Chapter 30
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 30
Chapter Title: The Cumans
-----------------------------------------------------------------
In the southern Bohemia Kingdom, the training grounds of Tábor Fortress were shrouded in a deadly silence.
The thick gunpowder smoke that had billowed up dispersed in the wind, stinging the soldiers' noses.
In the midst of that silence.
Jan Žižka... no, now the Supreme Commander of the Kingdom of Bohemia's forces, the "One-Eyed" Jan Žižka, stood there.
His single eye stared piercingly at the silver-gray steel plate hanging from the straw dummy's chest.
"..."
Žižka slowly approached the target with deliberate, unhurried steps.
Scattered on the ground were shattered arrowheads and grotesquely crumpled lead bullets.
They were the defeated.
Losers from a bygone era.
The proud fangs of the Tábor forces—capable of shredding even knights' plate armor after repelling the First Crusade—had broken and shattered helplessly before this thin steel plate.
Žižka ran his callused, battle-hardened hand over the steel plate.
It was cold.
And smooth.
There were dents, but that was all. The back might have bulged out, but it hadn't been pierced. Not even a crack.
"Hah, well now."
A hollow laugh escaped Žižka's lips.
He was a warrior who had spent his life rolling in the dirt of battlefields. He knew the scent of iron intimately, could read the tide of battle from the feel of a blade lodging in bone or the sound of armor piercing.
And his instincts were screaming a warning.
This was no ordinary iron.
"Chval."
"Yes, General."
Chval z Machovic, Žižka's adjutant and Tábor's fierce general, responded.
"Bring me your axe."
"My axe, sir?"
"Yes. That poleaxe you boast about. Swing it with all your might."
Chval hesitated for a moment, but swallowed hard under Žižka's piercing glare and gripped his axe tighter.
"Don't blame me if it breaks."
Chval let out a shout and heaved the massive poleaxe overhead before slamming it down.
Claaang—!
It wasn't a dull thud, but a clear, ear-splitting ring of metal that echoed through the air.
"Urk!"
Chval cried out and dropped the axe.
The recoil was so fierce his hands were torn open, blood trickling down. The axe blade was chipped and mangled.
But the steel plate bore only a fresh white scratch, standing firm as ever.
Žižka glanced at his trembling adjutant's hands and muttered softly.
"Madness, this thing."
He pried the steel plate free and held it against his own chest. It was heavy, but compared to its defensive power, it felt as light as a feather.
What if—just what if.
This steel covered the chests of Tábor soldiers, and more importantly, armored their wagons?
Until now, their Wagenburg had been reinforced only with wooden planks and iron chains.
It could withstand knightly lance charges, but siege engines or concentrated fire left it vulnerable. A single fire arrow had them panicking over burning wood.
But if they sheathed the wagons in this steel?
'A moving fortress... no, far beyond that.'
A chilling gleam lit Žižka's single eye.
'This is a colossal steel serpent. One that won't catch fire or shatter—an invincible serpent that will coil around the Crusaders and crush them.'
This object had shattered the limits of the tactics he had envisioned in an instant.
"That whelp sent this?"
"Yes, sir."
The messenger replied in a tense voice.
"His Highness said to plate every wagon in Tábor with it. He sent screws and rivets too—just drill holes and fasten them..."
"Hah."
Žižka tapped the steel plate with his finger.
Truth be told, he had harbored doubts about the young king Ulrich.
For all his talk of the Hussite cause, wasn't he just another noble who shrank from spilling a drop of blood?
But the moment he laid eyes on this gift, those suspicions melted away like snow.
This steel plate embodied a profound understanding of war's essence.
No ornate decorations, no useless engravings. Only the ruthless pragmatism of deflecting enemy weapons and shielding allied lives gleamed through.
One ignorant of war could never create such a thing, let alone think to send it.
Žižka's scarred lip twisted into a grin.
"That young king... he knows war."
What soldiers needed to win wasn't empty prayers, but this sturdy steel plate to keep their guts from spilling out.
Žižka turned and bellowed at his troops.
"Assemble all the wagons! Tear off every rotten wooden plank right now and reinforce them with these steel plates—not a single one left out!"
"Yes, General! No—Supreme Commander Jan Žižka!"
"And messenger, head to Sternberg and relay this to His Highness."
Žižka glared south toward the horizon where Sigismund's army would soon swarm.
"As long as we have these steel plates, Tábor's wagons won't flinch even against God's lightning."
Now, he no longer feared the coming battle. He anticipated it.
Imagining those arrogant knights charging confidently only to have their heads smashed against this steel wall made his blood boil.
A full month had passed since my return to Sternberg Castle.
Just one month.
Yet in that short time, the territory's landscape had transformed completely.
No longer did rooster crows wake me at dawn.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The massive vibrations from the hydraulic hammers by the Sázava River echoed far and wide.
And the shouts of thousands of laborers rang out in unison, heralding the start of the day's work.
I opened the window of my study and peered outside.
The acrid smell of burning coal and dust wafted in.
The old me would have wrinkled my nose at the fine particulate levels, but not anymore.
This was the scent of progress, the aroma of civilization clawing for survival.
"More bricks over here! The masons in Sector 3 are standing idle!"
"Secure those scaffolding boards tight! One slip and you're done for!"
Below the castle, the scene was still too shabby to call a city. Few buildings stood complete.
Most were freshly leveled foundations or knee-high brick walls at best.
Planks and straw bales littered the ground, and muddy paths turned to quagmires in the rain, tangling wagons into chaos.
But amid the disorder lay clear order and vibrant energy.
I donned my cloak and stepped out, trudging through the boot-sucking mud to inspect the construction sites.
"Your Highness, you've arrived!"
"Mm."
Laborers with plaster smeared on their faces doffed their caps and bowed.
Their faces bore fatigue, but no hunger or despair.
Thanks to the daily silver coin and hot meat stew issued each evening, their eyes sparkled with life.
Most striking were the people themselves.
"Hey, wrong mix ratio there! How many times do I have to tell you too much water cracks the mortar when it sets?!"
"Aigh, got it! You're a real stickler..."
A Jewish overseer in a kippah barked in halting Czech, while a grizzled Sternberg native grumbled but obediently set down his bucket and resumed shoveling.
A sight unimaginable just a month ago.
Farmers who spat at "Christ-killers" and heretics, Jews who despised yet feared Christians.
But hauling bricks together, supping from the same pot, counting silver coins at night and dreaming of tomorrow had slowly diluted their hatred.
Sigismund's external threat, the rising city, and capitalism had buried age-old religious feuds.
I walked among the half-built brick structures.
Not thatched huts of straw and wood, but standardized houses of red brick.
Someday, this would be no medieval slum, but a planned city with full sewers.
Of course, that was still a distant dream.
For now, erecting shacks to house the laborers was challenge enough.
"Your Highness."
Steward Konrad approached unnoticed, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
"We've added five more brick kilns, but supply still can't keep up with demand. We'll need more timber from Prague, it seems."
"I see. I'll tell Abraham."
Konrad looked a decade older after just one month.
Even with Abraham's help, managing a quiet rural estate had thrust him into overseeing tens of thousands; it was no wonder.
But I had no intention of easing up. Loyal, competent administrators were never enough.
Feed and clothe him well, and he'd serve me another ten years.
"Hm? Why the sudden chill..."
I patted Konrad's trembling shoulder a couple times as he shivered.
"Take care now. Catch a cold and it'll be trouble. I'll have someone fetch a top-grade fur coat from Prague."
"Pardon? Ah, yes... thank you, Your Highness."
Konrad wore an oddly awkward expression.
"That aside, Your Highness, word of Sternberg has spread far and wide. Tales of daily meals, beds, and silver have serfs from neighboring lands fleeing here en masse. Protests from the local lords are pouring in."
"Good news, isn't it? Means more manpower."
"But I'm worried this might spark outright clashes with the neighbors."
"No matter. They'll shout 'Long live the Emperor' when Sigismund comes anyway. Use the protest letters for kindling."
I replied coolly and turned my gaze to the riverbank.
There, Furnace No. 1 was joined by the newly lit No. 2, belching black smoke.
Hiss—! Boom! Boom!
Dozens of hydraulic hammers pounded relentlessly, stamping out steel plates.
The fresh plates were loaded onto wagons still hot and shipped south.
"How's the Wagenburg reinforcement?"
"According to the Tábor messenger, over half the wagons are already plated. The Tábor troops are calling them 'Armored Combat Wagons (Panzerkampfwagen)'... or Panzer for short."
"What? Panzer?"
A name I'd heard somewhere before.
Panzers in the 15th century? What was this?
'Well, it'll take that much to face the Empire's knights, I suppose.'
I looked up at the sky.
An exceptionally clear, blue winter sky.
Everything was going smoothly. Too smoothly, almost unnervingly so.
But I knew this was the calm before the storm.
It was then.
"Your Highness!"
A desperate shout pierced from the castle gate.
The sharp voice cut through the construction din.
A scout whipped his horse across the site, charging straight ahead.
Onlookers scattered in alarm.
The horse halted before me, frothing at the mouth. The scout tumbled off and dropped to his knees.
"Your Highness! Urgent report!"
"What is it?"
"Enemies... enemies sighted at the border!"
The surrounding clamor died in an instant.
Brick-haulers and overseers froze, all eyes on the scout.
I furrowed my brow gravely and asked.
"The enemy has reached the border?"
"Yes! Sigismund's forces spotted near the Moravian border! Not the main army—likely vanguard by the looks of it!"
"Exact numbers?"
"About three thousand! The report says..."
The messenger shouted with a nightmarish expression.
"They're all Cuman mercenaries!"
The Cumans.
Europe's nightmare.
Descendants of Turkic nomads, infamous plunderers known for their brutality.
Sigismund's hunting dogs were coming for my throat.