At the requisite hundred paces from the enemy line, the troops stopped and the squares tightened.
“Złożcie kopie!” Lower your lances!
Aleksy had lost sight of Roman but kept his square in view. What was his order of priority—fighting the enemy or aiding Roman, his lord? He had no experience at this. My lord, he thought—what twist of fate this had been! Was Roman to be trusted any more than the deadliest Turk on the field?
He had no time to consider the twist, for the charge had come and the hussar blocks were tearing down the slopes, the trot quickening into a canter, hooves thundering on the earth, the feathers of their high winged apparatus vibrating in the movement. What a harrowing vision it must be, Aleksy thought, for both the enemy and their horses, to see these death machines flying down the field with points sharpened to skewer them like pigs on a spit. He listened to hear whether the feathers sang out an eerie death song, as some hussars contended, but the hussars were too far to the front to make a determination, and the cavalry that rode after them created their own thunderous noise.
He spurred his steppe pony and it moved into a gallop now. “Jezus Maryja!” Aleksy called out, careering into the storm of death.
The bow was his weapon, he had to admit, not the lance that he had so lovingly fashioned. Had he fully realized in creating it that it was a seventeen-foot instrument of death? And none too easy to handle. He had had so little practice with it, and yet he had to use it. These were no maneuvers, no games of riding at the ring, like he had seen done by the local hussars from his own little outpost on Mount Halicz. This was life or death.
The enemy had already been engaged by hussars and cavalry by the time Aleksy entered the fray. It came home to him suddenly that those at the front had the advantage of having a clear sightline on the person they meant to pierce. Coming several lines behind as he was doing now meant he was coming into a wild and frenzied melee. He knew that he had to choose his target quickly before his steppe pony was slowed or halted by massive warhorses and men who meant to kill him.
The thunder of the Turks’ cannon aimed at Vienna’s gates receded as reports of rifles and pistols exploded in his ears. Acrid fumes of gunpowder washed over him. Time expanded and life blurred red with men, horses, and glinting, death-dealing sabres as a white turban came into focus. Set against the dark face, angry white teeth shone as the Janissary infantryman stood in wait, snarling prayers or oaths unheard in the din of battle. Aleksy saw the one-handed curved sabre being lifted in readiness. Aleksy swallowed hard, steadied the lance in his tok, and held tight as his pony scrambled forward between bodies and broken lances.
The moment of impact came. The Janissary’s single-edged sabre came down, striking and cutting clean through the hollowed-out wood of the lance. Aleksy pulled his portion from the tok and discarded it. For the enemy it was too late. He fell to his knees, the sabre still in his grasp, the front portion of the seventeen-foot long weapon buried in his chest. Aleksy’s horse stepped past him. The long-treasured lance had served its purpose.
Only later would Aleksy learn that Janissaries had been culled from Balkan Christians who had been forced to accept Islam. Those wearing the white turban, like Aleksy’s adversary, were signaling their elite status as warrior-martyrs.
Thirty-one
A lanceless, bloodied Roman came to a clearing behind an undefended hill, the clearing where many of the volunteer hussars had sacrificed their lives. The ground was nearly invisible so covered it was with bodies and dead horses. He saw him then, recognizing in the helmet the distinctive orange-dyed plume their mother had given him. He directed Flash in and among the fallen, drew up and dismounted.
Marek’s body lay there on his side as if he were sleeping even though he had suffered numerous wounds. On the ground a pool had formed beneath a fissure in the chest plate mail, darkening the grasses.
Roman sucked in breath and knelt, heedless to the chaos that surrounded this recently deserted spot. He picked up and held his brother’s hand. It was cold. He lost track of the seconds and minutes as his life with Marek passed before him.
Slowly, he became aware of a war shout, and he looked up to see a horseless Sipâhi rushing toward him. It came home to Roman that the man in the pointed conical helmet had lost his mount and meant to kill him and take Flash. The response in drawing himself from the reverie was slow—too slow for his initial defense, he would remember later. His mind had been made sluggish by what he had seen this day, by what he had done, by his brother’s sacrificial death. He ordered himself to stand against this warrior. He could do it. He had killed half a dozen Turks already. He must draw himself up now to…
Suddenly, however, an arrow thudded into the unarmored Sipâhi, striking him clean in the heart. His dark eyes went wide and he dropped like a stone. Roman had noted by now that no man truly expected a fatal blow, and every Turk he had dispatched this day had looked at him with utter surprise.
Roman was in such a state he didn’t question the source of the errant arrow. It was as if he had observed the Turk’s death from a distance. His eyes went back to his brother’s body.
“Oh, Mareczek, my lord brother,” he said, using the diminutive he had used when they were children. He said a prayer, and a minute or two must have passed before he heard the voice behind him.
“I’m sorry, Roman.”
Roman stood, pivoting toward the speaker. “It’s Lord Halicki, lest you forget, Tatar.”
As Aleksy stared at Marek’s lifeless form. Roman read his expression. “What do you know, Tatar?” he shouted. “About war? About the Polish Way? I’ll tell you—Nothing!”
Aleksy seemed about to speak but fell silent.
“Their sortie, dangerous as it was, provided the king with information. We found out invaluable information. The Turks had had time to shovel out trenches, set up palisades, dig holes in which our horses would break their legs. But did they?”
Aleksy shook his head.
“No, they did not! It was information we needed. And just as important, when they saw the courage of a single block of hussars descending on them with eagles’ wings attached to their backplate and with nerves and weapons of steel, the wisest among them knew the battle was fated to go against them. For the rest, they pissed their eastern trousers.”
Roman didn’t expect a response. That he had swung from sharp criticism of King Sobieski to his defense of him for the benefit of Aleksy did not strike him as ironic. He picked up his sabre and was mounting Flash, his face red with anger, his veins gorged with bloodlust. “There are enemies beyond that hill, Aleksy. There’s still killing to do. Are you here to take a nap?”
And then he was gone.
Aleksy came to stand over the fallen Marek, enough bloody wounds about him to attest to a ferocious struggle. Ludwik’s body lay nearby, a single red gash incised into the newly-shaven side of his head. Aleksy had thought that sending just one unit into the midst of the enemy was senseless. He wanted to ask Roman what the suicide mission proved, what good had it done, but to do so would have been telling him that his brother Marek died at the king’s whim and because of his own foolishness in volunteering. The question must have been on his face, however, for Roman had spoken directly to that unvoiced query.
Trenches? Palisades? Holes? No, the Turks had not taken these precautions that would have so benefitted them. Aleksy recalled now that as he had crossed into the enemy line, there was fear in the Turks’ eyes, and a kind of resignation in some of their expressions as they fought.
Roman was right. The volunteer mission had been worth it. And Marek and Ludwik had their parts to play.
Aleksy moved to Ludwik’s body now, knelt, and closed the lifeless blue eyes. Even as he said a quick prayer for his soul, his own eyes moved to Marek’s wings. The apparatus seemed intact. He thought of Idzi’s theory of the changeable and the unchangeable. Wa
s it unchangeable that he was barred from wearing the wings of a hussar? And then he was merely doing, not thinking. He gently moved the body one way, then the other, and the steel backplate that held the wings came free. Aleksy stood now, and with some difficulty, strapped it on. It was surprisingly light.
Later, he would question his thought process in making this decision. Had he taken on the wings to carry on the fight in Marek’s place? Or had he done so to force his own dream of becoming a hussar to come true?
Wings in place, Aleksy mounted his steppe pony. Holding high in the air the unsheathed sabre should it be needed, he directed the animal through the morass of bodies, human and beast, moving toward the little hill beyond which Roman had disappeared. He came to the crest and stopped. He felt for a moment like he was home on that little shelf of land that jutted out of the side of Mount Halicz. And this time it was he who wore the eagles’ wings. But the panorama before him was not one of entertaining maneuvers—it was one of unspeakable gore.
Aleksy made an instinctive decision now. He placed the sabre in the scabbard. He reached back and removed his bow from its case. With the weapon made from the finest yew, he felt whole now. Oh, he had seen some of the Janissaries use their recurve bows but, for the most part, the fighting here was sabre on shield, war hammer on armor. The single-use lances lay strewn about, some broken and already turning black with blood, others embedded in the guts of the enemy. While the din of battle continued, the sharp report of rifles and pistols diminished, for they were clumsy to reload and prime in such close quarters.
He placed an arrow on the cord and drew back as far as his ear. Sighting a Turk who was battering the shield of a Polish cavalryman, he took aim and loosed. The arrow flew true, avoiding the armor and winging its way into the Turk’s neck. His sword hand stopped in mid-strike, paralyzed. His left hand instinctively reached for the shaft and ripped it out, allowing for a geyser of blood to spew forth like a fountain, spattering his opponent until his stiffened body fell forward on his mount. Oddly, the Pole spurred his horse away without searching out his benefactor.
Aleksy took no time to probe the oddity, for he already had nocked and loosed a second arrow. The shot ran wild and clear of its target. What had come over him? It wasn’t that he was one to take a great deal of time in aiming and loosing. During a thousand hunting outings he had learned that he had to think his arrow home. This was the secret of a great archer. He would see and feel the arrow strike and then allow his arm, hand, fingers, and sight to work instinctively. The arrow came from the quiver, went to the cord, its goose feathers pulled to the ear and released–all in one seamless movement. Unless the animal was especially quick, Aleksy’s method always worked.
And so now, from this little hillock, he allowed his instinct to rule. One after another, he drew the shafts and loosed. It seemed easy for the body, this killing—hands, arms, chest and shoulder muscles needed for the pull—but for the mind a kind of numbness set in. Or was it madness? Was this what it meant to be a soldier?
Aleksy killed and killed again.
Fifteen minutes passed before he looked up to see that a Sipâhi had taken notice of this lone sniper on the hillock. He was spurring his horse toward Aleksy, the sunlight glinting off the tightly knitted rings of his mail shirt.
This, then, was a perfect target, Aleksy thought, his confidence bolstered by the accuracy of his recent shots. He was as good a marksman as any on the field. But when he reached back for a new shaft, he found the quiver empty. There was no time to cut the lace on one of his two remaining sheaves attached to the saddle. Neither was there time to discard the sprig of hay on his helmet that proclaimed him an enemy in the unlikely event the Turk had not witnessed Aleksy’s kills. The Sipâhi was moving up the hill and advancing on him at a fierce gallop so that first contact would favor the enemy.
In a clumsy move to place the bow in its case, Aleksy dropped it and it fell to the ground. “Dog’s blood,” he cursed as he unsheathed his sabre, his eyes on the opponent. The Turk was much larger than he and clearly a veteran. He was grinning, Aleksy realized. Grinning! A scar in the shape of a crescent moon—no, it was a tattoo!—ran from his forehead to the corner of his mouth. He was nearing the crest now. How many battles had he already seen? Survived? How many Christians had he already killed this day?
Aleksy had no time to touch his gold cross or assess his loss of confidence, just time to reach for his shield with his left hand and tighten his grip on the sabre in the right. The Turk—twice the brawn of Aleksy—was upon him now, sabre coming down with great force.
Aleksy was ready and although his shield deflected the blade, the force nearly knocked him from his mount. He directed the steppe pony to turn about. He saw that the Turk’s huge stallion below was turning on his haunches in preparation to climb the hillock for a second pass. Aleksy would not sit and wait. He had the advantage of moving downhill and so he took it. He spurred his own horse into a lope, then a canter.
As the Turk approached, murder in his black eyes, he held his sabre in the same way as before, but the move was the feint of a skilled fighter so that when Aleksy lifted his wooden shield, the Turk’s sabre slashed below it. Aleksy instinctively directed his steppe pony away, but the blade nonetheless sliced into the side of his upper leg. His own attempt to strike had been brushed away.
The pain was sharp and stinging. Aleksy turned and halted the horse at the bottom of the hill, struggling not to let the hurt show. They were some forty or fifty paces apart now. Atop the hill, the Turk was looking Aleksy over, the dark eyes beneath the helmet narrowing. “Tatar?” he growled. He had taken note of Aleksy’s complexion and eyes.
Aleksy nodded.
The Turk drew up in his saddle. His teeth shone as he screwed his mouth into an ugly smile and unleashed some curse—and spat. He directed his warhorse down the slope and had it circle Aleksy’s steppe pony in a kind of prancing gait… once… twice. He was taking full measure of Aleksy, who recognized the word boy. Another curse and then he withdrew, moving off many yards, and for a moment Aleksy thought he was abandoning the fight, but he turned the horse and sat, watching. No more than a minute passed before he began his charge.
Aleksy thought better of putting his horse in motion. He wanted to be in full control of his weapon and so he waited for the next contact. He was no boy and he would not allow this man—this veteran soldier—to kill him. He would not. He prepared to strike. His chest and arms were strong, as were any good archer’s—and Szymon had deemed him the best. He would watch for the feint this time. Perhaps he would stage a feint himself.
But he had not imagined the ploy this opponent had in mind.
The Turk’s stallion was in full gallop now and coming straight at him. Aleksy waited, his voice calming the horse, shield ready, sabre poised. He would strike under the Turk’s arm at a gap in the mail and drive the long blade into his body. He had the strength. He needed the precision—and the opportunity.
The Turk came forward cursing in his tongue. His sabre came down in a chopping motion—not upon Aleksy, but upon the neck of the steppe pony, fatally wounding it.
The animal shrieked and dropped to his front knees. Aleksy had the presence of mind to jump from the horse before it could roll over and pin him. He leaped to his feet beside the dying animal.
The Turk had ridden some distance before turning to watch the scene he had created unfold. He laughed then, no doubt assuming the match a foregone conclusion.
This seasoned enemy was playing with his prey and enjoying it all the while. His mind racing, Aleksy determined to use the time. One of the sheaves of arrows attached to the saddle was within reach, but the bow was many yards away, atop the knoll where he had dropped it. He retrieved his sabre but knew it would not save him.
The Turk was grinning again, fully assured he had his wounded, horseless quarry. But—blessed be God!—he had yet to spur his
warhorse.
Pain be damned!—everything Aleksy did now had to be one fluid movement—swift as quicksilver—if he wanted to live. And he did. He drew in a deep breath, took two paces, used his sword to slash the lacing on the sheaf of arrows, and quickly withdrew two shafts. He turned now and ran toward the crest of the hillock, racing for the bow, racing for his life.
He took no time to check the Turk’s reaction, but the laugh came again—as did the hollow thudding of the horse’s hooves across the field, no doubt leaping over bodies, racing, coming for him.
Aleksy’s feet propelled him forward, his eyes scanning the grass, slick with blood. He panicked. Where was the bow? He was a dead man without it. Have I missed it?
And then he spied it. He darted three feet to the right. He dropped hs sword. Setting one arrow down, he kept one at the ready as he picked up his prized bow. He thanked God the cord was intact and taut. The arrow kissed the string before he turned around to see the Sipâhi nearly upon him.
There would be no time for the second arrow. No second chance.
He felt the feathers of the shaft tickling at his ear and then they were off, stinging past the folded fingers of his other hand once loosed.
He started to reach down for the second shaft although he knew he could be cut down before he could nock it.
But the first flew true, and the steel tip had been so sharpened and the distance from the Turk so close that it pierced the mail and buried itself in the man’s chest. The force threw him fully back onto the cantle of his saddle, his arms going limp, sabre and shield falling to the ground.
Aleksy jumped to the side and the stallion thundered past him, down the hill and slowing as it entered the melee from which the Turk had come. He watched as a Pole pulled his body from the horse now, allowing it to fall upon other corpses, so that he could commandeer the animal. An ignominious end for one with such a wealth of bravado.
The Boy Who Wanted Wings Page 30