Victory over the Ottomans
A dark calm has rested over the hills of Ragusa. The children continue to play their durges, and ball games, but even they can feel the gloom and uncertainty. With the girls hair tied in braids, and the little boys, pulling on their pig tails they continued to scury about as if the world did not bother them in the smallest bit. Some climbed trees, and others blew the seeds of flowers into the air, later to chase them through the fields. An early spring has brought on a new day for the people of these hills. The women of the village stand an eyes shot away from their children, washing their close on the stones of the brook leading down to the cliffs edge. Their faces however were not in as much glee, as was that of their children. They knew the dangers that their husbands faced, and knew that what has happened has happened on purpose and for good reason. This war is a religious one in everyone's mind. Indeed they all huddle to the foot of their beds every night, praying in the darkness, for their husbands, sons, and fathers are all at war, risking their freedom.
Many of the women of the town sing while they work to distract themselves from the work ahead. Today Maria grinds at her work, her mind elsewhere. The pulsating movement of her task, repetitive and dull sends her mind else where. Her husband willingly left, giving up time with his family to guarantee their freedom from the Muslims. Maria stairs into the cloth and with every pushing thrust of her hands, the cloth would somehow create the image of her husbands face in the mullock cloth. She desperately wanted to have her husband back, but knew that the choice was the right one; all she had to do was look to her child to understand that. As her daughter plays with the newly budding flowers, and chases the birds, she becomes overwhelmed by the thought of losing her husband. Her eyes begin to swell with the piercing fire of overwhelming grief. As the tears begin to flow they land on the shirt, and then on the stone rock beneath her. With every drip and splash it becomes unbearable to her. Instantaneously she becomes so overpowered by the even smallest possibility that her husband has fallen that she falls on the stone, her full blooded bosom pressed against the shirt. As she hugs the rock her moans, and cries being to gain attention from those around her, whom at this point have sojourned their chorus of sorrow. Maria's daughter quickly runs over, at the same time an elder woman who was washing cloths nearby approaches to aid Maria. The woman in her aged face lifts her chin and does nothing but look into her eyes. A complete message sent and received by the two parties, interrupted the daughter skirt tugs to gain her mothers attention. Maria gaining the support she needed from the old woman whispers "Thank you" and then her sleeves act in great haste to wipe off the tears covering her face before she faces her daughter. Her mouth still recognizes the salty tears which her sleeves forgot, and as she licks her lips in a last attempt to wipe all recognition of grief from her face, she turns to her daughter and places her hand on the child's golden locks.
"Your father Assen will come home soon Snejanka, do not fret or worry he will not be gone long, no Assen will be alright."
The women continue their ballad, but this time in a low hum, as Maria's lapse has magnified the fear in all the women working. Maria too begins to work, but not filled with the spirit of her daughter and so quickens her pace, slightly more assured and full of hope.
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A morning sun rises, with birds already flying above. A mere boy, Illiyach is on his knees in place staring at the same spot in the horizon, the sun soon to interfere with his gaze. His sword still in his hand, his arm covered in blood most of it Muslim but some his, and also covered in debris, while his lungs are filled with death. Frozen by the aftershock of the battle, he has not slept all night but rather replayed every minute of the battle in his minds hundreds of times.
First the songs and marches leading the procession of fresh armies closer and closer to the battle field were sung. The banners of pride and liberty were swung in the air, taming the wind as much as the wind tamed the flag, always in a battle for control. Then up the slope the armies went, not knowing the battle plan but only knowing that what they were about to do was for their families and for God. The armies halted about a kilometer from the tree lining ahead of them, and were ordered to all stand straight in unison. The general, Georgi Sischov Pattonovic on his horse moved from his position on the right flank, and came towards him at great speed like the dragon of death that has often been warned about in fairytales as children. A large man on a large steed would scare even the most stout of warriors. The General wisps by him and continues down the line examining every man for less then a millisecond. Finally he returns and speaks to his soldiers, stabbing at his enemy and reiterating his message
"Never stop attacking, never hold your position, but rather let the Ottomans do that. Let them worry about defense, and about their lives for you have no choice but to instill God in you heart and tear their hearts out and eat it."
Such a gruesome picture developed in the minds of some of the men, while others were urged on and started to haler in praise.
"No war has ever been won by dying for your country or your people, or your families."
A shock came over the soldiers, and their eyes move all to the one point, meeting at the General.
"It was won by making the other poor miscreant die for his country, his religion, his family. Let them worry about that. You are here to kill, maim, and crush the armies before that, and do not forget what to do when you hold you friends body, torn to bits by the sword of a Muslim heathen."
He all of a sudden his eyes pivot to move to his right where his brethren stood.
The General continued "Let that be your motivation, retribution and hate, for they will have no love for you when you face them."
The armies then split into two units, his army of field soldiers was sent to fight to the right side the Gelre whom were to make a frontal assault on the Ottoman armies. Pattonovic however wanted more his army to be further hidden in the forest to the right so that he could trap all men attempting to retreat and close off all coward heathens. The other two armies of Ragusa were personally led with Pattonovic at the head. From a distance Pattonovic was an even more ominous and frightening figure. His two armies of cavalry would support the Gelre from the left flank and surprise the Ottomans from their hidden site in the loose forest. As the horns blew and the men began to become something other then man, he began to fear. That was truly frightened him. The fear he saw in himself was a larger demon then any the Muslims good birth.
In the distance the horns of the Ottomans could be heard. A pregame battle ensued between the horns of both sides, proving nothing in the end but invigorating many of the men. Then the moment of truth arrived, as the Ottoman armies attacked the central Gelre defense and the great blood of men spewed up into the air like the beach water clobbering the cliffs of Ragusa. Off of men and sword it was churned out in barrels. The call was made from the Gelre that it was time for the extra cavalry to support. From the woods a lone man entered the battle, crowding the insolent Muslims, and crushing all those under foot. His chest as large as a house, his arms the size of a human, and his power mightier then any that Illiyach had ever seen. He had so focused on the frightening figure of Pattonovic that he had not seen the wide armies behind Pattonovic following in stride. The fear that grew over the field was not only instilled in the Muslim but in everyman looking on. The Gelre stunned for a moment at the site of such an impressive army, were happy that they did not have to be at the receiving end of the Ragusan sword. Pattonovic made the signal with his sword to call for the third army, Illiyach?s army. Pattonovic not caring that a Muslim limb was still attached to his sword, commanded without any break in proceedings.
Illiyach ran down the slope and met the on coming Muslims running from the center of the battle only to be met by the sword of Illiyach. With out care or fail he kept slashing, and jabbing, blocking when needed. The men around him did the same, only to stop to reorientate themselves and find which way was up. Illiyach?s friend had slowly drifted into the battle of men, killing everything in his path. Illiyach could feel the blood beginning to dry, and the battle begin to slow. Every step was one met by a wobble from limbs and man underneath him.
The sun quickly stabbed Illiyach in the eye breaking his concentration and setting his mind away from his memories back to the morning cool and haze. The sun forced him to stand and walk. Every step he met with the gaze of the faces of the dead wondering if it was him if it was this rag headed Muslim he had killed, or was it this one with his bowls hanging. After several minutes of scanning the faces he reached a familiar one, his friend. Illiyach immediately dropped his sword to his side and collapsed on the dead man who was staring at the sky. Illiyach's hands crawled to the mans face and turned his eye lids on their hinges down to their final resting position. Illiyach quickly remembered the times in the encampment the night before, talking about each others lives, and what they would do after the war. The man would have another child, and expand his farm, maybe grow olives, remembering how as a child he would pick olives on the coast with his father. The man Illiyach befriended, Illiyach thought he was extremely lucky the night before; with his beautiful wife, and darling daughter, and quaint farm. He only remembers him now as Assen, lucky in life, unlucky in war.
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The Duke and his wife lay in their bed in their chamber. Her raped in his arms, starting to fall into slumber. Stefan however can not take such liberties as can a woman. He can only think and wait. Think of his brother in Rome, and his armies in Thrace.
A man walks with his heavy boots through the almost empty court, and enters through a door slightly left of the throwns.
A whimpering knock resounds through the thick door, startling Anna, and at the same time bringing Stefan to his feet. Anna already slightly infuriated that she was interrupted and gives a little smurck of distaste.
A letter arrives from Georgi Pattonovic, given to Stefan from his youngest brother.
"Stefan I think you should read these battle report from Georgi." He hands over the documents and leaves.
Stefan left with the documents in his hand can not tell anything from his brothers face, and must read the pages instead.
"My liege I have news to report. However I must report that many have died here in Thrace where the Muslim and Christians met. This time as I promised it was the blood of the Muslims that flowed like Styx into the Acherusian Lake. They have been completely annihilated and crushed, and no longer present themselves as a problem.
Geldreland has lost three armies, but we have taken few casualties. Our tactics were supreme, and I ask to continue fighting into Turkey, since from what I have seen, these armies are a monstrous force to be pleaded with. Let the Muslims continue to plead. As for reinforcements, I would like to see another few armies, set and ready at my order as soon as possible. I have heard from the Bulgarians and there have been some other rumors of other nations joining. Inform me with the details at the very first moment you can.
Finally I ask for word of my family. How is my wife, and children. Thank you my liege for your trust in my abilities, and let God help us crush these monstrosities that we face.
~Georgi Sischov Pattonovic"
The Duke drops the letter, raises his head and closes his eyes. For once the relief begins to lift. He calls his servant and ask him to call the court in session and begins to jot down a few words.
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The Duke stands as strong as ever, with his hand joined to his wife. The court stands before him and in attention with a buzz of cheer filling the spaces between the bodies of the nobles.
The Duke separates himself from Anna and steps forward.
"For all of time and the for the last fourteen centuries, the Balkans have endured the toil of the Muslims, raping our women, burning our villages, killing our children, returning our soldiers blind, and disemboweled, to walk from the battle field back to their homes to live as beggars. Some have had their tongues torn from their mouths, others tortured, and beaten. I will not even speak of those who never returned. They take a province and we retreat. They burn a village and we let them assimilate us. No... resistance is NOT futile, in fact we have driven them back...yes and now we will let them pay. There will be no more consolation, no more allowance of their treachery, no more appeasement, not another foot given to them, no more of our land given to them. The Ottomans will be taken aback and further more they will feel the wrath of centuries of brutality, focused into one moment in time, the allies will guarantee this. I have proclaimed General Pattonovic?s victory in battle across Europe, and Ragusa is gaining immense support from many of the parties across Christendom. Let these invaders feel the blade of years of turmoil, and let God grant us the ability to spite them for their evils.
As Pattonovic personally announced 'The blood of the Muslims flowed like Styx into the Acherusian Lake.' So you see my court we truly have God on our side. Let us celebrate."
