The Dead Do Not Go Unremembered

Squelch, squelch-

The sound of military boots sinking into the mud echoed unpleasantly. Matej, a peasant soldier from Tabor, spat out the grit stuck in his teeth and followed the rear of the column.

The rain from a few days ago had turned the ground into a quagmire, and the icy water seeping through the gaps in his worn leather boots bit into his toes.

Ondrej, a comrade walking beside him, curled his lip and grumbled.

"Damn it, they said we won the war, so why are they dragging us back to that field again?"

"The King called for us. When the high-and-mighty summon you, what else can you do?"

Matej replied indifferently, adjusting the flail slung over his shoulder. The heavy iron ball at the end of the wooden handle, studded with iron nails, rattled against his back. It was originally a farming tool for threshing wheat, but over the last few months, this lump of iron had cracked open more human skulls than it had seeds.

He was an infantryman of the Taborites. Or, to be more precise, a farmer who had abandoned his scythe and plow to run for his life. Because the home Matej remembered now existed only in ashes.

It was just about this time last year. The day the First Crusade, led by Emperor Sigismund, had descended upon his village. Hungarian soldiers who didn't even speak their tongue swept through the village like a swarm of locusts. Matej had hidden in the forest, holding his breath, forced to watch as his wife and daughter were slaughtered without even a chance to scream.

When he survived that hell and returned to the ruins of his village, what awaited him wasn't warm consolation.

"Hand over your tithes."

The parish priest, with his greasy face, told him to dig through the ashes to offer up wheat. "Your family died? Then you must donate even more. Only then can their poor souls escape purgatory quickly."

The lord’s steward was even worse. "If you can't pay your taxes, pay with your body. The fact that the Hungarians attacked is just your bad luck; ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it’s not the Lord’s fault, is it?"

Bad luck.

They said my family died just because I was unlucky. And they told me to pay money if I wanted them to go to heaven.

That night, Matej crushed the skulls of the priest and the steward with a stone and left his charred hometown behind. That was how he had drifted to this place: Tabor.

A place where everyone called each other brother and sister, regardless of status or rank. A mad, fanatical community that shared what they had and sought only to judge those pig-like nobles and corrupt priests according to God’s will. There, for the first time, Matej was treated like a human being.

"But this King is a bit different, I’ll give him that," Ondrej said, pulling a piece of dried meat from his pocket and chewing on it.

"The supplies are incredible. We used to starve like it was our daily routine, but ever since this guy took charge, my stomach hasn't growled once."

"...That’s true."

Matej couldn't deny that. Usually, noble lords treated peasant soldiers like expendable supplies. It was a miracle if they gave you rotten oat porridge instead of nothing at all, and it was common sense to put you at the front as arrow fodder on the battlefield. But this King was different. He served warm soup mixed with meat at every meal and provided tents and blankets. He even strictly forbade looting during marches, instead handing out silver coins to the soldiers so they could buy food. Thanks to that, there was no need to loot. Or rather, he couldn't, because the King had threatened to cut off the head of anyone caught doing so.

Matej snorted. 'Even so, a King is still a King.'

The reason Matej had fought for his life in the last battle was simple. It wasn't because he liked the new King, but because he hated Sigismund with every fiber of his being. The speech the King gave in Prague? He hadn't heard it, and in the first place, he didn't trust the honeyed words of the high-and-mighty. It was obvious that once the war ended, they would go right back to working us like serfs as if nothing had happened.

"We've arrived," the scout ahead signaled, waving a flag. The view opened up, and the Letna Plain came into sight. It was the very place where, just a few weeks ago, they had fought a bloody battle against the Emperor’s 100,000-strong army.

Matej instinctively covered his nose. A battlefield was always supposed to reek of rotting corpses, the stench of blood, and the smell of excrement. A hellscape covered in crows and swarming with maggots. That was the reality of the battlefield he knew.

But.

"...Huh?"

There was no smell. Or rather, there was a scent, but it wasn't the nauseating stench of decay. It was the smell of white lime powder. And the faint aroma of burning incense drifted on the wind.

The plain was eerily clean. The countless corpses were nowhere to be seen, and the trampled earth had been leveled and packed down. And above it, an unbelievable sight unfolded.

"What... is all that?"

The plain was filled with endless rows of wooden crosses and graves. Hundreds of graves, aligned in perfect rows and columns, as if a military unit had been put on parade. In the center, on the highest hill, a massive memorial monument rose as if to pierce the sky. At the top of that monument, instead of a cross, a giant chalice—the symbol of the Hussites—was carved.

"My god..."

The soldiers murmured as they entered the graveyard. Hussite priests dressed in black moved between the graves, swinging censers. They offered blessings not in Latin, but in Czech, a language the peasants could understand.

"Return to the bosom of God, brave brothers."

"Since your blood has washed away your sins, the flames of purgatory shall not harm you."

"The warriors of God shall ascend to heaven and enjoy eternal rest."

It was common sense that the corpse of a mere peasant soldier would be left in the field to feed the beasts unless a family member or acquaintance recovered it. Or, they would be piled up and burned for fear of plague. But the King had recovered every single soldier's body, and the priests he sent were offering blessings over every single grave, telling them to go to heaven.

Matej approached a grave as if possessed. And with trembling eyes, he read the words inscribed on the headstone. He wasn't particularly literate. He just stumbled through combining a few Czech alphabet letters he had learned over the shoulder of the village priest when he was young. But the words written on those crudely carved wooden crosses were too simple and too clear.

"......"

Matej held his breath. These weren't the graves of nobles or knights. In front of the mounds covered with earth and sod, small but carefully carved wooden markers were planted one by one. There wasn't a single noble surname with a 'Von' attached. Instead, there were common names. The names that were commonly called out in the marketplace, in the furrows of the fields, and in the taverns were engraved on the stones.

Boom, boom, boom.

The heavy sound of drums vibrated through the air of the Letna Plain. Matej took his eyes off the headstone and turned his head. Amidst the silent gaze of thousands of soldiers and bereaved families, a man was walking up onto the platform.

Ulrich I. The new King of Bohemia, and the man the Pope called the son of Satan. He wasn't wearing silk robes embroidered with flashy gold thread or a crown studded with jewels like other kings. Instead, he was wearing the black plate armor covered in dust that he had worn while standing with his soldiers on the battlefield. With only a red cloak symbolizing the Hussites draped over his shoulders, he stood slowly in the center of the platform.

The King opened his mouth.

"Everyone, lift your heads."

There were no loudspeakers, but the King's voice rang out clearly in everyone's ears. Not because his voice was loud, but because it carried a weight that pierced the hearts of those listening.

"I confess here today that no flowery words can console this death."

The King slowly turned his gaze to look at the bereaved families sitting in the front row and the soldiers lined up behind them.

"The priests intend to bless this land by sprinkling holy water. But I dare not do so."

He pointed his finger at the mud-covered ground.

"Because I know that the brave brothers who went before us have already blessed this land with their red blood, making it holier than any holy water."

The King's voice gradually rose.

"They did not die for the sake of the lords' land-grabbing games. They fought until their last moments and sleep here now to live as humans, not slaves, and to create a world where their wives and children are not treated like beasts."

The King clenched his fist and struck his steel breastplate.

Clang!

"Therefore! This time, it is the state's turn to answer them."

At the King's gesture, soldiers brought out heavy crates.

"Let the bereaved families whose names are called come forward!"

The administrator read the list.

"Jan's wife, Theresa!"

A woman in shabby clothes, holding her child's hand, stepped forward to the platform, trembling. She tried to kneel before the King, but the King stepped down from the platform and took her by the shoulders to lift her up. He then personally placed a heavy leather pouch into her hands.

"Take this. This is not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠charity. It is the just price for the blood your husband shed. And this is a pension certificate that will be paid monthly until the child reaches adulthood."

"*Sob*... Your Majesty..."

"Use this money to feed and clothe the child. I cannot fill the void of your husband with money, but at least under the sky of Bohemia, the family of my soldier will never go hungry. I promise this on my name."

The woman clutched the pouch and sobbed. It was a tear of sorrow, but at the same time, a tear of relief. The peasant soldiers watching from around them widened their eyes.

"My god, how much is all that?"

"That looks like a year's worth of wages, doesn't it?"

"And they say they'll give a pension on top of that."

Ondrej, who was next to Matej, muttered with his mouth agape.

"Hey... Matej. I think I should have just died."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"You lunatic, talk sense."

Matej scolded him, but his heart was pounding wildly. In his memory, the priest who came when his wife and daughter died had demanded money. But this King was giving money away.

'It’s real. The rumors weren't lies.'

The King did not lie. He was treating his soldiers not as expendable goods, but as subjects he was responsible for. While the consolation money was being delivered to hundreds of bereaved families, the atmosphere on the plain changed completely. The gloomy and heavy air from the beginning had vanished, and in its place, something hot and indescribable was rising.

Once all the ceremonies were over, the King climbed back onto the platform. And he gave a powerful salute toward the sky.

"This is the path our heroes take. Ensure they are given the utmost honor."

At the same time, the cannons lined up to the left and right of the plain all pointed their muzzles toward the sky in unison.

"All troops! Fire the salute!"

Boom! Boom-boom-boom!

Dozens of cannons spewed fire at once. The weapons of death that had once spewed fire at enemies were now instruments bidding farewell to comrades-in-arms. White smoke rose like clouds, covering the sky. Between the smoke, the flag of the Hussites and the lion flag of Bohemia fluttered vigorously. Without anyone telling them to, the soldiers raised their weapons and shouted.

"Waaaaaaah!"

"Long live the Iron King!"

"Long live Bohemia!"

Matej also clenched his fist and looked up at the sky. The smell of gunpowder was acrid, but it didn't feel disgusting at all. A thought suddenly crossed his mind.

'If this were my death...'

Not being left on the side of the road to feed the crows. If it were a death where the King personally bid me farewell, provided for my family for the rest of their lives, and I ascended to the sky with the sound of thunder in front of my comrades.

'...It might not be as bad as I thought.'

The event ended, and the crowd began to disperse. Matej walked along the muddy road with Ondrej, trudging along. By the time they reached Prague, Ondrej asked.

"Hey, Matej. What are you going to do now?"

"What do you mean? I'm going home."

"Home? You don't have a home. You said it all burned down."

"...I can just build it again. The land is still there. Go, plow the fields, sow the seeds... this tiresome war game is over now."

Matej said it with feigned determination. Yes, a farmer should live off the earth. He was sick to death of killing people. With the few silver coins the King had given him, he could build a small hut.

"Right? I was thinking I might go back to my hometown and try to get a wife again."

The two men stopped at a fork in the road as they spoke. To the left was the road passing through Prague and out of the city. To the right... was the road leading back to the barracks. And at that right-hand turn, a large tent was pitched.

A fairly long line had already formed in front of the tent. Young men whose eyes had been turned by the memorial service they had just witnessed were clamoring to be the first to enlist. Matej looked at the left road. A wasteland that was free but where one could starve to death at any moment. And an unstable life where the lords or the church could exploit him again at any time. Then he looked at the right road. A life where hard training and discipline awaited, but at least his family wouldn't starve, and he wouldn't be discarded like a dog if he died.

"......"

Matej's feet wouldn't move.

"Hey, Ondrej."

"Yeah?"

"Now that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I think about it..."

Matej scratched his chin.

"If I go and plow the fields now, it's winter, so isn't there nothing to plant?"

"That's... true, isn't it?"

"Wouldn't it be better to at least get fed during the winter?"

Ondrej chuckled. He knew that March was almost over and spring was coming soon.

"Making excuses."

"Oh, shut up. Are you going or not?"

Matej turned his body abruptly and walked briskly toward the right road, toward the recruitment office. His footsteps on the mud were lighter than before, and they carried much more strength.