Fall of Riga- A play on the 17th Interactive

I thought it would be interesting to write a story on the 17th Century interactive. This has no bearing on the actual thread whatsoever.

In this story, Soloboskyi needs to be changed into Solobowski. There are multiple references to Soloboskyi, so mentally change it to Solobowski.
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Pan Solobowski watched the falcon diving amongst the reeds along Lake Peipus. The husaria officer had settled on the shore, his Valachian steed nosing amongst the tall grass. Most of the banner had settled as he had amongst the grass. A week had passed since the banner had ridden through the Smolensk gates. The city was ruined by the disease, starvation, and the Cossack foot-soldiers. As the cannons breached the walls, the Cossack locust poured inside. Swinging halberds, shooting the bows, cutting with swords. They had ravaged the inside of the town, raping, pillaging, looting. The 2,000 Ukranians had drunk themselves into the bottom of the barrel, taking credit on vodka against future loot. As the husaria rode in, the Cossacks had worked their horrors.
Pan Solobowski pulled out the tanned leather map of Livonia. The Swedes had surrounded Ryga, the Swedish navy blockading the harbor. The Danish had attempted to relieve the city, but to no avail. The Lithuanian Hetman had attempted to relieve the city from the south, but his command had faulted, and the Finnish riders had driven the Polish riders away. Surprise had been written on the face of many of the Husaria elsewhere.
"Pan Solobowski, tell me, where is the main column?" The lieutenant Pan Hysalizki approached from behind, his tall Swedish boots stomping the mud.
"Their on their way to Ryga, just like we are."
"But, where captain?"
Standing, Solobowski pulled down his black moustache, and punched the lieutenant in the stomach. Coughing and spitting, the lieutenat doubled over on the grass.
"There lieutenant, now shut up, and mount up," Solobowski walked over to his horse and mounted. Swinging the leopard pelt over his shoulders, he turned in the saddle to check on the the other hussars. They had returned from the shore, and they mounted. Turning his horse southwest, he clicked his tongue to his mouth, and the column rode on.

It was near afternoon when he pulled his steed to a halt before a small Estonian hamlet. A mountain amongst the flat terrain of Estonia. Here some of the Tartar scouts had reported Swedish supplies in the town. The hamlet was indeed packed with Swedes. Wagons were parked outside the town. In town, the Swedes had built pens for pigs, cattle, horses, and chicken.
"Lieutenant Hwcizki, take about fifty troopers and cut the northern road. Lieutenant Dobowick take another fifty and cut the southern road. I'll take the hundred and capture the town. When the horn blows thrice, return your riders to the town."
"Aye Pan!" was the reply as columns of riders broke from the hussars and headed with the lieutenants. Soloboswski waited ten minutes for the roads to be cut. Pulling out his stabbing sword, Solobowski moved his horse forward, begining at a march pace. Then, he increased the step. His hussars fanned out behind him. Another increase, the trot. Then at about one hundred and fifty yards, a thunderous gallop. The hussars hadn't placed the wings on the saddles, but the sight was still terrifying. The Swedes had seen the riders, but weren't prepared when the riders crashed into the hamlet. A couple houses was all that stood. Crashing into man and wood, the horses carried the riders onward, the riders thrusting and battering the Swedish men to death. Four times, the riders tumbled across the hamlet, four times the Swedes were killed. Half of the riders dismounted and searched the houses, and pistol shots rang out from inside. All told, about thirty Swedish men were dead, and hundreds of supplies were denied. Blowing thrice on a brass horn, the sounds echoed across the barren grassland. A few minutes later, the hundred riders returned to the town.
"Kill the pigs. Wring the chickens' necks. Free the cattle and tie in the horses. Put anything that might be needed, grain, beer, gunpowder, essentials on the horse. Burn the rest."
As Pan Solobosyki rode from the hamlet, the evening sky was lit with flame and hell. The bodies burned and shrank. The smell of burnt hair and burnt flesh permeated the air. Then two explosions as powder charges under the town square exploded. A third was amongst the remaining wagons. The cattle startled, but returned to grazing on the grass.


Captain Njord cursed the Poles. "Where is the powder! The second battery needs powder!"
A messenger stood before the blustering Swede, withstanding the harsh, vodka laden breath.
"God almighty, how in Jesus Christ are we to get the fornicating walls broken if we have no fornicating powder!"
"I...I don't know captain, I'm only doing what I was told..." the messenger, a boy of twelve or thirteen was cut short.
"God-damn them to hell! Go to the admiral ask for some fornicating powder! God-damn them to the inner circle of all damnation!" The Swede yelled at the top of his lungs, sitting beside his artillery piece. A few months of bombardment had brought down some stone. Assaults had not yet carried the city. Then the Poles sneaked in grain and meat during the battle outside Ryga. The Swede commander had been lucky the Pole Hetman was a total klutz, or the Swedes would be looking over Ryga, at the end of a pike.

A cannon farther down the siege line barked, followed by a crack as the Ryga wall suffered the impact.
"Hey captain, they got bread and cheese from Stockholm!" a cannoneer called as he left the tent forest.
"They always have bread from Stockholm, and the cheese is moldy."
"Aw captain, your always so pessimistic."
"Your always happy Garjholm."
"True captain, true!" The Norwegian enjoyed living to much for Njord's liking.
"There's no powder from Tallinn, so we'll need to scrape the cannonballs again, get the rust off."
"They should land at Ventspils, or closer. We control every waterway north of here."
"Yeah, well they haven't thought of it yet, so shut up!"
Garjholm smiled slightly, then pulled a piece of bread and ate it.
"You got your beer ration Garjholm?"
"In my stomach captain. I heard that cannon four's captain is against alcohol in any form."
"Yeah, well he's a lunatic Protestant, and it's to bad he doesn't drink. Drinking is the only way I live."
"Captain, shouldn't you start slowing down on the liqour. That Scotsman, Henry Borne, he died a few weeks back. He drank like beer was his own blood. Doctor said he died of liver problems."
"Scotsmen are weak. The only way your live through fourty winters is by drinking."

Johnathon Brook puffed his clay pipe, the smell of tobacco and weeds swirling into his nostrils. Sitting in a tavern south of Ryga, he enjoyed the luxuries not many of the Swedish paymasters enjoyed outside Ryga. The Swedes were busy firing cannons and matchlocks, while his pikemen and musket-men were guarding their rear. News had been mixed after the start of the siege. The Danes had sent a fleet that battled the Swedes. The Danes were even allied to Poland. The Danes were defeated, and the Poles were beaten back, which surprised the pikemen. Johnathon thought they might break through, but they didn't. They did smuggle supplies into the city itself, sustaining the garrison.
Stretching back, he scratched the short beard he had grown over the summer. The entire nation of Swedes seemed to be beards, moustaches, and some even braided it. Bristol didn't have that many men with moustaches, most shaved it clean off.
Stomping his feet, Johnathon stood and walked outside. Night had enclosed the tavern and the surrounding buildings. The Swedes had fortified several towns around Ryga, hoping to secure a modicum of protection and security.
Walking through the town, he entered the outskirts, where tents had grown like mushrooms after a heavy storm. The army of the Swedish were set on capturing Ryga.
Walking to his tent, a smather of light arrows fell into camp. Some struck tents and fell away. Others hit flesh, resulting in screams and blood. Two of his pikemen were dead of blood loss.
Damn Poles. Tossing his pipe to the side, he stepped inside his tent and began to undress. Slipping into the sheets, he heard another clatter of arrows.

Pan Soloboskyi watched the hundred husaria ride out of the forest. The banner was led by a knight from Tchavassy, Pan Soltyk. A oak of a man, his horse seemed sickly thin to his body. Riding with the eagle feather banners on his saddle, the riders seemed to be crimson and silver angels.
"Ho, is that Pan Soloboskyi?"
"Yes, you sly dog, it's me" Soloboskyi rode to his friend, grasping his hand. Soltyk was a gentle man, holding one of the titles after years in the husaria. His wife had given him three sons, all in the Grand Hetman's guard.
"Were you the one who set the powder off last night?"
"How did you know?"
"A little Tartar told me."
"Mine ran into a couple Swedish soldiers, and the bastard lost his head."
Smirking, Pan Soltyk pulled out his map of Livonia. Black x's marked his raids. Soloboskyi pulls out his, comparing the x's.
"Struck that port twice. Caught a couple ships in the harbor." Soltyk smiled again, dazzling Soloboskyi with his whitened teeth.
"Swedes piled up on this highway. My lancers caught them in the open."
Nodding, Soltyk circled three spots on Soloboskyi's map.
"The Swedes have set up depots here. I haven't hit them yet, to many targets."

Turning their horses away the two banners of horsemen dismounted in a clearing. Here, Soloboskyi, Sotyk, and the dragoon leader, Horodenko. Pulling out flints and steel, small camp-fires cooked the chicken. Soloboskyi had feared the Swedes would see the smoke. Then he stumbled onto a Swedish camp, cooking several swine without drawing his notice.
After a couple minutes, the dragooner Horodenko rode into camp. His dragoons were muddied, carrying a musket and two pistols.
After dealing the food out, Soloboskyi met with the three captains. Horodenko was wearing a red and gold coat of the dragoons, with chaps over his trousers and boots.
"I have word from the Lithuanian Hetman. His army is marching to relieve Ryga. Several cannons have been silenced by our efforts, lacking sufficient gunpowder. The Swedes have built walls to repel our attacks. Luckily, they left a hole. Between Captolls and Ridwya, a cattle pasture that is now a marsh. The Swedes have left it mostly unguarded. The Hetman has placed Pan Solobosyki in command of the three banners on promotion to Colonel. You have orders to secure this marsh, colonel. Then the Hetman will launch the Cossacks and the infantry into the enemy."

Captain Njord applied the match to the powder. A swift coughing bark erupted form the cannon. A feather of flame shoots out, followed by the sulphurus gas and the sound of Ryga being battered down.
"Hit. Three degrees up, and we'll hit the break."
"Three degrees!" The chock blocks were removed from between the barrel and the mount. Swabbing the inside, the crew loaded the cannon.
"Ready captain!" the gunners chorused, one producing the match.
"Fire!" Njord screamed applying the match and shuddering with the explosion.
"Hit captain, we got a hole!" Garjholm cried with joy.
Smiling slightly Njord awaited the reloading. The powder had been pulled from the fleet. Two caskets had fallen in the water, along with six shots of lead.
Another roar as the cannon barked lead and flame.
Marching past, a company of Swedish gunners and pikemen.
"Increase rate of fire on section eight!" The artillery commander screamed at the gunners.
"Assault, give'em cover!" Njord yelled at his crew. Moving quickly, the rate of fire began to increase. Muskets were adding to the din of fire. Sharper crashes of thunder broke into the steady cannon heartbeat.
Then the scream as an assault piled over the battlements to Ryga. The defenders responded. Muskets answered musket. Bows loosed arrows into the assailants. Rocks and tiles flew from the stone walls. Another cannon cough, and his shell struck three defenders. They were blown into body parts, struggling and lurching in their death throes. A pulpy mist covered the nearby defenders.

Johnathon felt as if he were going against a heavy wind. The storm of arrow, bullet, and rock had crippled some of his pikemen and musketeers. Others were giving cover fire, steady and regular crashes of musketry.
"Bring the ladders! Ladders! Faster!" Johnathon exhorted his men, calling the ladders. Cannonballs hurtled over their heads, whistling into the wall. Dust and grit covered the soldiers. Baskets of rubble were moved forward, providing a modicum of defense from bullets.
Movement occured as ladders were pulled up. Pikemen discarded their pikes, drawing swords as they ascended. Pistols added to the fire. Pikemen dropped away. Another crash of musketry sent defenders tumbling down to the ground. Then the ladders fell away with a clatter of wood.
"Retreat lads, move back!"

Nice work, keep it up. :2thumbsup:

Hmm... The names look odd. Almost as transcripted from Russian:inquisitive:

It spoils much in the short story - I am Polish and I have no idea how to read those:juggle2:


BTW Look at the second post in this thread - the after battle screen shows you a good choice of Polish names - unfortunatelly the proper Polish letters are missing here and there, but with english keyboard you will not be able to write that anyway...

https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showthread.php?t=68716

I was reading With Fire and Sword, and the names blew me away.
I'll edit the Polish names, save for Soloboskyi.

Colonel Pan Soloboskyi peered through the blazing auburn streaks of sunrise. The cattle pasture was flat, a plate of water and silver. Glistening, tendrils of mist rose from the marsh.
"Get the riders into three columns. I want the riders to dismount and stay close. If a horse gets trapped, shoot it." Soloboskyi knew his hussars would have a terrible time doing it. He couldn't risk the Swedes opening up of trudging hussars. The Lithuanian Hetman had said Cossacks and infantry, cavalry and archers would follow.

Moving slowly amongst the pasture, Soloboskyi had become fastened three or four times, the mud sucking him down. The dragoons brought wicker baskets and walkways, laying them down across the pasture. A couple horses neighed, a few men cursed ill-luck. The pasture stretched for miles in either direction. Soloboskyi was surprised it was opened by the Swedes.
Then the click.

Captain Njord had been angry that the Swedish commanders had pulled his cannons away from the wall bombardment. Then, as the early mist covered the pasture, he saw it was worth it. Several lines of dismounted Poles. Crimson and silver, gold and leather. Then the click of the muskets.
Pulling the match to the cannon barrel, Njord bellowed "FIRE!"
An earthquake shook the pasture. A phoenix of fire appeared, followed by smoke and ash. The entire world seemed to fall apart as muskets crashed amongst the coughing roar of the cannons. Barks and thunder.
Njord scanned the thick smoke, looking for a sign.

Pan Soloboskyi swiftly turned to his hussars. Some were confused like children. Others were dead. Horses cried, and men screamed. Turning back to his horse, Soloboskyi mounted . The rest of the hussars mounted up. Soltyk mounted his horses. Another crash of muskets. Cannons also bellowed away. They couldn't see past the smoke, and some flew overhead, others hit the marsh with a splatter of mud.
Turning in his saddle, Soloboskyi felt an urge.
"For Poland, for the Commonwealth. Hold your pallasz firm, and your mounts steady. For POLAND!" Soloboskyi kicked his horse forward. The banners followed. Now, his horses wore the eagle feathers, and a harsh whistling sound followed the riders. Mud and water flew past and around. Some riders were hurtled off, their horses crumpling into the ground. The banners were holding the stabbing pallasz sword, and Soloboskyi felt his mount carry him onward. A cannon roar filled his ears.
Leaping swiftly, the horse struck two Swedes with her hooves. Stabbing into a Swede, Soloboskyi saw red blood fountain and froth. Sending his horse onward, Soloboskyi stabbed and thrust. Pistols cracked with miniature fury. Men screamed in Swedish, Polish, Lithuanian, German, Ruthenian, and many other languages. Muskets crackled into the distance. Swords and clubs, musket butts and axes. Swirling and twisting. Blood and flesh. Leather and steel. Blue and yellow, crimson and silver. Riding onward, Soloboskyi knew his husarias had done good. Turning his steed, the flood of riders contiuned. Charging back into the Swedes, he killed man after man. One captain had stood his ground, swinging his matchstick like an axe. Then he disappeared under a flood of crimson and silver.

Johnathon pulled out his pipe and poured tobacco and weeds into the cup. Touching a match, he pulled in the tobacco's smoke. Sitting inside Ridwya, he had seen the Swedish foot-soldiers march past, below the battlements. Then the cannons and caissons. The Swedish had left a skeleton force on the wall-defense. The ring of towns were re-inforced. Ventspils had landed a company of mercenaries from France, who secured several fortified town garrisons.

As the dawn had broken, he heard a distant thunder.
"Swedish cannons lads, a battles commenced." Johnathon mentioned, still smoking.
"Should we go captain?" on of the mercenaries asked.
"We go if they tell us to go," Johnathon spoke out, pulling in the tobacco.

As the day went on, the thunder stuttered to a stop. Swedish soldiers flooded inside. Cannons went past, crashing and tumbling as they hurried on. Then the Poles. Johnathon had seen the riders before. The battle outside Ryga.
Eagle wings fluttering, they moved swiftly. Crimson and silver. Blood splattered some of them. They held their swords with the points going down.
Pulling to a halt before the city gates, the leading rider spoke up in a harsh Swedish.
"Do you surrender?"
Johnathon had contemplated such a question before.
"No, Pole, no." Johnathon spoke in Polish.
Pulling out his brass horn, the Polish hussar blew upon it twice. Riding on, the Pole contiuned down the road.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Marshal Murat

I was reading With Fire and Sword, and the names blew me away.
I'll edit the Polish names, save for Soloboskyi.

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Please at least remove this 'y' - Solobowski will look at least as the proper Polish name.:2thumbsup:

Pan Solobowski watched the cannons rumble and thunder away. The cannons were breaking down Ridwya. The highway from the south passed close to Ridwya, and it had to be taken. Mortars and muskets opened up after the first cannons were rolled past. The Cossacks and mercenaries moved on, hoping to crack the ringing defenses. Pan Solobowski sat beside his mount, the banners resting after the vicious fight on the pasture.

"Pan Solobowski?" a voice called from above. Looking up, he saw the Hetman and his horse-tail banner.
"Congradulations on your assault. The Swedes will be crushed!"
"Yes, Hetman Sowski." Solobowski stood and bowed to the Hetman.
After a couple hours, Solobowski mounted his horse and turned to the north. Taking the three banners, the husaria rested by the pasture, where several wagons were re-supplying the attacking armies. Ryga was as good as taken. Solobowski took his orders from the Hetman, which described his orders.
Pan Solobowski
You've been given command of Tolowski's hussars, Soltyk's hussars, and Horodenko's dragoons. Your orders are to secure the three Swedish ships that are landed in Ventspils
Lithuanian Hetman Pan Sowski

Ordering the three banners of riders, the riders moved quickly through the crumbling Swedish lines. Cossacks were still pummeling the fortified cities that were stretching around Ryga. Riders were saving Ryga even now, scattering the besiegers.

Captain Njord pulled the musket from the dead hands of a Cossack warrior. He had been pissing into the dark when Njord stabbed him with a lance splinter. Donning the boots and dress, he also got a pistol, two daggers, and a couple gold coins. Slinking off into the night, he joined a couple German mercenaries, who joined a couple French mercenaries, who joined a company of Swedish musketeers. From there he walked westward to Ventspils. There, four or five Swedish ships still sat. The ones around Ryga had been scattered by the land batteries.

Johnathon smelled the sulfurus egg, and he heard the cannon blast. The town had slowly crumbled under the Cossack thunder. Muskets thundered and crashed. Rumble and racket. Screams and yells.
Then, when the Cossacks flew into the town, he saw them rush into the town. Surrendering slowly, Johnathon had given himself up. The victorious rush was to much to the Cossacks, who quickly slaughtered them, and took everything of value. Ryga was free.

Pan Solobowski cursed his luck. Looking around the flattened landscape, he knew to search was fruitless. The fleeing Swedes had cut the bridge down, leaving only a couple pieces of wood anywhere near to being joined. Looking around against, the land was barren of houses.
"Colonel, lets move over to the north. There has to be another bridge!"
Barring his teeth, Solobowski turned his steed northward, and they found more broken bridges.
At last, a small ford where the banners of the Commonwealth crossed. Speeding up the riders, they covered the barren land. Occasionally the sky was lit by burning flames against low clouds of smoke. By the evening, he was another day's ride from Ventspils.

When Njord rested, he saw the flickers of red and orange flames. They were there when his country attacked, raiding and pillaging the surrounding countryside.

The posts are getting shorter. :sweatdrop: Still nice work though.

A small note about use of titles in Polish and by Polish nobility in the Commonwealth.

Pan - means Mr. it is not like Sir in English.

Generally all ranks were banned after 1505 so nobles refered to other nobles by the term 'Waszmość' - which is an abbreviation 'Wasza Milość' - Your Grace or literally Your Love.

It was the most usual casual expression and other rather military ranks were used instead of Waszmosc, especially Rotamaster ( Rotmistrz) - for unit commanders or quite obviously Colonel.

Of course it could be even more complicated if I decided to describe a hint of the Polish grammar, but that is far too much... I don't want to scare anyone after all :laugh4:

Sorry Ludens. This one is going quick, to get to the action.
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Pan Solobowski struck the saddle pommel. Three days of hard riding had sent the banners outside Ventspils, where a couple Swedish ships were at port. The Swedish had denied the city from the riders, leaving the riders stranded outside the city. A couple Swedish were captured a few days ago. They were quickly killed after failing to reveal any information that would be useful.

Scouting with his riders, he watched the ships slowly leave the port, two heading for Sweden.
"Colonel!" came a cry from behind him. Turning to look back, he saw a Cossack rider who reined in hard beside him.
"Tartar scouts report the Hetman has captured Ryga! Whatis better is that the Swedish have landed an army before Novograd! They have abandoned all hope of victory with their allies!"
Pulling the bugle out, he sounded the recall. Riders turned to camp. Pan Solobowski rode hard to camp. When the riders were accounted for, he issued his orders.
"We ride to Ryga, then to Novograd! Long live the Commonwealth!"

Riding hard for five days, the banners appeared in Ryga. Here, the Hetman had assembled the forces for a march on Tallinn. The Swedes would need the Gulf of Finland port to ship supplies into Lake Ladoga and then to Novograd.
Two weeks later, the cannons thundered on the stoned walls of Tallinn. Some were Polish, others were Swedish cannons. Mercenaries assaulted the walls. After a few days of thunder and musketry, the city had fallen, with four warships in port.
Then the news that many sought.
The Swedes had captured Novograd. Even better, the Swedish navy had shipped men from Helsinki to Novograd, and on the ships was the King of Sweden. The Hetman turned his attention to Novograd.
A week later, the two armies were ready for battle. The King even joined the Hetman with his Royal Cossacks, and Royal Hussars.

The battle was about to begin.

:inquisitive: I'm not Ludens... :dizzy2: :laugh4: It's ok.

The day dawned bright and crisp, the Swedish army moving out of their camp. The Polish followed suit. Stretched for half a mile, the same distance stretched between the two armies. Leading the husaria in his scarlet and crimson uniform, golden bulava in hand, the King of Poland and Lithuania prepared for the battle. The Cossacks formed their men into the infantry center. Cavalry piled up behind the hussars that faced the Swedish left. Pan Solobowski was amongst the hussars. Holding his lance upright, the pennants hung limp on the staves of death. A forest of red and white, massive curving wooden wings of eagle feathers. Banners and crests of crimson, silver armor rippling with sunshine. Leopard, wolf, and bear skins for the hussars.
The King had levied a tax on top of all trade tariffs to assemble the Army of the Commonwealth. German mercenaries with their heavy arquebus and tanned leather jackets. Scotsmen with tall pikes and claymores. Cannons of brass and iron, rounds piled nearby. Cossacks with red hats, pistols and muskets, scimitars and sabers. Pacerni riders, armored and armed with war-hammers. Pan Solobowski carried one himself. Tartar riders in sheepskin jackets, bows and arrows, small shaggy ponies and lariat's, the steppe lassoo. Filing the air around them, banners of the Virgin Mother and Jesus. Scarlet and golden, white and red. Then the horse-tail banners, black horsehair waving like spitted heads.

The Swedes were just as fine and splendid. Their center was pikemen and musketeers. Cannon snouts poked from amongst the foot-soldiers. Blue and yellow banners. Captains with blue and yellow plumes. The Swedes covered the Cossack infantry line. The Swedish king sat on his cream colored horse in the center. Surrounding him mercenary Swiss, with pike and halberd. Red and white banners. The Swedes spread their cavalry evenly, half Finnish riders, half reiters. Armored curiassiers. Dragoons sat farther back, hoping to exploit the Poles attack.

The armies met beside the river that flowed to Novograd, the Swedes anchoring their supplies in fortified depots that stretched a couple miles back to Novograd, over the horizon. The Swedish king knew the mobility of the Poles threatened his left flank, and had the line stopped by a thick marsh, reeds and moss covering the mirror-reflective water.
When the sun crept to ten, the war drums sounded on the Polish lines. The cannons thundered their reply. Cannonballs flew between the lines. Bugles and horns sounded amongst the Polish Hussars. The silvery men shook to life. The horses started to move forward. Pan Solobowski led his horse forward. The King was at the fore with his guard. Grand Hetman led the infantry Cossack and mercenaries.
The pace picked up slowly. The Swedish infantry shifted to fire at the Polish riders. Reserve pikemen moved to support the Swedish cavalry facing the slow moving husaria.
Another bugle sounded, and the horses trotted forward. The hussars spread out into an arrowhead. The King leading the point, bulava glittering like a bar of sunshine.
The cannons turned to fire at the riders. Shots rippled overhead, the gunners not aiming properly. Muskets crackled to life, catching some riders at the extreme range. The horsemen picked up pace. Another round of cannon fire sent a couple riders to the dirt. The hussars on the far right spread out to ride the swamp.
Then a speeding trot. More muskets. Horns sound. The lances fall like wheat under a scythe. The horns tutter, sending the horsemen into a loose formation. Bullets whistle through. The horsemen move back together. Then the three hundred mark. A great horn blast. Swedish riders break into a trot, hoping to break the Poles up with pistol fire. The riders move into a full-blown gallop. Horsemen move quickly, picking up speed. Riders bend low, crouching with their lances. The eagle feathers hissed and whirred, stirring the horses into a primeval flee instinct. Driving them onto pikes, swamp, horses, whatever stood in their way. Swedish cavalry charge out, opening with thunder and lead. The horses move as fast as they can. Swedish riders draw their sabers, kicking their horses into movement. They come close. The earth shakes. The horses collide. Lances splinter amongst the Swedes. The riders disappear under the crimson, silver, and eagle mass of husaria. The Swedish riders collapse. The reiters, curiassiers, crumple and disappear under the Polish sledghammer. Infantry reserves appear, then disappear. The husaria in the swamp crash across the mucky water, swinging across to the Swedish left. The banners snap and whirl. Horses cry to their gods.
Pan Solobowski felt his lance break through horseflesh, the wood crumpling and splintering. Dropping the useless red and white wood, Solobowski drew his war-hammer. The infantry appear ahead. Then they disappear under the steel hooves of the Poles. Cries of terror, horror, joy and ecstasy.

The Swedish king watched as the Polish riders swirled like a flood of horse and man. Eagle feathers hissed and snapped. Men from the Ukraine cried Na Polytha!. Thunder of hooves as the riders pulled their steeds around.
Pan Solobowski saw the forest of pikes fall down to counter the riders. The Swiss had seen the flower of France fall onto her pikes, why any different with the Polish and Lithuanian gentry?

Meanwhile, the Tartars crushed the Swedish riders on the other flank, lassooing their foe's horses. Arrows flew like wind-driven rain. Sabers and scimitars cut flesh. Cossack infantry charged across the field, meeting the Swedish foot and pike.
Husaria crushed the Swedish mercenary Swiss. Thunder and steel. Pan Solobowski crushed skulls and ribs, arms and legs if they flew into view. The Swedish began to break. The King fought for his life. Pacerni riding through, dealing death and destruction. Blood flew into a rain, misting the horse and men. Husaria turned away, reforming beyond the battle. They charge again. Horses break through the Swedish foot. They flee for their lives. War-hammers, sabers, pallasz, and pistols sound.

When the Polish defeated the Swedes, the war seemed over. The Swedish soldiers retreated to Novograd, where they were roundly defeated.
A few years pass, as Pan Solobowski raises a small family in Lithuania.
Then the Ottomans attack.

Sultan Mehemed III, angered by the Cossack raids on the northern Anatolian coast, launched several fleets against the Polish Lahy and the Cossack warriors.
Eventually the Ottomans had reached the Polish bastion of Kudak. Assisted by the Tartar Khan, the Janissaries fought the Polish defenders in Kudak.
Calling on her husaria, magnates, princes, and vassals, the Gran Hetmans brought together a large army near Korsun. Marching southward, they met a force of Ottomans, light cavalry and Tartars.
"Charge!" cried Pan Solobowski, feeling the cool breezes from the steppe whistle past. Then a thunder and crash as the Ottoman cavalry reeled from the charge. The Tartar cavalry tried to assist, but were rolled over by the cavalry.

Pan Solobowski drank the mead, sitting on the river-bank. Four days after encountering the Ottoman cavalry, the Polish armies had halted, sending out riders to the magnates, princes, paladins, and gentry, pulling the Cossack infantry and cannons together. The army was enlarged slowly, as the riders came in the hundreds, or thousands.