WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Ceaseless

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈

Chapter 36: The Second Crusade (3)

──────

Rumbleeeee―

The ground gave a low groan.

It was neither thunder nor an earthquake.

It was the sound of hundreds of steel wheels crushing Prague's stone streets as they rolled.

More than three hundred Panzer Wagenburgs poured through Prague's gates and formed a massive battle line in the middle of the Letná Plain.

An ordinary Wagenburg would have formed a circle for a defensive formation, but this time was different.

We hadn't come out here to hide. We had come to tear out their throats.

Click-

I opened the upper hatch of the command Panzer and leaned out. The cold March wind slapped my cheeks.

Before me, on the plain stretching endlessly beyond Prague's gates, a spectacular sight unfolded.

Colorful tents filled the horizon.

Thousands of banners covered the sky.

Saxony's black and yellow stripes, Bavaria's blue diamonds, Austria's red shield...

'Every power in Europe has gathered here just to kill me.'

The Emperor's crusaders clearly hadn't expected us to throw open the gates and charge out. They rushed from their camp and began hastily forming ranks.

The heat they gave off, the harsh breaths of horses, and the metallic clamor of tens of thousands of suits of armor colliding surged toward me like a massive tidal wave and battered my ears.

It was overwhelming. If painters from the Romantic era had seen it, they would have shuddered and thrown down their brushes.

But what stood before me wasn't a film or a painting. It was cold reality.

An army of one hundred thousand, gathered for the sole purpose of killing me while crying out for the eradication of heresy.

A hollow laugh escaped me.

The whole of Europe had risen because of me. Only a few months ago, I couldn't have imagined such a thing.

Perhaps mistaking my self-mocking laughter for madness, János Hunyadi carefully spoke up beside me.

"My lord, do you truly intend to fight on this plain?"

János Hunyadi swallowed hard.

"One hundred thousand, my lord. One hundred thousand. Wouldn't it be better to return to the castle and hold out? No matter how sturdy those steel wagons are, if they get trampled by that many..."

The boy who would normally toss out an insolent joke had apparently been intimidated by the sight of a hundred thousand troops. His voice trembled slightly.

I gave János Hunyadi's shoulder a light pat.

"Don't panic, János Hunyadi."

"Yes?"

"Don't be fooled by the number. Do they all look like soldiers carrying swords to you?"

I calmly pointed ahead.

"They boast of an army of one hundred thousand, but half of them are baggage carriers, cooks, blacksmiths who shoe horses, prostitutes who serve at night, and attendants waiting on nobles. We'd be lucky if even half of them are actually here to take up swords and come for our throats."

Medieval armies often had more noncombatants than fighting men.

Their supply systems were a mess, so they had to rely on plunder and local requisitioning. The nobles also hauled along countless servants and piles of belongings because they insisted on preserving their dignity even on the battlefield.

"Besides, once you exclude the peasant conscripts who were dragged here by force, there aren't that many real soldiers among them."

I pointed toward the center of the enemy formation, where the most splendid tents stood clustered together.

"The ones we truly need to watch are over there. Knights clad in steel from head to toe. There are about five thousand of them, by my count."

"Five thousand...?"

János Hunyadi's face turned even paler.

"An order of five thousand knights? Isn't that enough to destroy a small kingdom in half a day?"

"It is. But isn't that much more manageable than one hundred thousand?"

I gave him a deliberately relaxed smile.

Of course, no sane commander would do something as mad as marching onto an open plain against an army of one hundred thousand.

The sensible thing would be to lock the gates, rely on the city walls, and fight a siege.

But that was exactly what Sigismund wanted.

Prague was already overflowing. Refugees fleeing the war had come in from the countryside, leaving no room to set foot in the city. Food stores were scarce, and sanitation was abysmal.

If we hid behind the walls, Sigismund would calmly build a siege line, cut our supply routes, launch rotting corpses over the walls with trebuchets, and wait for us to wither away.

We could never win by relying on the walls. There was only one way to survive.

Before they completed their encirclement, we had to smash them head-on on this plain, where they were most confident.

That was the formula for victory I had chosen, and the only one left to us.

Then Sir Kuno, standing guard beside me, spoke gravely.

"I understand Your Majesty's intentions. But..."

Sir Kuno looked at me with concern.

"There is no need for Your Majesty to remain here. Leave command to General Žižka and return to the safety of the castle. If this line is breached..."

"Sir Kuno."

I firmly cut him off.

"If this wall of steel is breached, do you think I'll be safe simply because I'm hiding behind the castle walls?"

"That is..."

"If this place falls, Bohemia is finished. Whether I'm inside the city or outside it, death is all that remains for a defeated king."

I smiled bitterly.

In truth, I had no more room to spare than Sigismund did.

The Emperor had borrowed money to hire mercenaries. I had staked my life and future on this battle.

A prolonged war would favor them. The gap in national strength was obvious.

So I had to settle everything here as well.

"And look at the soldiers. They're terrified by those numbers. If I, their king, don't stand in the very front line, who will endure this fear?"

I gripped the Panzer's cold steel railing tightly.

Rather than hide behind the walls, hear news of our defeat, and be dragged away to the stake, I would watch the end with my own eyes.

Faced with my resolve, Sir Kuno could no longer urge me to leave.

"...Understood. Then I, Kuno von Friedenberg, will become Your Majesty's shield and remain at your side until the end."

He silently bowed his head, then lowered his helmet visor.

At that moment, trumpets sounded from the enemy lines.

Bwooooo―!

The flustered crusaders had finally formed up to some extent.

The Saxon and Bavarian knights at the front lowered their lances and prepared to spur their horses forward.

Tension filled the air. The murderous intent of one hundred thousand troops pressed down on the soldiers like a force that seemed to pierce their skin.

I could almost hear them gulping and their weapons rattling in their trembling hands.

Whoooosh-

The cold March wind swept across Letná Hill, sharpening the taut tension between the two armies.

One hundred thousand troops.

Before those overwhelming numbers, the soldiers were gripped by instinctive fear.

Through gaps in the Panzer and over the tops of their shields, their eyes darted toward the enemy, clouded with fear.

Most of them were farmers or poor townsfolk. They held matchlock guns and spears in hands that had spent their lives gripping plows and hammers, but they couldn't help feeling their knees weaken at the sight of those glittering steel knights lined up across the field.

Jan Žižka, standing beside me, spoke quietly.

"Your Majesty, the soldiers are trembling."

Keeping his eyes fixed ahead, he continued in a stern voice.

"If we cannot turn their fear into anger or courage now, they will collapse before the battle even begins. As king... give the soldiers a reason to fight."

At those words, I turned to face the soldiers.

A young soldier, his hands gone white around his spear.

A family man biting his lip as he thought of those at home.

An old soldier clutching a cross as he prayed.

What should I say to them?

Should I promise gold coins and land?

No, they weren't mercenaries.

Should I speak of honor and chivalry?

They weren't nobles.

Loyalty to the state?

What had the state ever done for them?

A convincing speech and flowery words meant nothing at this moment.

Fear moved faster than reason and was stronger than logic.

To overcome this immense fear, I needed to draw out an emotion even greater and more primal.

I took a deep breath. Cold air rushed deep into my lungs.

Then, instead of shouting, I began to chant softly.

"Ye who are warriors of God... (Ktož jsú boží bojovníci...)"

My voice began quietly, as though it might scatter in the wind.

János Hunyadi looked at me with wide eyes. Sir Kuno wore a bewildered expression as well.

But I didn't stop. I put more strength into my voice and added a melody.

"And ye who follow His law... (A zákona jeho...)"

The Hussite hymn.

A song sung countless times in the fields of Bohemia, in the chapels of Tabor, and in alleys where the persecuted lived.

At first, it was only my voice.

A small, precarious solo that seemed likely to be swallowed by the wind.

Then János Hunyadi closed his eyes and began to sing along softly.

"Ask God for help... (Prostež od boha pomoci...)"

Beside him, Sir Kuno, that devout knight, made the sign of the cross over his chest and joined in with his deep voice.

"And trust in Him... (A doufejte v něho...)"

Before long, the song spread like a wave.

The chorus that began around me swept left and right, reaching even the reserves behind us in an instant.

"Then, with Him, in the end, you shall always... (Že konečně s ním vždycky...)"

"Be victorious! (Zvítězíte!)"

The Taborite soldiers knew this song. No, there was no way they didn't know it.

It was the song of their souls, sung when they ate, marched, and prayed.

The hymn sung at the top of their lungs by twenty thousand men became a great wave that shook the entire plain.

The assorted cries and neighing horses of the hundred thousand crusaders were drowned out by this single, mighty chorus.

"Christ shall reward you for your sacrifice! (Kristus vám za škody stojí!)"

"He promises a hundredfold reward! (Stokrát víc slibuje!)"

I saw it.

The smiles faded from the enemy knights who had been laughing on horseback. The infantry at the vanguard hesitated and took steps backward.

They must have felt a fear they couldn't understand, because those facing death could sing with such power and such order.

"Whoever gives his life for Him... (Pakli kdo proň život složí...)"

"Shall gain eternal life! (Věčný míti bude!)"

Madness that transcended death. A chilling resolve to gladly throw away their lives for God, for the truth.

The song reached its climax.

"So, archers and spearmen! (Vy pak střelci, kopiníci!)"

"Halberdiers and flailmen! (řádu rytířského!)"

"All of you, remember your Lord! (pamatujte na pána!)"

The fear vanished from the soldiers' eyes.

In its place burned crimson flames.

They sang with tears in their eyes, shouting until their throats went raw.

"Do not fear the enemy's numbers! (Nepřátel se nelekejte!)"

"Do not heed their numerical advantage! (na množství nehleďte!)"

Then came the final verse.

That rough male chorus of basses, baritones, and tenors was more majestic than any orchestra, more intimidating than any cannon fire.

“Keep your Lord in your hearts... (Pána svého v srdci mějte...)”

“Fight for Him and with Him! (proň a s ním bojujte!)”

“Then you shall have no need to flee before your enemies! (a před nepřáteli neutíkejte!)”

The instant the final verse ended.

Silence.

As if by magic, the chorus stopped.

The singing that had seemed ready to tear our eardrums apart vanished in an instant, and only suffocating silence settled over the battlefield.

It was not an empty silence.

It was filled with heavy, chilling murderous intent, like a powder magazine on the verge of exploding.

Only the faint sounds of enemy knights uneasily calming their horses and murmuring among themselves could be heard. Even they had been overwhelmed.

In that stillness, Jan Žižka slowly raised an arm.

He did not shout. Nor did he grow excited.

He simply brought his mace-bearing hand down heavily toward the enemy lines.

"All forces."

His voice was low, but it rang clearly in every soldier's ears.

"Advance."

That low, deep word was the signal.

Rumbleeeee―

There were no cheers.

Instead, only the heavy sound of steel wheels rolling shook the ground.

Three hundred Panzer Wagenburgs began moving as one.

Footnotes:

Join our discord at https://dsc.gg/wetried