His body fell into the wet marshes near Lake Varna. Many of the supporting Turkish soldiers saw this and swarmed all over him. They hacked at his body in a vicious attack with their knives and swords. The assault did not cease until they had stripped him of all his clothing. His naked body lay battered and bloodied, his face almost unrecognisable from the amount of blows it had received. They left him to hunt for new prey.
Hunyadi watched his demise from a distance. It pained him that he could not help his friend. In truth, the alarming collapse of his right flank concerned him more. He had to remedy the situation and fast. If he failed to do so, then the enemy would pour in behind them in droves. That would see them massacred in a sandwich with the infantry of the Ottoman centre.
He called to Mircea for help. Mircea was some distance away and could not hear him over the melee. Every second mattered now. Hunyadi had no choice but to ride up the hill himself to where Mircea waited with his cavalry in reserve.
He approached the son of Dracul at speed. “We need you!” he shouted. “Unless you can arrest the collapse on our right flank all shall be lost!”
Mircea saluted him and signalled to his men to attack. Without a word, he led the charge of his horsemen down the hill into the left flank of the enemy.
“Is that the Draculesti banner I can see?” Murad asked, of no one in particular.
“Yes, Sire,” one of the beys answered. “I believe it is.”
“Those damned Wallachians!” he cursed. “They are like a bad itch that refuses to go away.”
“Worry not, Sire,” the bey said, trying to reassure him. “They should have little effect on the outcome of this battle.”
Those words could not have been more inaccurate. Mircea showed great courage and rode straight into the middle of the Ottoman left flank. He raised his sword high above his head and urged his stallion into a full sprint. Uttering a war cry at the top of his voice, he waded into the deep lines of Arab mercenaries.
The other two flanks of each army stood firm and watched the resulting melee. Both sets of soldiers realised how much hinged on this fight.
The screams of horse and camel and dying men filled the air. Mircea’s courage spurred his men on and brought the same from them. His riders swung at the Arabs and Anatolian Spahis with pure abandon.
Slowly but surely, the line broke. The Turks turned their backs to flee the charging cavalry. Those on their left flank made easy targets for their pursuers. The three divisions of Christian infantry still remained intact on that side. They let out a loud roar and followed the Wallachians into the fray.
The Germans and Bosnians ran as fast as they could. They put to the sword any they found still alive that had survived the initial cavalry charge. Pockets of the enemy infantry found themselves cut off from the main body of their army in the mass confusion. They stood about lost and terrified and with no one to lead them. The Wallachians showed them no mercy and ploughed through them on all sides. What they did not kill, their comrades did.
Ladislas breathed in deep while he watched. The courage of the young Mircea was a delight to him. “Go on, Mircea,” he urged, in a whisper. “Kill the Infidel.”
Murad grew enraged at the ease with which the Wallachians ripped through his left flank. He was not the only one concerned with the turn of events. Word reached Karadza to arrest the situation so that the centre could push forward. Sweat ran off his brow in spite of the cold. He knew well what it would mean for him if defeat resulted from his flank giving way.
The great general could not believe his eyes. He had far superior numbers on his side and men who were hardened in battle. And yet they were faltering. He realised then he would have to take drastic action to stem the tide against him. With his best horsemen at his side, he rode straight for Mircea, in full view of his men. He hoped that seeing him at the front would give them the lift they needed.
Mircea spotted him from the corner of his eye. He stood out from those around him, in his pristine armour and uniform. The young Wallachian fought on, while keeping one eye trained on the general.
Karadza, in his haste, injured many of his own men. The sight of him charging from the slope above the Kamenar village caused panic in his front lines. Trapped between two deep lines of approaching cavalry, the infantry in the middle despaired.
It all served to make the task easier for Mircea. He managed, at last, to cut his way through the mass of bodies in his path and ride clear. With the enemy general in his sights, he dug his heels into the ribs of his mount. He raised his sword aloft and led the charge up the slight slope.
Karadza noticed him as soon as he began his charge. He realised from the colours on the banner held by one of the riders, this was the son of Vlad Dracul. Where he had once been lenient towards his father, the son and heir would not enjoy the same. Not on this day.
It was a matter of seconds before the two sets of cavalry crashed together. The two men came face to face for the first time. Both seemed to pause and gaze into the other’s eyes and, for a moment, time stood still. The din of the battle around them ceased. The stallions of each rider collided hard, but it was Karadza’s that faltered. The din erupted again.
He felt real fear when the stallion’s legs buckled beneath him. Its hind legs gave way and he fell backwards. For the very first time in his life, he was fully aware of his own mortality. Mircea’s mount snorted hard, but remained on its feet. Its owner guided it through the mass of riders. The endless hours of practise with his brother served him well, and he wove a path around to Karadza’s right.
Mircea saw the look of resignation on his face. The general knew he would be unable to save himself. An icy chill ran the length of his spine. Death stood at his side and cast a dark shadow over him. He lashed out with his sword in desperation, but missed the mark by a wide margin. Mircea leant to his right and as he passed Karadza by, he drove his sword straight through the throat of the Ottoman general. Karadza hit the ground hard, but was dead even before he got there.
This unexpected turn of events threw his forces into disarray. The infantry fought on for their lives against the Christian advance. The cavalry, however, turned and fled. The Wallachians gave chase and pursued them off the field of battle.
At the same time, the opening exchanges had begun on the opposite flank. Daud Pasha’s forces launched a first attack. In his way stood the Hungarian, German and Bulgarian contingents of Szilágy’s force.
They fought with real valour and held off the first wave. The Rumelian Spahis and Kapikulu warriors regrouped and attacked a second time. Led by the more fanatical lieutenants in their ranks, they drove their men on with greater fervour.
The clash was brutal with the left flank refusing to take a backward step. But after a time, it began to wilt under the force of numbers and the relentless onslaught.
Hunyadi kept a close eye on the battle there where he feared the same outcome that had transpired on the right side prior to sending Mircea to save it. To counter that, he sent his own cavalry lines from the centre to aid Szilágy.
The Hungarian nobles were as valiant in their efforts as the Wallachians on the opposite side of the field. They held the attack and halted the enemy advance.
Hunyadi knew he had to win the battle on the left flank before any chance of a push through the centre. “I am going to assist, Mihály,” he told his king.
“Let me fight with you.”
“No, Majesty, I need you here to hold the line!” he shouted over the noise of battle. “When I return, we can launch the attack through the centre together!”
The king nodded to his general. “Godspeed. Do try to return safe and well.”
Hunyadi smiled to him and saluted. He dug his heels into his mount and galloped off to the battle on the left flank. The Hungarians had made significant progress into the front lines of the enemy right.
He wanted so much to signal the frontal assault. But the moment was not yet right. He knew he had to win the battle on the left flank before it
would be safe to do so.
For that reason, he did not allow his men to ease up when the enemy line began to give way. They increased the intensity of the attack and chased the Spahis of Rumelia from the field.
The pursuit lasted for three or four miles along the road to Shumen. Many hundreds of the Spahis perished along the way. At this point, Hunyadi gave up the chase. He wanted to kill them all for fear they would return to the field. At the same time, he knew he could not remain absent from it either for too long. For that reason, he allowed the rest to flee. He called to his men to halt the charge and return to the main battle.
The view Murad had of the battle left a sour taste in his mouth. “Do something!” he screamed to his officers close by. “My flanks are crumbling before my very eyes! If you do not arrest this situation at once, I shall have you all sitting on stakes!”
The scene below was not a good one, and they each feared the worst. They had far superior numbers as always, but their army was all over the place. It had lost all confidence with its cavalry gone. And now their enemy was pushing them back on both flanks.
Murad could see the entire battle from his vantage point on the hill. He continued to fume at the men around him. How can this mighty army be in such a position? Why are they not doing anything to arrest it?
The threats were enough to draw them into action. The officers gathered around him to work out a strategy to turn the battle their way. He saw each man tremble when his eye fell on them. They had all assumed an easy victory would be theirs. No one had foreseen the bravery or skill of the enemy.
Ladislas also had a clear view of the battle from the opposite hill. All that he saw pleased him. His forces had displayed the type of courage spoken of in legends. He thought then of the heroic feats of Leonidas and his small army of Spartans holding off the mighty army of Xerxes. And now his much smaller army had this vast Ottoman menace on the back foot. He only hoped they all lived to share their own stories around campfires at night. In his heart he hoped also that maybe the feat of his army would draw a favourable comparison with the Spartan legend.
This is the time to strike in the centre. It pained him that Hunyadi was not here to lead the charge. He feared that if they left it any longer they might lose the great initiative their cavalry had won for them.
He weighed the situation up in his mind for a few minutes. Still, there was no sign of Hunyadi and the Hungarian cavalry. Mircea had not returned with his forces either. For all he knew they could be dead. As time passed, it looked to him as though the Turks had started to regain some control on both sides. They would have to begin the main assault now if they were going to do it at all.
He gritted his teeth and drew his sword, raising it high in the air. “Polish knights!” he yelled, looking to the left and then to the right. “Let us attack for the glory of our Saviour, Jesus Christ!”
They did the same as he and gave him their salute. “Strength and honour!”
“Strength and honour!” he echoed, wielding his sword in an arc above his head.
His five hundred knights shouted the war cry over and over. Then, with one hand on the reins and the other holding their swords up high, they began to descend the hill. The infantry moved to each side to let them pass. Once they had a clear run, they sped to a full gallop straight for the enemy’s front lines.
The sight of him and his knights roaring towards them sent chills through the spines of those at the front. Their own cavalry was not here to protect them. Behind them, the lines stretched back more than twenty thick. With nowhere to turn, many of them knew their end was nigh.
The knights drew closer and the thunder of hooves against the ground filled the Turks with dread. They were cold and wet and wanting to be anywhere but there. In another thirty seconds, many of them knew they would die as the cavalry smashed through their line.
Dozens of them turned to flee. The prospect of being trampled or hacked to death was more than many of them could bear. When they turned, they found they had nowhere to go. In front of them, they saw the second line of infantry. Behind those, they saw the third and fourth and fifth as far back as the eye could see.
They pushed the men in the second row back and knocked many of them off balance. They either grappled at those behind for support or fell down. It had a ripple effect that saw the men behind them doing the same. In only a few seconds, a desperate panic set in. Hundreds, even thousands, of the Turks turned to try and run from a certain death.
Then it came. The Poles smashed into the front lines of the Turkish infantry. Screams of terror and agony filled the air. The sound of bones crushed under hoof and sword soon followed.
They showed no mercy. The knights lashed out at anything that moved. In moments, hundreds of their enemy already lay dead. Horse and man dragged their broken bodies through the mud. Had they stood their ground they may have had a chance to survive. With their backs turned to the charging cavalry, they had none at all.
The infantry of Ladislas and Stephen Báthory sprinted down the hill after their king. They watched the cavalry cut a path through the Ottoman line as they ran. Many of the Turks rallied to fight, but still they pressed on.
Murad looked on in horror. His mighty army was on the brink of defeat. Four to one, they outnumbered the Christians. Yet his army was crumbling before his very eyes. What alarmed him more; the Polish cavalry were cutting a path up the hill straight towards him. The courage of the smaller army looked to have won the day.
He turned his horse to ride over the hill. “Sound the retreat!” he ordered. “We shall regroup on the Frangen plateau and rethink our strategy.”
Kodza Hazar grabbed the reins of his stallion. He was one of the sultan’s deadliest assassins. In battle he served as a member of his elite bodyguard. “Sire,” he said, with a firm voice. “If you leave the field our army shall capitulate.”
“Release your grip on my horse!”
“Our losses could double or even treble,” Hazar maintained. “Stand firm and we shall be victorious.”
Murad looked down at him. He did not believe one of his men could be so bold.
“Please, Sire. I beseech you.”
“Very well,” Murad agreed. “I shall remain.”
Murad had forgotten his best troops still stood between him and the Poles. The most fanatical of his warriors to whom the Jihad was everything. They would not run away when faced with certain death.
Ladislas caught sight of Murad’s banner above the fray. It drove him and his men on, and made them even more fervent in their attack. The smell of blood filled the air around them with every swing of their swords. To kill the sultan would ensure certain victory. He knew if the enemy was to see him fall, they would turn and run.
Murad’s crack troops waited for the right moment. This was a situation they had known before. They waited for the king to breach the last hurdle before facing him. Then they swarmed in on him from every side.
The young king was a man of immense courage, but in that moment he knew real fear. He could see the hatred for him in the eyes of his enemies. It was clear these were men who would die without a second thought rather than let him pass.
He became bogged down and his horse unable to move. Two warriors ahead of him drove spears through the stallion’s chest. It cried out when the blades ripped through its flesh. Struggling for breath, it faltered, blood already filling its lungs.
Several of the knights behind saw the peril of their king. They fought like savages to try and reach him. The crazed warriors swarmed them also. One by one, they dragged the king’s knights from their mounts and slew them.
The young king swung his sword with every ounce of strength he possessed. His horse lost its fight for survival and fell. Even before it hit the ground the fanatics, who bayed for his blood, dragged the king clear.
With a superhuman effort, Ladislas got to his feet. He then took two strong blows to the head. Still he managed to keep his wits about him. Staggering forward he drove his sword in
to the man nearest to him. But before he could withdraw his weapon to strike again, he felt a blade plunged deep into his back.
His head became cloudy and his body turned cold. A second Turk clubbed him to the side of the head. Blood poured from a wound just above the temple and he staggered sideways.
He dropped his sword, all strength drained from his limbs. Each time he looked as if he might fall, one of his enemies propped him up. They stripped him of his armour and clothing while they pushed him about. Ladislas was all alone now, naked and humiliated. None of his men could help him.
In the end, he fell to his knees. He summoned the strength to bless himself with the sign of the Cross. His enemies converged on him and stabbed him over and over.
Hazar watched the king’s lifeless body fall onto the cold mud. He stepped forward and brought his scimitar down across the side of the dead king’s neck.
He held his trophy high for all to see. “Allah!” he cried. “I give you the head of the Infidel!”
The thousands of fanatical warriors all around cried out their thanks to their God. It was Allah who had delivered the Infidel to them. Hazar then ran to Murad with the severed head. He dropped to his knees and presented the prized gift to him.
Murad stood up in the stirrups and cried out. “The Infidel king has fallen! Great warriors of the Jihad, I call on you to drive the Christian swine from the field!”
His men rallied to his call and turned on the enemy. Báthory and his Polish troops caught sight of the spectacle ahead. They saw Murad hold the head of their king high above his head on a lance.
It shattered their morale and took away their will to fight. The Islamic warriors ripped into their centre. They met with only a half-hearted resistance this time. In very little time the tide had turned. Now it was their Moslem foes who gave chase down the hillside.
The Dracula Chronicles: For Whom The Bell Tolls Page 15