1453: Revival of Byzantium
"He who wishes to be obeyed must know how to command."
- Niccolò Machiavelli
Back on the main battle field.
The Hungarians and the Ottomans brutally clash with each other in the largest military stand off this piece of land have never had since the last epic battle at Varna. The mist of blood covered the war ground infecting the minds of every single soul around here making them ruthless frantically cutting and chopping their opponents, as they know, that if they are not ruthless towards their enemies, their foes will be ruthless to him.
Obliged to the heroic sacrifice of the imperial baron and his calvaries, the Hungarian Crusaders is no longer under heavy pressure from the Ottoman horse men charging at them from the flanks or even at the back. Though even with the bulk of the Ottoman calvaries off to some where else, things are still in fact, very tense for them, with one Hungarian blade facing at least two Ottoman blades coming from all directions.
In fact, the wings of the Crusaders may go onto the verge of collapse at every minute. Although they have relentlessly pushed the Ottoman battle line afar to a distance almost five hundred meters, but that is about it, they have completely depleted themselves of the strength and energy to continue pushing, now is the time for they to get pushed back.
Zaganos Pasha was carefully calculating the combat capabilities of the Hungarians comparing it with his, his brain quickly spinning trying to determine how much strength and stamina the Hungarian forces still have judging when should he go on the offensive from the various reports and intel swarming to him by various beys and chieftains, and when he saw a report stating that there are lesser and lesser Hungarian troops coming in as reinforcements on all sides, he determined that the time has come.
"Pass my orders!" Zaganos Pasha called the messengers. "Send all the reserves onto the infidel's right flank, yes I want all of them, even those peasants, slaves and cooks! Yes! All! Crush them! At once!"
With a series of thunderous drums and prolonged blowing of horns, the stage for Ottoman offensive began. The Ottomans stopped squatting behind their shields and instead began going on for a full out flanging stones, arrows and bolts onto the head of the Crusaders with warriors charging forward holding their round shield and Kilij blade leaping onto the Crusaders tearing open their weakened defences one after another.
What makes things even worse is that the Ottomans reinforced their left wing trying to crush the Crusaders and flank them, which might even lead to worse circumstances such as the Crusaders getting encircled, squashed, and eliminated. To their horror and surprise, they even caught sight of man running around in chef's white carrying a kitchen knife waving them towards the Crusaders.
A drool scene, though not funny towards the Hungarians, and especially the commander of the right wing, Lord Gerald.
"Take this blade!" The Lord shouted at the messenger handing him his previously beautifully made and decorated sword which is full of cuts, dents, and stains of blood. "Show it to the King Regent! And tell him to send more reserves! Or he better live to snatch back my head!"
The messenger gulped and galloped to the King Regent showing the sword and telling the King Regent his commander's words.
The disheartened nameless messenger picked up the King Regent's blade with a pair of shivering hands, rode back to his commander telling him the King Regent's word giving him the blade, then got off one of the last horses of the Crusaders pushing it towards his commander, and finally charged towards the Ottoman crowd under the shocked sight of Lord Gerald, never to be seen again.
With a sigh and a stomp on the ground, Lord Gerald pulled a child soldier that still looks like even under fifteen years old of age hugging a wooden spear, hugged him up the horse and slashed it on its back side with his wipe, the horse neighed in pain and rode away towards the back, with Lord Gerald screaming to the crying boy asking him to run, run as far as possible spreading their tales back to their mother land. Then he turned back commanding his troops back facing the Ottoman offensive.
This wimpy boy he saved today, will be known as Johannes de Thurocz the Magister in the centuries to come.
…
"The ninth one."
A rider, covered in blood and without a helmet, came galloping towards the flags and banners of Serbian red double headed eagle. After he saw a figure in the middle dressed in red robes and wearing a crown helmet, the messenger fell off the horse hurriedly kneeling down without feeling the pain and damage he brought to his body, and hastily pleaded the Despot before him in an unfamiliar Serbian language.
"Your majesty! Our army is in grave danger! My Grace has sent you a message, that if you do…."
"I understand." The Despot interrupted raising his hand up and comforted the soldier softly. "You look so tired, boy, go and take a break first."
"But…"
"Take him back to the camp!" The Despot clapped his hands and two guards emerged pulling the soldier back towards a tent, where there are already eight other Hungarian messengers lying there with make shift bed, food and water.
"Despot! Despot!" The messenger tried his hardest to escape the grip of the two guards while crying out in a wailing tone towards the Despot. "DO you really want us to all die? Do you really want us to all die? Do you really want us to all die? If we are crashed you shall be the next!"
The Despot's back shivered by a bit, but soon returned to normal continued watching the battle from a distance away.
Chapter 195: 190: Despot! Despot! Despot!
- Niccolò Machiavelli
Back on the main battle field.
The Hungarians and the Ottomans brutally clash with each other in the largest military stand off this piece of land have never had since the last epic battle at Varna. The mist of blood covered the war ground infecting the minds of every single soul around here making them ruthless frantically cutting and chopping their opponents, as they know, that if they are not ruthless towards their enemies, their foes will be ruthless to him.
Obliged to the heroic sacrifice of the imperial baron and his calvaries, the Hungarian Crusaders is no longer under heavy pressure from the Ottoman horse men charging at them from the flanks or even at the back. Though even with the bulk of the Ottoman calvaries off to some where else, things are still in fact, very tense for them, with one Hungarian blade facing at least two Ottoman blades coming from all directions.
In fact, the wings of the Crusaders may go onto the verge of collapse at every minute. Although they have relentlessly pushed the Ottoman battle line afar to a distance almost five hundred meters, but that is about it, they have completely depleted themselves of the strength and energy to continue pushing, now is the time for they to get pushed back.
Zaganos Pasha was carefully calculating the combat capabilities of the Hungarians comparing it with his, his brain quickly spinning trying to determine how much strength and stamina the Hungarian forces still have judging when should he go on the offensive from the various reports and intel swarming to him by various beys and chieftains, and when he saw a report stating that there are lesser and lesser Hungarian troops coming in as reinforcements on all sides, he determined that the time has come.
"Pass my orders!" Zaganos Pasha called the messengers. "Send all the reserves onto the infidel's right flank, yes I want all of them, even those peasants, slaves and cooks! Yes! All! Crush them! At once!"
With a series of thunderous drums and prolonged blowing of horns, the stage for Ottoman offensive began. The Ottomans stopped squatting behind their shields and instead began going on for a full out flanging stones, arrows and bolts onto the head of the Crusaders with warriors charging forward holding their round shield and Kilij blade leaping onto the Crusaders tearing open their weakened defences one after another.
What makes things even worse is that the Ottomans reinforced their left wing trying to crush the Crusaders and flank them, which might even lead to worse circumstances such as the Crusaders getting encircled, squashed, and eliminated. To their horror and surprise, they even caught sight of man running around in chef's white carrying a kitchen knife waving them towards the Crusaders.
A drool scene, though not funny towards the Hungarians, and especially the commander of the right wing, Lord Gerald.
"Take this blade!" The Lord shouted at the messenger handing him his previously beautifully made and decorated sword which is full of cuts, dents, and stains of blood. "Show it to the King Regent! And tell him to send more reserves! Or he better live to snatch back my head!"
The messenger gulped and galloped to the King Regent showing the sword and telling the King Regent his commander's words.
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But instead to the messenger's despair, John Hunyadi plucked out his blade, which is too full of dents and cuts, and threw it to the already hopeless messenger kneeling on the ground. "Take my blade to Gerald if he wants it! And tell him that there will be no more reinforcements! The Serbians… We have lost contact with the Serbians!"The disheartened nameless messenger picked up the King Regent's blade with a pair of shivering hands, rode back to his commander telling him the King Regent's word giving him the blade, then got off one of the last horses of the Crusaders pushing it towards his commander, and finally charged towards the Ottoman crowd under the shocked sight of Lord Gerald, never to be seen again.
With a sigh and a stomp on the ground, Lord Gerald pulled a child soldier that still looks like even under fifteen years old of age hugging a wooden spear, hugged him up the horse and slashed it on its back side with his wipe, the horse neighed in pain and rode away towards the back, with Lord Gerald screaming to the crying boy asking him to run, run as far as possible spreading their tales back to their mother land. Then he turned back commanding his troops back facing the Ottoman offensive.
This wimpy boy he saved today, will be known as Johannes de Thurocz the Magister in the centuries to come.
…
"The ninth one."
A rider, covered in blood and without a helmet, came galloping towards the flags and banners of Serbian red double headed eagle. After he saw a figure in the middle dressed in red robes and wearing a crown helmet, the messenger fell off the horse hurriedly kneeling down without feeling the pain and damage he brought to his body, and hastily pleaded the Despot before him in an unfamiliar Serbian language.
"I understand." The Despot interrupted raising his hand up and comforted the soldier softly. "You look so tired, boy, go and take a break first."
"But…"
"Take him back to the camp!" The Despot clapped his hands and two guards emerged pulling the soldier back towards a tent, where there are already eight other Hungarian messengers lying there with make shift bed, food and water.
"Despot! Despot!" The messenger tried his hardest to escape the grip of the two guards while crying out in a wailing tone towards the Despot. "DO you really want us to all die? Do you really want us to all die? Do you really want us to all die? If we are crashed you shall be the next!"
The Despot's back shivered by a bit, but soon returned to normal continued watching the battle from a distance away.
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