the organized Pagan push. Rafal was heavily bleeding now, his movement sluggish. A spear tip to the chest ended his life.
Suddenly, the Pagan chieftain caught fire.
"For Poland! For God! For Boleslaw!"
A mad charge carried a handful of poles from the Pagan rear. A man stopped to lob another torch at their formation, while their leader, one of Boleslaw's retinue leapt forward and sliced a man's arm. He hoisted a torch with his offhand and shoved the burning instrument into another's face.
What followed was a maelstrom of violence and gore, as the two lines decimated the remaining Pagans.
"Aleks! Report!"
"My lord! We have decimated the eastern side and made our way here once we heard your voice."
"We've to make it back to the camp! Gather the men and let's cleave our way out!"
Boleslaw studied his force.
He lost roughly fourth of the three combined companies, but the fourth was nowhere to be found.
"We've to find the fourth company!"
He suddenly jolted into action, and his men followed suit, trampling burnt or hacked corpses of friends and foes alike.
The sing song clash of blades was unmistakable, and the exhausted Christians kept a mad pace to race to the other end of the camp.
And then they came to a sudden halt.
The fourth detachment was formed into a thick line of steel, spear tips at the ready, pagan bodies hoisted as makeshift shields.
And around them: Death.
At the sight of their lord, the men eased their stance, and the disturbing thuds of dozens of dumped bodies overcame the crackling flames that took hold of this side of the camp.
"We're withdrawing to the camp. I want a full damn report of what went wrong, and the men you're missing."
The retreat was uneventful. Even as the night slowly brightened, the sun did not soar for some time, leaving the forest dump and cold. What was once a warm layer of pagan blood became an unwanted, dreadfully cold token of war. Yet the Poles could not stop. Boleslaw urged his men further and further. Soon, word of their arrival will rouse more tribes into action.
While the way back was a tense, uneventful torture, the fact they had to prepare for another battle made their arrival much worse.
Many of Boleslaw's men were unsuited for combat, either until they recovered or until God took pity in their situation and granted them rest.
He left those men capable of combat instructions to prepare and retreated to his own tent, where his retinue followed.
They were mostly intact, with only six men missing, and two men too injured to join the upcoming battle.
|Halych, Autumn 1288|
"Zbigniew Piast, at your service"
The noble extended a bleak gauntlet, taking Anna's hand in a formal gesture.
Anna's chest collapsed.
Is this truly Mieszlav's older brother?
Back when she was nothing but a mere peasant, her brother and father served under the fabled Piast when they pacified Hungarian raiders.
Their stories painted the man as a blood thirsty brute whom mistreated his captives and soldiers alike.
But here, before her, stood a groomed, tall nobleman, that despite the network of scars and notches emanated a sense of serenity and calm.
"A-Ann-"
"Anna Zjatov of Bedzin, my brother's well-hidden to-be wife."
Her mouth opened ajar, and she was about to protest when the man defused the tension with a nod "Mieszlav told me everything.
From the day you met to how he planned to wed you despite our father's wishes. Don't fret- I am the last one to care."
His brother carried the name so easily, yet every time it was uttered, a burning sensation jolted through her chest like a wicked lightning bolt.
Zbige's maw moved this way and that as he studied her.
"We've a lot to discuss. But first, I'd like to see you eat."
|Western Lithuania, Sambian land, Autumn 1288|
Boleslaw flexed his injured arm.
He did not even feel the wound up until now, but luckily it was only a small cut.
"The bindings just might hold, my liege, but you must not strain yourself."
The comment earned the man a snort of disapproval, and he quickly rose to his feet, dismissing the blood coated medic.
A small commotion rose from the outside of his tent, and he hurried outside, his eyes falling on the returned scouting party.
Their faded, rugged clothing were painted white and gray, and they paced onwards, huffing and puffing from their forced march.
"Hour, we've an hour"
"How many?" he questioned evenly
"Couldn't tell. Too many to count while we were being chased."
Boleslaw let out a venomous cuss and ran a palm along his pale beard. An unpleasant sensation ran through his forearm.
"Men!"
Those that did not already gather around their commander did so. Countless pairs of weary eyes centered on Boleslaw, waiting for further instructions.
"When you first joined this campaign, your thoughts were of glory, wealth and retribution. You fought and reclaimed not for me, but for the entirety of the Polish people.
But now, when you are bloodied and weary, and your thoughts are of your home, your fields and family, I once again ask you to remember your duty to the realm and God!
We are here because we must!"
His head turned to view his cheering soldiers: a patchwork of wounded and tired men hoisting their arms and armor.
He knew they would die for him. And if not for him, then for Poland.
"We are here for our children, for our wives, and for God! We are here because no one else would take this burden!"
Another row of applause and cheers shook the camp, while in the distance, the wind carried the faint, ominous hymn of war drums.
The Polish banner flapped merrily against the cold breeze.
Boleslaw's men formed on a large, snow covered hill, while the Pagan force occupied another.
They were seemingly numberless, filthy men dressed in drab cloth, a condensed wall of armed heathens eager to slaughter his company.
His captains moved between their respective units, giving orders and words of encouragement.
Some men found the need to pray a second time, while others stared at the Pagans with disbelief.
Someone on the other hill laughed, another joined him and exposed his rear.
And then a man who could only be their chieftain stood forward and pointed his sword at Boleslaw.
Time froze. The wind disappeared, yet the cold remained. It went past his armor and cloth and pierced his lungs.
The horde moved.
The Polish army stood still, awaiting orders while Boleslaw observed the advance from atop his steed. Jakob uttered something while Olemn affirmed grimly.
Their adversaries' formation suddenly shifted, and horsemen galloped from the rear, awarding the Christians with a volley of arrows.
"Plough it, we've to meet them!"
Most of the arrows fell short, yet some found a shield or an exposed limb.
The unmistakable symphony of flying arrows and screams marked the beginning of the skirmish, and Boleslaw ordered his forces forward.
The Poles finally began exchanging volleys with noticeable success, forcing the horse archers to retreat while both sides advanced their infantry.
Boleslaw took his own men in a wide arc around the battlefield while the melee commenced. Bow strings and the shriek of arrows echoed the ring of steel and iron.
The heavy Polish horsemen drew the attention of the enemy horse archers, who committed to try and stop the flanking maneuver.
Horses and men cried. Each volley took more and more lives. Men he knew from since he was a toddler now laid motionless in the cold, foreign snow of the Pagan lands.
And then his lance pierced through the Pagan rear.
Men panicked. Those that did not outright flee were trampled down and cut to pieces.
The light cavalry joined the fray, but their intervention came too late: their brethren already cracked under the pressure of his infantry and rear charge, and they now stood alone against his blood thirsty angels of death.
Each swing of his sword took the life of a rider. Each swing of his sword filled the hole of sorrow within him. He avenged Rafal, and Henrik, and Zadok, and all those men he desperately tried to remember but couldn't.
And then he killed for his family. For Mieszlav, for Kowan, and Zbigniew. He killed until none were left to kill, and until the only cry that rang in his ears was the indifferent wind.
Born anew, Poland AAR
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