Chapter 32
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 032
Chapter Title: Battle of Malesov
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Thick, acrid smoke hung heavily over a border village in Bohemia.
Black plumes sliced through the winter sky, while the soot and bitter stench from burning thatched roofs stung the nose.
To Konchak, the captain of the Cuman mercenaries, all those smells oddly felt like the scent of home.
"Pathetic."
Konchak muttered as he brushed bloodstains off his saddle. A couple of severed heads were already dangling from it, swaying with every jolt.
"Too pathetic."
He scanned the ruined village through the narrow slits of his iron mask.
Three days since crossing the Moravian border.
There hadn't been a single real fight. Everywhere they passed turned into a literal hellscape.
Bohemia's border guards?
Those cowards dropped their weapons and fled into the woods at the sight of the Cumans' pointed helmets and grotesque masks.
The village serfs begged for mercy, offering food and women, but Konchak's men showed none.
They stole the food, raped the women, and slit the men's throats for fun.
That was why Emperor Sigismund had shelled out a fortune to hire the Cuman mercenaries.
Not for ordinary victories, but to instill bone-deep terror in the enemy.
"Captain! Nothing left to loot here! Not even a single silver coin—this is a pigsty!"
His lieutenant approached, grumbling. Behind him, village maidens were dragged along like beasts, bound with ropes.
"Ughh...!"
"Please spare us!"
Konchak replied indifferently.
"Why bother with trash like that? You think old man Sigismund paid us to roll around with women here?"
"Heh heh, but these Bohemian girls have such fair, soft skin."
"Shut up and grab what matters. Ditch the rest—we're moving out."
Konchak turned his horse north without a second thought.
Petty cash from some backwater village wasn't worth it. The real prize lay to the north.
'Sternberg.'
The rebels' ringleader, that upstart noble calling himself king of Bohemia, was holed up there.
From the village headman they'd tortured during the raid, the rumors said the place was piled high with gold and silver stolen from the Papacy, and the foolhardy young king was lounging around on an open construction site without even walls.
"The old emperor wants that kid's head..."
Konchak smacked his lips and tapped one of the heads dangling from his saddle.
"But I'm coveting his warehouses more."
Plunder that, and he'd live like royalty for life.
And if luck smiled and he captured that heretic king alive?
He could demand a fat fiefdom from the emperor.
A greedy smile spread across Konchak's lips.
"Whole force! Pick up the pace! Fall behind and you're done! The strongest dog claims the bitch first!"
"Waaaaah!"
The three thousand Cuman cavalry roared and charged north.
The Cumans' mobility was unmatched. They didn't bother with sluggish supply wagons. Food came from raids, sleep from horseback.
Black smoke rose wherever they passed, vultures circling to feast on the corpses.
Thud thud thud thud—!
Horse hooves shook the earth.
Like the wind—no, like the plague itself.
They swiftly crossed southern Bohemia's plains and reached Malesov, the pass leading to Sternberg.
Just through here, and it was a straight shot.
"Captain! Look over there!"
A scout at the front shouted urgently, pointing to the hilltop.
Konchak narrowed his eyes and looked up.
Malesov's gentle slope.
Atop the ridge thick with rocks and scrub, a single flag fluttered amid a cluster of soldiers.
A golden star with eight horns on a blue field.
"The king's flag?"
Konchak's eyes widened.
He'd figured the coward had barricaded himself in the castle or fled to Prague by now.
Yet here he was, crawling out to meet them?
"Arrogant bastards."
Konchak snorted. He reined in his horse and eyed the enemy troops arrayed on the hill.
"One, two, three..."
Roughly a thousand, give or take.
And not a gleaming knight in plate armor among them. At best, poorly equipped infantry in gambesons topped with chainmail or breastplates.
Shields forward, spears at the ready—like typical peasant levies or ragtag militia.
"Kuhahaha!"
Konchak clutched his belly and burst out laughing.
"What the hell is that? That's the army the so-called king of Bohemia brought? Even scarecrows would be more threatening!"
A mere thousand infantry facing three thousand steppe cavalry in open plains?
This wasn't an army—it was a thousand death-wishers.
"Captain! There! In the center!"
Where his man pointed.
A young man sat on a white horse, draped in a lavish cloak, surrounded by guards.
No helmet, his refined face fully visible.
Konchak's instincts whispered: That's him. The moneybags.
"Lucky us. Very lucky."
Konchak licked his lips.
No need to go all the way to Sternberg. Cut the brat's head here, tie the corpse to his horse's tail, and saunter back to Hungary.
Konchak drew his saber and thrust it skyward.
"Brothers! Give these arrogant fools the Cuman welcome! No mercy—not one survives! A thousand silver coins to the man who brings me the king's head!"
A thousand silver coins.
At those words, the Cuman warriors' eyes went feral.
Tactics? Formations? They didn't care.
The enemy was just infantry rabble. One cavalry charge, and they'd crumble like sandcastles.
This was a race to claim that head.
"Kill them!"
"Loot everything!"
The three thousand horsemen spurred forward as one.
Neighhh—!
Dust clouds blotted the sky, savage howls filling the valley. A black wave surged toward Malesov hill.
The soldiers atop the hill gripped their spears tensely, murmuring.
Terror gleamed in their eyes, palpable even from here.
"Sweep them away!"
The nomads' speed on the plains was peerless. The distance closed in seconds.
Konchak gripped his horse's mane and leaned forward.
His gaze locked on the young king beneath the tacky golden flag atop the hill.
'Just a bit more!'
The gap narrowed.
Now within arrow range.
Sure enough, the Bohemian infantry on the hill drew their bows in unison.
"Fire!"
A command rang out, followed by the whistle of arrows slicing the air.
Shooo—!
An arrow storm blotting the sky.
Any normal cavalry would raise shields or slow down.
But Konchak sneered.
"Scatter!"
Before the order even finished, the Cumans were moving. The packed formation fanned out like a peacock's tail.
As if rehearsed, they hung off their horses' bellies or twisted aside to dodge the incoming volley.
Thud! Thunk thunk!
Most arrows whistled harmlessly or stuck in empty ground. A few unlucky horses got grazed on the rump, at worst.
"That's all you got?!"
Konchak straightened in the saddle and drew his own bow—a small but powerful Cuman composite made of horn and sinew.
"Lads! Return the favor!"
Twang! Twang twang—!
Incredible rapid fire from galloping horses.
Unlike the Bohemian parabolic shots, Cuman arrows flew straight as clotheslines, targeting necks and eyes.
Thuk! Thunk—!
"Gaaah!"
"Urk!"
Soldiers on the hill dropped, pierced. Against the Cumans' near-supernatural marksmanship slipping through shield gaps, the infantry was helpless.
Konchak yelled in ecstasy.
"Hahaha! See that? That's the Cuman bow!"
Now close enough to read faces.
Terror spread like plague across the feeble Bohemians' features—clear as day to Konchak.
And then, inevitably.
"R-Run!"
"We can't win! We're dead!"
The hilltop soldiers screamed and turned tail.
Dropping spears, discarding shields, fleeing in chaos.
"Ha! Cowards!"
Formation? Ambush?
No time to think.
Prey baring its rear? No hound stops the hunt.
"Don't let them escape! Trample them!"
"Waaaaah!"
The Cumans spurred madly.
They stuck to the fugitives' heels. Close enough to touch.
"Where you running?!"
"Aaaah!"
Some warriors already slashed at stragglers with sabers, cackling.
The Bohemians scrambled desperately up the hillcrest for their lives.
"Stand still, you meat sacks!"
Konchak loosed an arrow at the standard-bearer's horse. It flew straight for the rider's head.
Clang!
"Not today!"
The rider whipped his head around, slashing the arrow midair. It snapped and plummeted.
"Huh?"
Konchak's face twisted in disbelief.
Deflecting a flying arrow with a single stroke?
The standard-bearer's swordsmanship was no joke.
Still, no big deal. Over the hill, and it was done.
"Fine, I'll carve you up myself!"
Beyond the crest: downhill.
No legs outrun a horse.
Then the slaughter begins.
Konchak crested first.
His horse reared with a whinny.
And as his view opened wide.
"...?"
Konchak's battle cry cut off.
The fleeing Bohemians tumbled down like they were rolling, then split left and right, vanishing.
And in their place.
A bizarre wall stood on the plain below.
No—not a wall.
Hundreds, thousands of wagons circled in a ring, chained together with iron.
A normal wagenburg would show weathered planks and straw bales.
But this was different.
Blinding glare under the midday sun.
Every surface sheathed seamless in silvery metal.
Like a colossal steel serpent coiled in wait—overwhelming.
No wood gaps, no fire holes.
Just endless cold, smooth steel curves.
"What... the hell?"
The Cuman followers crested behind, halting in shock.
Disbelief in their eyes. Lifetimes of battlefields and raids, but nothing like this.
Not a wall, not wagons.
A steel fortress fresh from hell's forge.
And in its slits, hundreds of muzzles gaped black, aimed their way.
Chills raced up Konchak's spine. His battlefield-honed instincts screamed.
This wasn't a hunting ground.
It was a slaughterhouse.
A low, gravelly voice boomed from beyond the steel wall.
"Fire!"
Rat-a-tat-tat—!
Thunder crashed from all sides.