A HAWK'S CUNNING

[Monomakhos 1849]

A HAWK'S CUNNING

THE BATTLE OF DRAGOMIR'S CROSSING

 

 

ᠨᠦᠷᠭᠡᠬᠡᠨ

 

The sun rose over the lofty peaks of the Green Mountains, incandescent rays of light shining down onto the river valleys below.  The Kadaksleri had broken camp in the middle of the night, packing up their yurts and encroaching upon the outskirts of the Vasoyevi campsite along the nearby river. The horse lords were voracious in their appetite for retribution, and following their failed attempt at leveraging extortion against the men and women of Vasiyeva, there was a debt to be paid. As fajr fell, the gathered company of Konchak raiders dismounted to attend to their pious obligations; Salat. Their recitations were offered in tandem, all glory and praise given unto the rising sun as they prostrated themselves before the divine light of Batin. Every one of them knew blood would be shed that day, but the grim truth of the task ahead did not deter them from their diligence of adoration for the all-merciful. Qazwha was, after all, the dictate of their scriptures, and so they would carry out their bloodletting in the pursuit of those gilded gates before the throne of Batin. They rose from their prostrations, attentive, greeting all in peace before the Seyit Imam, Csertan Sulejmân addressed the zealous crowd of qazi warriors.

 

“Of the Exalted, Venerable Al-Ansari, əlhəmdulillah, for it was told unto his ümmet; long ever august in biding the tapestries of the Hereafter, the Cənnət, as does follow… –;” For ever as he so told, a narrowed survey was granted at the behest of the pious Seyit, before the hushed gathering of kinsman after kinsman; kindred pressed to the row of battle attire, whither the veil of dim twilight was cast away by the unconquerable sun as his sermon came like the fire of Batin itself. “The reputable; the staunch, is not the one that triumphs over his adversaries by his strength, but the staunch is the one who controls his will when it is himself, that is beguiled by frustration, and temper. We recognise, he asks of us that we act on the gospel of our wills; I implore of you, ixvan – that the right reverent qazi, whom acts of his lord’s vehemence, and not that of himself, is the qazi whom auspice kindles in the face thereof.” Whereupon the diaspora of men carried forth, taking to the saddle at gallant paces fro on the wings of heavy-hearted canters, he so preached further of them; surely, his zeal managed to be discerned, with clarity, of his sermon, even as trampling hooves drowned out everything else. “And, as he had, I will tell unto you this – a danger foreseen is merely half avoided; so, do not act of your churning spite, nor your curdling emotions; act of your piety – sanctity, and be as fervent therein, ‘fervent as you are now. Make your adversary, too, staunch and strong, so that if defeated, you will not be ashamed.

 

Ilah Böyükdür, ixvan. And, do bravely.”

 

The warband drew into a cacophony of frenzied cries. Sabers were torn from their scabbards as frenzied hooves stalled amid the clamor of zealous riders, lances brandished towards the sky as steel caught the glint of the sun, betraying their approach as they drew within sight of the Vasoyevi campsite. “Al-naṣr aw al-shahāda!” screamed many, while others chanted the traditional “Sogaşurbäz! Astlani, astlani!”. Yet universal among the warcries of the faithful came their praise for the one God. “Yā Ilāh!” cried Isfandiyar Beg as the young Qan rode to the fore of his warriors. The decorative visor of his funeral mask captured the splendor of the sun as light reflected off the mustachioed faceplate, mirroring that of each and every warrior who rode with him, entombed in their solemn faces of iron and precious metals. “Yā Ilāh!” Their cries rang true with the fury of the prophets, sabers lifting a final time before they were spurred onwards by the ardor of their chieftain, spirited towards the already gathering battle line of Ratniks that poured from the Vasoyevi camp to meet the screaming and hollering of vengeful raiders. Even as their Duke ushered them into formation, the proud eagle of their fledgling state fluttering in the wind, the soldiers were ill-prepared for the onslaught to come. There was no gradual ingress into the storm of battle, no gentlemanly virtue or chivalric nuance to stay the hands of the riders. As soon as their foes had made their stake upon the open field, the horsemen fanned into wings, and astride their saddles the twang of bowstrings heralded the whistling of arrows. Cracking against shields, wagons, and the palisades to their backs, their mounted foemen took the battle at their leisure, and with every tempest of arrows, more struck true. The broken husks of once-proud Ratniks crumpled towards the earth, the skillful marksmanship of the Kadaksleri punching hole after hole into the line of spears and shields, holes that became more costly to fill with each passing second, corpses quickly piling into the dozens. 

 

The initial meeting of battle inched towards a one-sided slaughter, the unconventional tactics of the horsemen proving an insurmountable obstacle for the Vasoyevi men. And yet, as the mounted archers made their rotations with each volley, they grew ever less patient. “Withdraw!” The Grand Duke demanded of his men, the ensuing rout seeing men trample over one another as the Vasoyevi retreated past the outlying wagons that darted the perimeter of the camp, desperate for the succor of palisades to shield them from the relentless showering of Konchak arrows. Isfandiyar grew furious at the sight, his boots speaking to his displeasure as he whipped his mount into a frenzy, bolting towards the camp’s entrance as his adversary sought to retreat behind the safety of the walls. The last thing he heard was the anguished warnings of his companions before he passed the threshold of the camp’s defenses; the wagons abandoned beyond the palisades. He hadn’t understood the gravity of his mistake until it was too late, as the saying went, a cornered beast was the most dangerous of them all. Like a flash, the Ratniks lying in wait emerged from behind the wooden cover with crossbows brandished, ready to make right the spilled blood of their comrades through their lord’s clever ploy. Two bolts was all it took, spearing into the Qan’s prized steed to bring the horse collapsing beneath its own weight and that of its rider. Unceremoniously thrown from the saddle, the chieftain ate dirt in more ways than one, bruised flesh and broken bones contained beneath the veil of lamellar as he writhed upon the earth. Riders broke ground in a frantic flight to their leader’s aid, but for all the blur of chaos and gleeful bloodletting the battle had been for no expense of the Kadaksleri, a Grand Duke’s blade against the Sytzigan Qan was all it took to bring the fighting to a lull.

 

 

“So it would seem I am beaten. Honor me now, kafir, and send me to Cənnət, that I might die a martyr. İnşallah!” The Regnant of the Vasoyevi placed his blade against the throat of the Qan. His chin lifted as a breeze descended upon the pasture, his dark brown hair, swaying rearward against its impact. “I am inclined to accept your plea of death, marauder. It would grant an end to the tumult you have imbued upon my people.” He twisted his blade, gripping it firmly as Ratnik emerged from behind the walls, crossbows primed and weapons brandished at the behest of their Duke. The Konchaks matched their approach, though their weapons were not so eagerly wielded, rather finding themselves sheathed upon their persons as a cost to their defeat. As they lined up behind their defeated chieftain, as he did, they too kneeled before the Grand Duke out of the humiliation of their defeat. They dropped their swords and bows beside them, remaining silent for their Qan to take up speak on their behalf.

 

“You have proven yourself a worthy foe, kafir, cunning and resourceful like the hawk. Kill us if you wish, but know that we shall be taken into Cənnət! Death is no obstacle, but merely brings us closer to the light of Batin! Yet, a man of cunning such as yourself should see the value in we Qazi…  spare our lives, let us graze your pastures, and we shall make of kunəhd - our blood spilled to honor you in service. You will find no finer riders.”

 

Teeth peered out between the young Duke’s lips, a breath of deliberation escaping his lungs. “I am a benevolent sovereign, one who sees great value in acts of mercy. Your service shall be the repaying of the debt of blood you have taken from the Vasoyevi, and in turn, I shall grant you pastures and a place among my people.” Andrik spoke with certainty and assuredness, his blade finding itself sheathed within the scabbard that hung at his waist-side. With that reply, the Styzigan Qan lowered his head and spoke. “May we then sing praises of this man; he who embodies the hawk, Qarciga! And let us serve him gladly, for as long as he makes good his words to us, that we ride and kill for Andrik Beg! Maşallah!” A young Ratnik roared at the decree, “Za Vasiyeva!”, soon followed by another, and another, until the entirety of the congregation of soldiers began to chant the phrase. Soon too, with a war-like fervor, did the Kadaksleri horde match them, yet their roaring gave praise to their God above all else. The uproar at the camp filled the air with determination, and the tension of the battle dissipated with the flowing breeze.

[Ryloth 4321]

"Yaxşıyam etikci naqslagan an əlhəmdulillah! Zmurut əlhəmdulillah!" Re'Hasqar Turkoli hollers, hands and fingers interlaced as he called to the skies above!

[Proddy 2415]

In the aftermath of the battle, Franjo Samardzic would sit with Andrik in the comforting embrace of the Granj Vojvoda's tent. Seated at the table, they drink copious amounts of Vasoyevic rakija as they mull over the days events. For once, Franjo's expression would look entirely serious and stern - lips pressed into a firm line as his fingertips brush against his hairless chin.

 

"We must keep a cautious eye on these Konchaks." the Izaslanik Vodaci would advise the Grand Duke with affirmation, tones devoid of any humour or mirth. "They could become a boon just as easily as they could become a blessing. Only time will... but Godan willing, they shall stay true to their oaths. For if not, make no mistake your Grace; we must not afford them the same mercy twice."

[GhostSHTR 1205]

Lukács Drăghicescu would sheath his sword, as His Sovereign negotiated with the strange horsemen. "We gave hospitality, si they took it for granted. We are taught the virtue of mercy, not of vengeance. We welcome tvoj people once more this time let us hope te understand peace" The Young Drăghicescu would state nodding to the rest of his brothers in the Ratnik

[CrownedLime747 162]

Đurađ Vasović would raise a glass of Rakija in the air. "Za Vasiyeva!"

[Burnsider 4566]

Ursula Vasović sat with her nephew that evening on a chair near his bed as he was tended to by his betrothed. "Te know that Ja worry about them joining us. They are not Vasoyevi, they know not our culture, nor our ways. They bring a twist to our religion when our meetings with the church are still so fresh. It is a mistake, Ja tell you, and it will bring enemies to our doors."

 

Andrik nodded, and looked at his aunt, thinking. Finally, he merely said, "And this is one of your seeings?"

 

Ursula bit her lip and cursed. "Jevi...ne. Ne, the kafa is clouded and tells me nothing. It is just my feelings on the matter, and my guidance."

 

Andrik nodded again. His tone even. "And do you trust me?"

 

Ursula looked away, staring into the flame of the nearby torch. "Da, of course, unto our deaths, your Grace."

 

Andrik nodded a third time. "Then your worries are misplaced. Mercy and tolerance are the paths to success, they will integrate in time. These men seek purpose, to them, this I shall grant. Do te understand?"

 

Ursula stood and moved to the opening of the tent. "Of course, your Grace. Goodnight." And she left.

[Quantumatics 549]

Andrik Vasović pressed his stirrups against the flanks of his prized steed, pulling back upon the rein and bringing the mighty beast to a halt atop an overpass. he gazed onward at Dragomir's Crossing, as the fallow ground was slowly cleared of its corpses and armaments by servants and soldiers alike. Standing at his side, amongst his dignitaries and Ratnik, were the Konchaks, consisting of a small horse-bound constituent of his retinue. "Serve me faithfully, and you shall find glory, integration, and tolerance," he'd remark plainly, his expression stoic and immovable. 

 

"Soon the lands shall fear the might of the Vasiyevan Army, and their fearsome Konchak Cavalry."

[Endovelicus 613]

Phanagoras ate a piece of mare's cheese. The fighting had been tough, for him at least. His physique is not what it once was, every slightly bump upon the horse  had sent aches through his body. He had managed to skewer one poor fellow who had the misfortune of being in his way. Truly misfortunate for Phanagoras hadn't aimed at anyone specific during the charge. He'd never been a killer, not truthfully. In his pugilist days, as a slave, whenever he had killed someone he grew melancholic, finding solace in the bottle and powders. So now he sat, eating some mare's cheese, as others partied. Odd, how men went so quickly from murder to merriment, odder still was the fact that he found in him no spirit to celebrate. 

 

"Fanagur! Why are you sullen, uh? Here have some kumis!" A drunken konchak stumbled towards him handing him a mug of fermented mare's milk. Phanagoras offered him a muted thanks, waiting for the man to wander off again before tossing the liquid out unto the grass. He didn't feel like partying, he didn't even want to feel like it. So, he remaining sitting, observing a dancing fire, all his aches, both physical and mental, remaining. 

[JoanOfArc 4604]

36 minutes ago, Endovelicus said:

Phanagoras ate a piece of mare's cheese. The fighting had been tough, for him at least. His physique is not what it once was, every slightly bump upon the horse  had sent aches through his body. He had managed to skewer one poor fellow who had the misfortune of being in his way. Truly misfortunate for Phanagoras hadn't aimed at anyone specific during the charge. He'd never been a killer, not truthfully. In his pugilist days, as a slave, whenever he had killed someone he grew melancholic, finding solace in the bottle and powders. So now he sat, eating some mare's cheese, as others partied. Odd, how men went so quickly from murder to merriment, odder still was the fact that he found in him no spirit to celebrate. 

 

"Fanagur! Why are you sullen, uh? Here have some kumis!" A drunken konchak stumbled towards him handing him a mug of fermented mare's milk. Phanagoras offered him a muted thanks, waiting for the man to wander off again before tossing the liquid out unto the grass. He didn't feel like partying, he didn't even want to feel like it. So, he remaining sitting, observing a dancing fire, all his aches, both physical and mental, remaining. 

Beyzana of the Yetevychi stood at a distance, observing Phanagoras from over his left shoulder as he wandered before inevitably siting himself. They eventually walked and then sat next to him, silent, as both watched the fire flickered about.