From outside again came the sound of horses hooves pounding, screaming and the clash of iron.
‘There are the Black ones! Kill them!’ shouted a thousand voices. Someone outside the tent again roared like an animal and then ended in a grunt.
Rusty tried to stand, but his legs would not hear of it. His hands shook.
Iola shook with strong spasms of weeping, curled up next to the stretcher of the wounded Nilfgaardian, in a fetal position.
Shani was crying, without trying t hide the tears, but still held the clamps. Marti sewed quietly, only her lips moved in a silent monologue.
Rusty was still unable to stand up. His eyes met the eyes of an orderly pressed into the corner of the tent.
‘Give me a sip of vodka,’ he said with effort. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t have any. I know you beasts always do.’
General Blenheim Blenckert stood in hi stirrups and stretched his neck as her listened to the echoes of battle.
‘Form up the troops,’ he ordered. ‘Then trot over the hill. From what the scouts are saying, we will run directly into the right wing of the Black ones.’
‘We’ll give them hell!’ cried one of the young lieutenants, a youth with a thin, silky beard. Blenckert gave him aside long glance.
‘Bring the standard to the front,’ he ordered and drew his sword. ‘And give the battle cry, “Redania!” with all the power in your lungs! Let Foltest and Natalis' boys know that the relief is here.’
Count Kobus de Ruyter had fought many battles in the last forty years. He had fought them since his sixteenth year of life. De Ruyter’s had been soldiers for eight generations. The roar of battle, the rattle and crash of steel that was unbearable for everyone, Kobus de Ruyter perceived as a musical symphony. And at this moment he heard in the concert, new notes, chords and tones.
‘Hooray!’ he yelled, waving his mace. ‘Redania! Redania is coming! Eagles! Eagles!’
Over the top of the hill from the north appeared riders. Above the head of the riders and horses fluttered a huge banner with the silver eagle of Redania.
‘Relief!’ yelled de Ruyter. ‘Here comes relief! Hooray! Strike at the Black ones!’
The soldier from eight generations of soldiers noticed that the Nilfgaardians were turning in a counterattack and were moving to tighten their formation. He knew that it must be avoided.
‘Follow me,’ he ordered and grabbing the banner from the hands of the standard bearer. ‘Follow me!’
They attacked. They attacked like mad men, in a terrible but effectively way. They did not allow the Venendal division to form up against the Redanian cavalry. Their attack devastated the Nilfgaardians. The sky rocked with desperate screams.
Kobus de Ruyter never saw or heard. A stray crossbow bolt struck him directly in the head. The Count slipped from the saddle and fell from his horse; the standard he held covered him like a shroud.
Eight generations of de Ruyter’s, who were following the battle from the other world, nodded with appreciation.
‘You could say that the Nordlings were saved that day by a miracle. Or a cluster of coincidences that nobody has been able to provide... It is true that Restif de Montholon writes in his book that Marshal Coehoorn made a mistake in assessing the strength and intentions of the enemy. That he took too much of a risk, splitting the Center Group Army and taking only cavalry units to the north. That he plunged recklessly into a battle in which he had the upper hand. That his reconnaissance was underestimated and therefore did not know about the Redanian auxiliary army...’
‘Cadet Puttkammer! The dubious “works” of Mister Montholon are not on the reading list of this school! And his imperial majesty has spoken out quite critically about this book! So cadet, do not quote it here. Indeed, I am surprised. So far your responses had been pretty good, even excellent, and suddenly you begin to clamor about miracles and clusters of circumstances, to let you end, allows you to criticize the military capabilities of Menno Coehoorn, one of the greatest leaders of the Empire. Cadet Puttkammer and the other cadet, if you want to pass the exam, listen to me and remember – At Brenna there were no miracles or coincidences, our defeat was caused by an extensive plot! Not only by hostile marauders, but also by subversive elements within our own ranks – various malcontents, cosmopolitans, renegades and traitors! An abscess, which later was burned with a white hot iron. But before that happened, those nasty traitors, betrayed their own nation and wove their webs and traps and built their networks. They tangled and betrayed Marshal Coehoorn, then deceived and misled him! They were rogues, without honor, conscience or simple...’
‘Motherfuckers,’ wheezed Menno Coehoorn, looking through his spyglass at the right wing. ‘Cursed motherfuckers. I’ll find you, just wait and I’ll teach you what it means to reconnoiter. De Wyngalt! Personally find the officer who was on patrol behind the hills to the north. And hang his entire patrol.’
‘As you command,’ Ouder de Wyngalt, the Marshal’s aide clicked his heels. Of course he did not know that Lamarr Flaut, the wanted commander from the reconnaissance patrol was now dying under the hooves of the Redanian cavalry, whose arrival at the fight he did not identify because of his own cowardice. De Wyngalt obviously could not know that for he himself only remained two hours of life.
‘How many are their Sir Trahe,’ said Coehoorn, without taking his eye from the spyglass. ‘According to your estimate?’
‘About ten thousand,’ the commander of the Seventh Daerlan replied dryly. ‘Mainly Redania, but I also see the banners of Aedirn... There is also a unicorn, so Kaedwen as well... At least one squadron...’
The Dun Banner galloped, horses hooves kicking up sand and gravel.
‘Forward, Dun Banner!’ roared Centurion Digod, drunk as usual. ‘Kill, kill! For Kaedwen! Kaedwen!’
Damn, but I want to piss, Zyvik thought. I should have peed before the battle... Now there is no time.
‘Forward, Dun Banner!’
Always the Dun Banner. When things go wrong, the Dun Banner. Who is sent as an expeditionary force to Temeria? The Dun Banner. Always the Dun Banner. And I want to piss.
They arrived. Zyvik screamed, turned in his saddle and cut at a ear, shattering the shoulder and neck of a rider in a black coat with a silver star with eight points.
‘The Dun Banner! Kaedwen! Attack, attack!’
With the pounding and crash of hooves and the scream of humans, the Dun Banner collided the Nilfgaardians.
‘De Mellis-Stoke and Braibant can handle this relief,’ Elan Trahe, the commander of the Seventh Daerlan brigade said calmly. ‘The forces are balanced, nothing can happen, that cannot be fixed. The left wing is strengthened Tyrconnel’s division and the right wing has Magne and Venendal. And we... we can tip the balance, Lord Marshal...’
‘We will strike the breach opened by the elves,’ Coehoorn an experience strategist said immediately. ‘They will move over to the head and invoke panic. Yes, that’s what we’ll do, the Great Sun! To the banners, gentlemen! Nauzicaa and Seventh, your time has come!’
‘Long live the Emperor!’ Kees van Lo yelled.
‘Mister de Wyngalt,’ the Marshal turned away. ‘Gather the attendants and the personal guard. It is the end of inactivity. We’re going to attack together with the Seventh Daerlan.’
Ouder de Wyngalt paled, but immediately caught himself.
‘Long live the Emperor!’ he said, his voice barely wavering.
Rusty cut, the wounded screamed and clawed at the table. Iola, fought bravely with the movements of his head, tightening the tourniquet. From the entrance of the tent came the sound of Shani’s raised voice.
‘What are you doing? Have you all gone mad? We are trying to save the living here and you come here dragging the dead?’
‘But it is our own Baron Anzelm Aubry, Lady Healer! The commander of the squadron!’
‘He was the commander of the squadron! Now he’s dead! You’ve managed to bring him here in one piece only by the fact that his armor is tight! Take
him away. This is a hospital, not a graveyard!’
‘But, Lady Healer...’
‘Do not block the entrance! Oh, there carry in that one that still breathes. Or so it seems. Or maybe it is just gas.’
Rusty snorted, but then frowned.
‘Shani! Come here!’
‘Remember, brat,’ Rusty said through clenched teeth, leaning over crushed legs. ‘Cynicism is only permitted to a surgeon after the first ten years of practice. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mister Rusty.’
‘Take a scrapper and remove the periosteum... Damn we should anesthetize a bit... Where is Marti?’
‘Puking at the front of tent,’ Shani said without a hit of cynicism. ‘Like a cat.’
‘Sorceresses,’ Rusty picked up a saw, ‘instead of thinking of various terrible and powerful spells, they should focus on inventing one. So that they can cast it as a minor spell. For example, the aesthetic. Without the various problems and side effects like puking.’
The saw grated on bone. The wounded soldier howled.
‘Tighten the tourniquet harder, Iola!’
The bone finally gave way. Rusty put away the saw and then wiped his sweaty forehead.
‘Veins and vessels,’ he nodded out of habit, but in vain, because before he even finished the sentence, the girls had already come over. He took the severed leg from the table and threw it in the corner, on a pile of other severed limbs. The wounded man had not howled or screamed for some time.
‘Unconscious or dead?’
‘Fainted, Mister Rusty.’
‘Great. Sew the stump, Shani. Bring in the next one! Iola go and check if Marti has finished vomiting everything.’
‘I am curious,’ Iola said quietly, without looking up, ‘how many years of experience do you have, Mister Rusty. A hundred?’
After several minutes of forced march that raised a cloud of dust, the cries or the Decurion's and centurions finally stopped and the Vizima Regiment deployed into battle lines. Jarre panting and drinking in air like a fish saw Voivode Bronibor parading along the lines on his beautiful sorrel covered with armor plates, the Voivode was also dressed in full armor, and his armor was cover in blue though which made Bronibor look like a huge tin mackerel.
‘How are you, soldiers?’ Bronibor shouted to his men.
The ranks of pikemen responded with a roar that echoed like distant thunder.
‘You’re making a lot of noise,’ the Voivode said, turning his horse and walking back down the line, ‘that means, you’re doing well. When you’re not doing well you whine and moan like old ladies. I can see from your faces that you are dying to enter the battle, that you dream to fight and cannot wait to take on the Nilfgaardians! Eh, soldiers of Vizima? Then I have good news for you! Your dreams will be fulfilled in an instant. In a short moment.’
The Pikemen murmured again. Bronibor meanwhile arrived at the end of the line, turned his horse and slowly rode back. He spoke further and tapped his baton on his decorated saddle pommel.
‘You have swallowed dust, infants, marching behind the knights! Until now, instead of glory and booty, you have been smelling horseshit! You lack power and you almost did not reach the field of honor and glory even today, slackers. But in the end you still manage to get my heartfelt congratulations. In this country, whose name I have forgotten, you can finally show your worth as soldiers. That cloud you seen in the field is the Nilfgaardian cavalry, which aims to destroy our army by attacking the flank and pushing our forces into the swamp near the river, whose name I have forgotten, too. But you famous Vizima pikemen, will defend the honor of King Foltest and Constable Natalis by filling in the gap created by our ranks. You will close the gap with your breasts, halting the Nilfgaardians charge. Rejoice, eh, comrades? Are you bursting with pride?’
Jarre, squeezing the shaft of his pike, looked around. Nothing pointed to the fact that the soldiers were happy with the prospect of the approaching fight, and if they were proud of their task, their pride was skillfully masked. Melfi, who was to his right, murmured a prayer to himself. To his left, Deuslax, an optimistic professional, sucked up snot, coughed and cursed to himself nervously.
Bronibor turned his horse and straightened in the saddle.
‘I did not hear you!’ he bellowed. ‘I asked if you are fucking bursting with pride?’
This time the pikemen, seeing no other way out, roared with a loud voice that they were proud. Jarre also roared. Just like everyone else.
‘Good!’ the Voivode turned his horse to face the army. ‘Now rally! Centurions, what are you waiting for? Form a square, front row kneeling, second row remain standing! Plant your pikes! Not by this side, you idiot! Yes I’m talking to you, hairy bastard! Move closer, shoulder to shoulder! Ah, now you look terrific! Almost like you are an army!’
Jarre found himself in the second row. He pressed the butt of the pike into the ground and gripped it in fear in his sweaty hands. Melfi dimly repeated several words that were mostly related to the intimate details of the life of the Nilfgaardians, dogs, bitches, kings, constables, governors and all their mothers.
The cloud in the field approached.
‘Don’t waste your farts or chattering teeth now!’ Bronibor cried. ‘You can’t use those noises to scare the Nilfgaardian horses! Let there be no mistake! Moving towards us is the Nauzicaa and Seventh Daerlan divisions, an excellent, well-trained army! They cannot be scared! They cannot be beat! You have to kill them! Raised those pikes higher!’
From the distance came the sound of hooves, still far away but growing louder. The earth began to shake. In the cloud of dust, the sun sparkled off of flashing blades.
‘You are fucking lucky, men of Vizima,’ the Voivode shouted again. ‘You are not using a normal pike but a new type which is twenty feet long! While the swords of the Nilfgaardians are only three and a half feet long. You know how to count? They know how to count too. But they think that you will not hold and show your true nature, the nature of a coward. The Black Ones are counting on those pikes hitting the ground and you men scurrying across the field like rabbits and then they can cut you down comfortably without complication. Remember , shitheads, although fear can lend your feet speed, you cannot outrun a horse. Those who want to live, who want fame and booty, will resist! Resist viciously! Resist like a wall! And keep the ranks!’
Jarre looked around. The crossbowmen that were behind the line of pikemen were already turning their cranks, within the square, halberds, javelins, spears and pitchforks were being lifted. The ground shook harder still. They could make out the black wall of the cavalry rushing towards them, and could make out individual riders.
‘Mama, mama,’ Melfi repeated with trembling lips. ‘Mama, mama...’
‘...Fucking whoresons,’ Deuslax murmured.
The rumbling increased. Jarre went to lick his lips but failed. His tongue had stopped moving, it had become strangely stiff and was a dry as sawdust. The rumbling grew louder.
‘Get ready!’ Bronibor roared, drawing his sword. ‘Put your shoulder to your neighbor! None of you go to war alone! The only cure for the fear you feel is that pike in your hands! Ready for the battle! Put the pikes into the chest of the horse! What must we do, soldiers of Vizima? That is a question?’
‘Resist!’ the pikemen shouted in unison. ‘Resist like a wall! Keep the ranks!’
Jarre roared with everyone. From under the hooves of the approaching horses sprayed gravel and sand. The riders they carried howled like demons, waving their swords.
Jarre held onto his pike, hid his head on his shoulder and closed his eyes.
Jarre, without interrupting his writing, used the stump of his hand to wave away a wasp that was hovering over the inkwell.
Field Marshal Coehoorn’s plan failed – his counterattack against the flank was stopped by the heroic Vizima infantry and Voivode Bronibor, even though they paid a bloody tax.
While the men of Vizima resisted the strong pressure from Nilfgaard on the left flank the
enemy continued on the right. Soon our troops gained the upper hand on the right flank as well, where the dwarves and tough condottiere resisted Nilfgaard’s grip. From our ranks arose a triumphant cry, and in the hearts of our fighters enter a new spirit. The confidence of the Nilfgaardian soldiers fled, their arms grew heavy and their strength ebbed. Some of them retreated, other still resisted, but now uncoordinated, in scattered groups, soon besieged from all sides.
Then the enemy commander realized that the battle was lost. Surrounded by his loyal officers and knights, they bought him a new horse and pleaded with him to escape and save his life. But in the Field Marshal’s chest beat a brave heart.
‘It is not right,’ he cried, pushing away the reins being handed to him. ‘Only a coward would flee from the field, where the empire has lost so many good men.’
Then brave Menno Coehoorn said...
‘There is no way to escape,’ said Menno Coehoorn soberly, looking around the battlefield. ‘They have us surrounded.’
‘Give me your coat and helmet, sir’ Captain Sievers wiped sweat and blood from his face. ‘Take my things and horse... Do not protest! You must survive, Lord Marshal. Your life, your skills are too valuable for the empire, irreplaceable... My Daerlan will hit the Nordlings, they will be attracted to us, and you can try to break out down there by the pond...’
‘I shall leave,’ Coehoorn muttered, grabbing the reins given to him.
‘It is an honor,’ Sievers stood up in the saddle. ‘We are soldiers! Of the Seventh Daerlan!’
‘Good luck,’ Coehoorn murmured, throwing a cloak with the silver scorpion around his shoulders. ‘Sievers?’
‘Yes, Lord Marshal?’
‘Nothing. Good luck, kid.’
‘You too, sir. Behind me, men!’
Coehoorn stared after them for a long time, until the point where Sievers’ group with screaming and the pounding of hooves, collided with the condottieri. The condottieri outnumber them and other units rushed in to help. The Black cloaks disappeared among the condottieri gray and everything was enveloped in dust.
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