Wet. Everything was wet. Lothar's full plate armor, a coming of age gift from his father, kept blades and spears away from his body, but the rain seeped in through every joint. While the men who had crafted the suit were master of their art, Bavarian blacksmiths were not known for their prowess at ventilation. It was cold outside, but his own body heat made the armor stifling. Between the sweat and the rain, every inch of his skin and underclothing was soaked. Many of mounted knights were suffering similar difficulties. Lothar looked at his escort. They had ridden constantly for the last two hours and man and horse alike were tired. Simultaneously, seven dozen men began to adjust various bits of flesh and cloth while mounted on horseback. The task was not made easier by the mail and plate which encased their bodies and the stiff gauntlets they wore. The young Bavarian snickered and shook his head. He turned back to the battlefield and raised his visor.
The armies were out there somewhere. The Hungarian besieging force and the Budapest militia. The Bavarians, Steffen family retainers and Templar alike, had ridden as hard as they could but they had not arrived in time to join with the city garrison. A runner, sent to find help, had told them that Captain Philipp, the local commander, was mounting a sally in force this very morning to wreck the Hungarian siege works. Lothar had thought about riding around the Hungarian army, but the enemy force was large, the ground was unknown to any of his men, and thick fog covered the landscape. They were as likely to run stumble into the enemy's camp as they were to find the militia. So, they moved slowly, up and down the rolling landscape, until at last pennants began to appear through the fog.
"Looks like we'll see some fun today, sir."
Lothar nodded. Gregory was an aged veteran of many battles. His mother had named him after the reigning Pope when he was born, a fact that must have made life in Bavaria difficult for the man as a youth. Gregory had not been a popular name for several decades at least. The childhood mocking had ended when he killed an older boy with his bare hands. At the age of 15, Gregory had become a Steffen man-at-arms to escape the noose. Lothar liked him a great deal.
"Yes, Gregory, but this is not our battle. Zagreb was one thing, but this is another. There is a fine line between bravery and stupidity, and this..." he gestured towards the Hungarian host.
"Well... let's just say that my father and the Chancellor can only scold me when I am alive."
Gregory snorted and started to reply, but a faint whistling sound distracted him. Suddenly the air was full of missiles. They were fired at extreme range and had lost most of their penetrating power, but luck or the devil guided one bolt through the visor of a Templar. The man was dead before he even hit the ground, blood washing from his eyeslit.
They had been spotted. A large group of crossbowmen had broken from the main Hungarian line and were shooting at them. Lothar looked at Gregory and mount. "Well, perhaps a little fun would be alright." He lowered his visor and raised his sword. Simultaneously, eighty horses began a canter that would eventually bring them into a full charge. Lothar spurred his mount forward and the Steffen retainers followed, leaving their 'Holy' brethren behind. This was likely the only combat they would see for the day, and he was not about to let the Templars enjoy it alone. The Hungarian crossbowmen were still loading their next quarrel when the charge broke on them.
In a shower of bodies, blood, and broken lances, the regiment evaporated. The handful who escaped uninjured broke and ran for their lines. Lothar raised his visor. His men were jeering and making rude gestures at the retreating enemy.
"You know Gregory, it appears to me that there are a large number of archers and crossbowmen in that army. Indeed, they appear to be closer to us than to the militia. Perhaps we should make a maneauver to protect ourselves? Surely my father would not be upset if we engaged in an active defense."
The veteran warrior grinned. "It would be most prudent, sir."
The Hungarian archers were focused on the approaching militia; they were oblivious to the threat behind them. The first that any of them knew of the German cavalry was when the rearmost rank suddenly sprouted long shafts of wood and iron from their chests.
The results were predictable. To Lothar's right, the Templars were inflicting similar misery on a large group of unwarry crowssbowmen.
The attack did not go unnoticed by the Hungarian commander, though. Hundreds of spearmen, their weapons deadly to the unarmored German mounts, turned to chase them away. As one, Lothar's men and the Templars pulled back to the top of a hill. The spearmen returned to the main army, but stayed in the rear, guarding against any further sallies from the small band of cavalry. In turn, the knights drew up in a long line to watch the armies clash.
The crunch of the initial impact was surprisingly loud even at this distance. For the men in the front ranks, it must have been a deafening roar. Thousands of men were pitted in a struggle to the death. For some time, it was impossible to tell if either side was gaining an upper hand. The lines blurred into an anarchy of death. Lothar trotted his men forward a ways, looking for an opening from which to take the enemy in the rear, but the Hungarians had ringed themselves with still more archers, crossbowmen, and spearmen. There was no way to reach the main force without breaking through that line first, and yet the two lines were so close that a charge risked carrying them right into the midst of hundreds of dismounted Hungarian knights.
I will not sit here and do nothing! If the Chancellor will not give me an army to command, at least I can do my share of the sword work.
He raised his sword again and the knights straighted into a line, thigh to thigh, in the proper style. They were well trained and disciplined. Templars were renowned as the fiersest of holy warriers and the Steffen retainers were amongst the most vigorously trained in the entire Reich. They were still several hundred meters away from the rear line when horns began to echo from across the battlefield. To Lothar's eyes, it appeared that the German lines suddenly doubled in depth. It took him a moment to realize that they were breaking and running.
The shock of what was happening coursed through him. The right flank was routing after only the briefest of melees; the militia unwilling or unable to hold back the Hungarian foot knights, despite their numbers.
Those fools! They will break the entire army! The Hungarian foot will sweep into the main body from the flank and the entire garrison will be destroyed! And I'll be stuck out here with 80 knights to face a thousand stinking Magyars! Oh, Hells...
Lothar kicked his horse into a full gallop and held his breath. Maybe, just maybe, the sight of his small band of cavalry would rally the fleeing militia. The Templars hit the rearguard spearmen first, the impact throwing several men high into the air.
The charge was devastating, but the line remained standing. It wavered, but remained unbroken for the few heartbeats before Lothar's men plowed into them from the rear.
The survivors would surely have routed at that point, if there had been any. Yet, this display of support for the army did not seem to help at all. Across the field, every regiment of the militia was in full flight.
Two-thirds of the garrison were still on their feet, yet they were broken and beaten. Over seven hundred victorious Hungarians still stood upon the field, many of them heavily armored foot knights. The Magyars would follow the fleeing men right through the city gates. The only men that stood between the German city and the attacking army were eighty mounted Bavarian knights. Gregory pulled up next to him.
"Scheiße. So much for fun."
Lothar did not reply. There was nothing to say, no choice to be made. If they did not win, tens of thousands of Austrians would be subject to rape, sack, and sword. As the last of the militia left the field of battle, the entire Hungarian force turned on the two small groups of mounted knights. Silently, Lothar raised his sword and charged.
He stopped keeping track after the fifth charge. Charge, withdraw. Charge, withdraw. Each time they inflicted immense damage on the enemy, but each time their numbers were thinned. No matter how quickly he signalled the retreat, some men were invariably overtaken by the rush of Hungarians. Yet, as the Germans numbers dwindled, the Hungarian lines began to fracture. Units became isolated from one another. With their flanks vulnerable, Lothar began coordinating charges with the Templars, hitting units from two sides at once.
For hours it seemed to go on. Lothar was nearing exhaustion and his mount could barely muster the strength for the uphill retreat.
It will be over soon. My horse is too slow and I will be pulled down from my saddle and butchered. Too few to fight, too tired to run. At least I am capable of dying properly.
He lowered raised his sword for one final charge into the advancing Hungarian foot knights.
At the moment of impact, he closed his eyes. Death greeted him with a roar. Hundreds of voices crying out in dismay; the angels themselves shouting in despair. It was a glorious sound, a fitting end for a Bavarian. Yet, there was no pain. Lothar opened his eyes and saw the Templars hit the Hungarians from the flank.
Retreating Magyars blocked the way of advancing troops. They tripped and fell over each other, a huge mass of men caught in a tangled weave on the hillside. Into this mass broke the German lances. The sheer brutality of the result sent shockwaves through the Hungarian army. Hit time and time again by heavy cavalry charges, they had become depleted and exhausted. The massive enemy army looked nearly undiminished to Lothar, but over five hundred men had been killed right out by this handful of German knights. Knights who gave no sign of stopping, no sign of breaking. In the end, it was more than the Hungarians could take.
All across the field, the scattered survivors of the mounted nightmare took to their heels. With only sixty knights remaining, there were not enough men to guard prisoners. Lothar was too tired to think of the consquences. His sword rose and fell, scattering blood on the muddy, trampled grass of the battlefield. His men followed suit. Thoughts of the town square of Zagreb filled his head.
Butchery looks the same, be it in a city or a field.
A short time ago, a similar slaughter had brought him to his knees. This time the only thing on his lips was a smile.
Re: Battle reports thread - King of the Romans PBM
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