A Protracted Battle

In the snow-covered forest, one end of a rope tied to ten wolf carcasses was slung over the shoulder of a blond youth, held firmly in his hand. Various camping gear was scattered nearby.

“Then I’ll head back first?” Tolruk said to Noren.

“Mm-hmm,” she nodded, waving a hand. “Skin all of them as soon as possible. The wolf meat is tough and gets stuck in your teeth, but don’t throw it away—I have a use for it. Feed the innards to Doge, my yellow hound. Remember to mash the food and add plenty of water to his bowl; he likes it thin.”

Tolruk grunted in acknowledgment, then headed southeast toward Ostrava. The crunch of his fur boots on the snow gradually faded.

Watching the blond youth leave, the tall girl—clad in winter clothes that didn’t make her look bulky—blew a white arrow of breath into the sky. It flew far before losing shape, expanding into a fluffy white mist that dispersed.

She counseled herself to remain patient. “This is destined to be a protracted battle…”

****

In the northern town of Opava, Jaromir’s army was engaged in street fighting with the rebels. The battle had reached a fever pitch; the narrow alleys echoed with earth-shaking battle cries.

“This is destined to be a protracted battle!” roared Tall Otto, raising his two-handed axe high. He cleaved a sword-and-shield leather-armored soldier in two, helmet and all. Blood splattered on his sleeves and even stained his long beard.

“Good men, kill these noble dogs!” Otto bellowed, raising his axe. Behind him, the sword-and-shield heavy infantry surged forward, crowding into the narrow alley with Jaromir’s soldiers.

Shouts and screams filled the air incessantly. The clang of axes and blades, the thudding of weapons against shields, echoed endlessly in the confined space.

This alley was the only path to the stone castle atop the hill. The castle had been designed with three-foot-high sharpened wooden stakes driven into the hillside, their points facing outward. Apart from this single road, it was nearly impossible for an ordinary person to climb the hill.

Facing these three-foot stakes, climbing from below was difficult even in good weather, let alone after an extreme snowstorm. Who knew if a rash climb would end with a stake piercing straight through you?

As for why the battle wasn’t at the first layer of wooden walls? Well, neither side had enough troops to cover the outermost walls, which stretched two thousand two hundred feet.

For the attackers, sending troops to scale the walls from all sides would split their forces. In this medieval era of poor organization and shouting orders, the result would be that only the personal guard could be assembled; the rest would scatter into chaos. Moreover, in the winter of 1067, there were no heraldic surcoats to identify friend from foe. Splitting forces would lead to friendly fire: scattered soldiers unable to distinguish sides, killing each other. Choosing a single direction avoided this—those facing you were enemies, those with their backs to you were allies. So never flee with your back turned, or a comrade might mistake you for the enemy and spear you.

For the defenders, spreading out was equally unwise. If you can’t cover the entire wall, a thousand meters of defense equals a thousand meters of undefended. Jaromir’s army would break through easily and charge straight in.

So, except for when Jaromir’s army first sounded the charge and Tall Otto ordered archers to harass them, he concentrated most of his forces in the city’s streets and alleys. He blocked most roads with impassable obstacles, leaving only one main avenue leading to the castle hill. This made defense easier and allowed an orderly retreat to the central stone castle if needed. The harassing archers would retreat after five arrows, all the way back to the stone castle, where they would harass the pursuing enemy during the defenders’ withdrawal.

It must be said that Tall Otto, though a commoner, had far better military acumen than most mindless medieval knights who only knew how to charge, charge, charge.

“Hyah—ha!” Another powerful axe blow. Tall Otto smashed the shield-bearing light infantryman in front of him, shield and all, to the ground. Perhaps the axe blade was a bit dull; it didn’t sink into the shield, merely broke the soldier’s guard and struck the ground.

Otto appeared spent—‘old strength gone, new strength not yet born.’ Another enemy soldier saw an opportunity and swung his sword at Tall Otto, but Otto deftly deflected the blade with his two-handed axe.

The attacking soldier’s sword had a poor hilt; the blade only left a shallow scratch on the long axe handle. The ambush failed, and the soldier quickly raised his shield, for an enraged Otto had already lifted his axe to strike!

“Bastard! Taste my axe!” Otto roared. The axe haft struck the shield’s rim, and the blade sank into the soldier’s head. He kicked the corpse away. As he pulled the axe free, it tugged at the soldier’s nerves, causing his eyes to roll back in a blissful expression as if his soul were being drained.

The muscular Otto, clad in double-layered leather heavy armor, fought a bloody path through the alley, surrounded by a crowd of Dastards. Jaromir’s soldiers showed fear; those in front began to hesitate.

“Come on! Come on! You dogs of Jaromir!” Otto spread his arms and roared. The defenders around him, inspired by his fierceness, shouted back with fervor.

In the distance, Wood stood on the outer wooden wall of Opava, watching everything. His face was heavy, dark enough to drip ink. The combat power of these Opava rebels exceeded his expectations—far exceeded.

The knights beside Wood also observed the battle. They were not exactly indifferent to the deaths of the Duke of Bohemia’s soldiers, but they certainly didn’t care.

‘As long as my own soldiers are safe,’ one knight thought to himself. ‘We still have to join Duke Vratislav’s war against Meissen later.’

“Order the soldiers to retreat,” Wood commanded. Since the attack failed, they would have to organize another.

The messenger received the order and shouted at the top of his lungs: “Retreat!”

The command was passed down layer by layer; cries of “Retreat” soon reached the front lines.

A soldier licked his dry, purple lips. “Retreat?”

His fighting spirit plummeted to freezing point. He thought that once the allies behind him retreated, he would be cut down by the pursuing enemy when he tried to flee. His legs went weak.

The soldier immediately dropped his shield and pushed into the crowd behind him: “Move aside! Move aside! We’re retreating!”

One man fled, and fear began to spread through the attacking force. The rest jostled and clamored—

“Move!” “Don’t push me!” “Rear guard! Rear guard!”

The retreat turned into a rout.

Tall Otto’s rugged face twisted into a fierce grin. “Dastards! The chance for a counterattack is here! Kill them!”

“Ooh!” The Dastards shouted excitedly. They loved attacking from behind—it was their specialty. What could be more natural than one’s own specialty?

A small defeat seemed about to turn into a great rout…

Wood’s face turned ashen. This was his first time commanding troops, and he never expected such a situation. It was a huge blow to his authority.

“Go! Gather your most elite soldiers and assemble at the city gate!” Wood put on his linen gambeson hood and nasal helmet. “Anyone who rushes out of that gate…”

His killing intent was fierce. He spoke coldly through clenched teeth: “Kill them all without mercy!”

“Yes!” The knights thumped their chests, their chainmail jingling. They descended the wall and returned to camp. Following the orders of Commander Wood, they would lead their men to slaughter the routed allies.

When the first fleeing soldier passed through the wooden gate, he was met not by friendly reinforcements, but by a dense shield wall.

Gleaming spear tips protruded from the gaps in the shield wall. The soldiers behind the shields wore expressions of utmost indifference.

Allies? Who cared about them? They only obeyed their own knight-lord’s orders. What difference was there between killing allies and killing enemies? Killing was killing; killing anyone was not a noble deed…

The soldier who had just run out of the wooden gate stumbled. He spread his empty hands and slowly advanced toward the shield wall, showing he was unarmed, showing he was friendly.

When he reached the shield wall, he saw the mail-clad knights behind it. His face twisted into a terrified smile. “My lords, the army is retreating…”

“Kill,” Wood said coldly.

The soldier jerked as a sharp pain shot through his diaphragm.

Confused, he looked down and saw a spear thrust into his body. Crimson spread from the wound, soaking his linen gambeson with a large patch of blood.

The spear was pulled out with a squelch, blood flicking from its tip. The soldier collapsed onto the cold snow, blood gushing from his mouth, staining the white ground red.

One man dead. The fleeing soldiers paused for an instant.

Ahead was a wall of allied shields; behind, the pursuing enemy. Either way, death awaited. They chose…

To charge the shield wall!

Body after body slammed into the shield wall. The heavy infantry behind the shields felt their arms grow weak and numb from the unending impacts.

The heavy infantry lightly thrust their short swords forward, feeling the blade sink into flesh.

Pull out. A corpse falls. The blade is dyed red.

A shield wall required at least three ranks of heavy infantry with shields, otherwise it could easily be torn apart by an enemy charge. Behind the shield-bearers, spearmen would thrust their spears through the gaps to kill enemies.

And so, under the interplay of swords and spears, large numbers of allies met their end before the shield wall.

Even in death, they couldn’t understand why a shield wall was blocking their retreat.

Wood watched as his own soldiers were killed by their own side. He gripped his longsword tightly.

Wood didn’t want this, but there was no better alternative.

Once the front line began to rout, these men’s fates were sealed. He could not allow the routed troops and the rebels to charge into the camp together.

If they all rushed into the camp, this suppression campaign would be declared a failure.

And Wood, as the commander, would face dire consequences for losing the battle.

Especially with the great war between Bohemia and Meissen imminent.

The duke might execute him as a warning to his vassals and knights, or he might use this as an opportunity to attack his liege lord Jaromir.

But either outcome was unacceptable to him.

Wood sighed inwardly. ‘I can only make these soldiers suffer. I will bear all the sins myself. I will confess to God…’

Just then, as the air reeked of blood and the sounds of battle and screams filled the area, a figure rushed up to Wood. He grabbed the edge of Wood’s linen gambeson exposed at his collar, staring at him with eyes wide as bells, full of disbelief.

“You bastard! You—you’re slaughtering the duke’s soldiers!” The man wore a composite armor of leather and textile, a bowl helmet on his head, and a short sword at his waist. He was the captain of the fifty archers sent by the Duke of Bohemia.

As for the captain of the hundred light infantry… he was on the other side of the shield wall.

“Protect Lord Wood!” Two bodyguards grabbed the archer captain’s arms and pulled him back. A knight placed his sword against the man’s neck.

Wood glanced at him and sneered. “Hmph. I didn’t see any ‘duke’s soldiers.’ I only saw a group of rebels charging the shield wall, trying to break our lines.”

Wood’s words enraged the archer captain completely. The man roared in fury: “You scum!!”

The archer captain’s anger displeased Wood. The bearded knight beside him keenly sensed this dissatisfaction.

The bearded knight leaned close to Wood’s ear and whispered something, then raised his thumb and drew it sharply across his throat. The meaning was clear: kill him.

Wood pursed his lips silently, then turned his back on the archer captain without a word.

This archer captain clearly bore a grudge. It was uncertain whether he would obey orders in future battles, but more importantly, when he returned to the capital Prague, he would surely badmouth Wood to the Duke of Bohemia. Slandering Wood was one thing, but providing the duke with a pretext to attack Jaromir was something Wood would not tolerate.

Wood’s silence and turned back tacitly gave permission: kill him.

The bearded knight walked up to the archer captain with a sinister grin. He leaned close to the man’s ear and spoke in a rough voice with a Slavic trill: “You b*tch. You beat me at arm wrestling for 20 silver rubles. Don’t think I didn’t know you drugged the wine, or I wouldn’t have lost to a weakling like you.”

The archer captain’s eyes flashed with regret. He knew he had been too impulsive, but Wood clearly had no intention of letting him go. He shouted with all his might to the infantry captain on the other side of the shield wall:

“Hark! Lead your light infantry in a counterattack! Counterattack!!!”

The bearded knight, having picked up a two-handed battle axe from somewhere, swung it straight down at the archer captain’s neck.

“Crack!”