WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Ceaseless

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◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈

Chapter 69: The German Bible (4)

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Zwickau, in the southern Duchy of Saxony.

The bells of St. Marien Church rang sharply through the dawn air.

Under normal circumstances, their sacred melody would have solemnly announced morning Mass. What rang out now, however, was an urgent, irregular alarm.

Clang, clang, clang, clang!

"Stop them! Bar the gates!"

The captain of the guard screamed himself hoarse from atop the lord's walls. His face had gone pale.

Beyond the horizon, a black tide was rolling in.

An army? No. If it had been a regular army, this would not have seemed so hopeless.

Had the enemy been nobles who understood honor, the defenders could at least have begged for negotiations or hoped for mercy under the customs of war.

Yet there was no order or decorum among the mob before them. No splendid banners bearing family crests, no martial music, no imposing steel armor, no orderly ranks.

There were only thousands, tens of thousands, of starving peasants clutching rusty sickles, axes, and pitchforks.

Still, they were more savage than any regular army.

At the front of the ranks, Joseph Fritz, the peasant leader carrying a banner marked with crude peasant boots, shouted at the top of his lungs.

"For the justice of the Lord alone!"

"For justice!"

At his signal, the peasants rushed toward Zwickau's walls like a swarm of starving locusts devouring a wheat field.

"Uwaaaaaah!!"

Their cries were no longer human language. They were more like the howls of beasts, the rage suppressed for centuries finally bursting free.

"Fire! Rain arrows on them! Don't let them reach the walls!"

At the captain's command, the archers released their bowstrings with trembling hands.

Fwoosh!

A rain of arrows poured down over the crowd, and dozens of peasants at the front collapsed.

"Argh!"

Blood spattered alongside their screams.

Ordinary rioters would have fled in terror or, at the very least, hesitated at the sight of their comrades dying. These people were different.

"Martyrdom! Peter has gone to heaven!"

"Do not fear! It is written in the Bible! Blessed are those persecuted for righteousness' sake!"

Those behind them trampled over the bodies of their fallen comrades and charged even more madly.

Not even death could stop them. To them, death seemed like a shortcut to the promised paradise.

"Kill them!"

"Cut open the bellies of those pigs!"

"This is God's will!"

Their eyes gleamed with indescribable madness.

A single small book brought over from Bohemia had turned simple peasants into death-defying berserkers.

"M-Madmen..."

The captain's hands shook at the incomprehensible sight.

The peasants who reached the walls set ladders against them, lit bundles of straw soaked in oil, and hurled them over the battlements.

As they climbed the walls, a strange song rose from their lips.

It was a rough German hymn, not Latin.

"A mighty fortress is our God... (Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott...)"

"A trusty shield and weapon... (ein gute Wehr und Waffen...)"

The grand yet eerie chorus stirred terror deep within the souls of the soldiers defending the walls.

"Oil! Pour boiling oil on them!"

Scalding oil cascaded down the walls like a waterfall.

Sizzle!

"Aaaargh!"

With the stench of burning flesh filling the air, the peasants clinging to the ladders covered their faces and fell.

Before their screams had even faded, more peasants seized the ladders.

They climbed over the bodies of their burned comrades, glaring at the soldiers with bloodshot eyes.

"You're all in league with them!"

"God's judgment upon the lord's dogs!"

At that moment, a thunderous crash erupted from the gate.

Crack! Boom!

A massive log carried on the shoulders of hundreds of peasants finally smashed through the gates.

Splinters flew in every direction, and an enraged tide surged through the opening.

"They broke through! The gate has fallen!"

"Stop them! Push them back!"

It was futile. Like a burst dam, the peasants flooding in destroyed everything they saw.

They stabbed soldiers with spears, tore apart the lord's crest, broke open locked storehouses, and spilled grain across the streets.

They were repaying the suffering they had endured with suffering even greater.

The castle became a living hell in an instant.

Watching the scene from the top of the tower, the lord of Zwickau collapsed as strength left his legs.

"What in the world..."

Before his eyes, the feudal order that had endured in Europe for centuries was crumbling like a sandcastle in a single day.

"What is this world coming to...?"

The lord's despairing murmur was immediately drowned out by the frenzied cheers of the peasants pouring in.

* * *

"...That is the current situation in Germany."

Once János Hunyadi finished his report, the air in the study settled heavily, like lead. Only the occasional crackle of firewood in the hearth broke the silence.

The map spread across the table was covered in red marks, each one a region where peasant uprisings had erupted. The red spread across the map of the Empire like a rash.

Beside it lay a stack of secret letters from peasant army leaders across Germany.

[To His Majesty, the King of Bohemia. We beg for salvation.]

[The brothers of Franconia took up their sickles, but they are falling beneath the knights' spears and swords.]

[Merciful King, send us soldiers.]

Bloody thumbprints. Crooked handwriting.

Desperation dripped from every page.

The vassals looked down at those miserable pleas with complicated expressions.

Sir Kuno was the first to break the silence.

"Your Majesty, the situation in Germany is grave. Should we answer their request and raise an army?"

Jan Žižka stroked his coarse beard as he added, "If we send the Bohemian army now, we can crush the prince-electors and advance on Frankfurt in one stroke. Give the order whenever you wish, Your Majesty."

"No."

I firmly shook my head.

"The Bohemian army will not cross the border."

Confusion filled the vassals' eyes.

Jan Žižka asked in disbelief, "Why not? Isn't this the perfect chance to finish off the Empire?"

"Are you telling me to go there as a foreign invader?"

I pointed at the map.

"What is happening in Germany now is a civil war. A family quarrel between lords and serfs, prince-electors and their people. The moment the Bohemian army crosses the border, the nature of this conflict changes. We would be giving the scattered German princes a common enemy they can unite against."

Nationalism was that troublesome. No matter how much one hated the lord who oppressed them, a foreign invader was even more hateful.

Had Bohemia not already proven that through the terrible outcome of the Hussite Wars?

I had no intention whatsoever of becoming the external threat that would unite the Empire.

"Besides, even victory would be a problem. Extending supply lines deep into hostile German territory in the middle of winter would be little different from suicide. We've only just stabilized Bohemia. Even if we occupy land, we lack both the administrative capacity and the troops to control such vast territory."

The vassals could not refute me and swallowed their groans. Heavy silence settled over the study.

János Hunyadi raised an eyebrow with interest.

"So... you intend to watch the fire from across the river?"

"If we only watch, the fire will die out quickly. We need to pour oil on it."

My eyes glinted coldly.

"These flames must continue. For one year, two years... until the Empire is so busy strangling and tearing at itself that it cannot even think of looking toward Bohemia."

I picked up one of the letters piled on the table.

"We won't send an army. Instead, we'll send steel."

"Steel...?"

"Spears and shields made from Sternberg steel, and Gunpowder."

The greatest reason peasant rebellions failed was the difference in armament.

Sickles and pitchforks could not even scratch a knight's plate armor. But if we armed them, it would be a different story.

"Use Abraham's trading company. Quietly, and quickly. But never give it away for free. Sell it to them for a low price if necessary, but they must pay something. That way, they'll value the weapons and fight to the end."

The German lords were about to taste hell.

The peasants who had held sickles and pitchforks yesterday would charge at them today carrying Bohemian steel and Gunpowder.

"And one more thing."

I turned my gaze to János Hunyadi.

"We need to secure the safety of Zelivsky and his disciples."

They had to stay alive for the German Bible to keep spreading and for the spark of rebellion not to die out.

"Build a network to contact them throughout the Empire. Support them financially if needed, and prepare escape routes so we can extract them whenever the situation becomes dangerous."

"Understood. But to safely manage so many people... our current manpower will be far from enough."

János Hunyadi was right.

Gathering intelligence while avoiding the Empire's surveillance network, conducting covert operations, and extracting people went far beyond simple guards or messengers.

"I know. That's why I'm planning to create an organization."

I took a proposal I had prepared from my desk drawer and pushed it toward János Hunyadi.

"The Royal Information Service (KIS). A shadow organization devoted solely to intelligence gathering and covert operations. János Hunyadi, you will lead it."

"So you want me to become the King's shadow. Well, it does suit me..."

A strange but not unwelcome smile spread across János Hunyadi's lips. He was someone who preferred the shadows to the light.

That was when Sir Kuno, who had remained silent throughout, spoke gravely.

"Your Majesty."

"Yes?"

"...Are you truly certain we should not send soldiers?"

Sir Kuno's expression was dark. The warrior's callused hand trembled faintly.

"I understand the strategic benefit. But... is this not too cruel, morally speaking?"

His eyes held the deep burden felt by a devout knight.

"Those peasants took up their sickles because of the Bible we spread. We lit the spark, and now you ask us to simply watch them burn to death. Do we not bear responsibility for their blood as well?"

"..."

The air in the room grew heavy.

Sir Kuno's words struck painfully close to home.

There was no denying that my strategy was driving tens of thousands of Germans toward death.

To a knight who valued honor above life itself, inciting rebellion and then standing by must have felt like a cowardly betrayal.

But.

"Sir Kuno, look out the window. Look at the people."

"Your Majesty?"

"We read the same Bible in our own tongue. We sing hymns in our own language, and priests hold Mass in our language instead of Latin."

I stretched out my hand toward the peaceful view of Prague.

"Has a peasant uprising broken out in Bohemia? Are our people burning monasteries and killing lords?"

"No... they are not."

"Why is that?"

I looked Sir Kuno straight in the eye and drove the point home.

"Because they are not starving. Because they are not oppressed. Because their King treats them as people, not livestock."

Bohemia was peaceful.

The markets overflowed with life, the fields were bountiful, and the people praised their King.

The German peasants had not risen up because of a single book. The Bible was only a small spark.

The dry tinder of oppression, hunger, and the tyranny of German lords had already been piled there for centuries.

"Is this our fault? No. This is the consequence of what the German lords have done. The blood they shed is only the result they brought upon themselves."

"......"

Sir Kuno pressed his lips tightly together.

He must have understood that it was a strategic judgment, a decision made for the national interest.

Yet for a warrior who had lived by chivalry and honor all his life, ignoring others' suffering and taking only the benefits came with deep religious guilt.

I watched him for a moment, then softened my previously hard tone.

"Of course, I'm not a heartless brute."

"...?"

"We cannot send soldiers to fight their war for them, but we can at least offer refuge to those struggling to survive."

"You mean...?"

I looked once more at the blood-red map of Germany on the table.

"Open the borders."

"......!"

"Accept every refugee fleeing the Empire's tyranny and war into Bohemia. Give them bread and warm places to sleep. From the moment they cross the border, they are my people under my protection."

Surprise spread across the vassals' faces.

"Wait, my lord."

János Hunyadi frowned as he cut in.

"Mercy is good, but opening the borders without restraint is far too dangerous. Spies are bound to slip in among the refugees. It is practically impossible to single out every rat among tens of thousands of refugees."

It was an entirely reasonable concern.

Closing the border in wartime was common sense, especially when the refugees came from the Empire, our enemy.

"Making that work is the Information Service's job."

"What? You haven't even created it yet, and you're already planning to put it to work."

János Hunyadi clicked his tongue, but I smiled without concern.

It was a confident smile, perhaps even an arrogant one.

"And, János Hunyadi, just tell them to come."

"What?"

"Do you remember this time last year, when the Hussite army came to Sternberg Castle?"

Sir Kuno's expression turned nostalgic at the memory, while Jan Žižka gave a short, awkward cough.

"Did I close the gates to refugees because I feared spies then?"

"No... you accepted all of them."

"That's right. And what happened? Did the spies bring down the castle? No. We won."

I rose from my seat and walked to the window.

Below lay the courtyard of Prague Castle.

The biting winter wind swept through it, but the castle was full of life.

White smoke rose from the chimneys of the well-heated barracks, while the servants hurried about with healthy complexions, well fed and warm.

No one trembled from hunger or cowered in fear.

"Let them come. Let them see how much Bohemia has developed. Let them see how we, once branded heretics, eat well, sleep warmly, and live in peace."

What would happen when tales of Bohemia, a land of abundance and freedom, spread among Germans exhausted by hunger, war, and exploitation?

It would surely become a threat to the German lords greater than any sword.

"Show them Prague's concrete roads, its clean people eating their fill of white bread, the smoke rising from the factories, and the soldiers' steel armor. Then let them return and tell their lords and kings."

A cold smile touched my lips.

"Tell them what we have built here while you starve, shiver in the cold, and kill one another."

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