The closer they got to the church's heavy oak doors, the clearer the noise leaking from inside became.
It wasn't the pious voices raised in prayer.
Children's cries, the terrified murmurs of adults, and the occasional agonized groans bursting forth.
An ominous sound born from the collective terror of hundreds.
I stopped Knight Captain Kuno from opening the door first.
"I'll open it myself."
Kkiiieeeek—!
The old hinges screamed in protest.
In an instant, the noise inside cut off as if by magic, and hundreds of eyes turned toward me in unison.
The church was a scene of utter chaos. Wounded men lay groaning before the altar, while terrified villagers crammed the spaces between the long pews, clutching their bundles tightly.
Their eyes held a tumult of emotions: fear, resentment, resignation, and a faint glimmer of hope.
I didn't head for the altar. Instead, I approached a woman huddled in the corner, trembling as she held her child.
She clutched the child tighter in fright as the lord drew near.
I asked in the gentlest voice I could muster.
"Do you have any water to drink?"
The woman could only shake her head slightly, too scared to speak.
I unfastened the waterskin from my belt and handed it to her.
"Give it to the child first."
"Th-thank you, my lord..."
She took the waterskin with shaking hands. That small act seemed to ease the frozen tension in the church, if only a little.
I didn't go to the altar. I had no intention of preaching from on high like a priest.
Instead, I walked down the central aisle that crossed the church.
With each step, the villagers filling the space parted before me like the Red Sea at Moses' command.
I stopped in the middle of the church and took a slow, deep breath.
Can I convince these people?
...No, weak thoughts like "can I" wouldn't cut it. I had to make it happen.
Or there would be nothing left but death.
I shouted in a clear voice loud enough for all to hear.
"Raise your heads, my people!"
A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"We have won! Did you see it? How those arrogant heretics burned before us, screaming and fleeing! God is with us!"
The villagers' faces brightened, hope dawning on their features. But I raised a hand to stifle the cheers that threatened to erupt.
Having kindled hope, now it was time to show them harsh reality.
"But this is only the beginning! Enraged by today's defeat, those heretics will return tomorrow with even greater hatred, swarming over these walls!"
The church fell into frozen silence once more. The fragile spark of hope that had flickered moments ago snuffed out like a candle in cold water. Death's terror spread across their faces.
I pressed on.
"If the walls are breached, the men will be slaughtered, your wives and daughters dragged off like dogs to be defiled, and your children sold into slavery! Is that what you want?"
I pounded my chest with my fist.
"I do not want it!"
"There is no difference now between soldiers and civilians! We are all the shield and sword of Sternberg! If we don't fight and win, we'll all die under those fanatics' blades!"
I pointed toward the altar where the wounded lay.
"Women, tend to the injured! Boil clean water to disinfect wounds and prepare cloth for bandages! Your warm hands can save soldiers on the brink of death!"
Next, I turned to the able-bodied men trembling without weapons.
"Men, help the soldiers repair the walls! Move the fallen stones, fix the broken barricades! Every stone you stack will block an enemy arrow!"
Finally, I looked at the children hiding behind their parents' skirts in fear.
"Even those children have a role. Become messengers carrying word through the castle, fetch water for the soldiers—that alone will be a great help!"
The light in their eyes began to change, bit by bit. A faint gleam pierced the helplessness and resignation.
I pointed to the church's thick walls and bellowed.
"Tear down this castle if you must for stones! Rip off the roof and smash the tiles! Empty every pot and boil water—or piss if that's all there is! When the enemy clings to the walls, pour everything we have on their heads! We must fight to the end—because only then can we see tomorrow!"
Finally, I addressed all the villagers.
"I, Ulrich von Sternberg, swear to fight at your forefront and defend this place to my last breath! So stand with me, your lord, and fight!"
A suffocating silence followed my speech.
In this era, villagers were the lord's property, obeying his every command without question. A lord needed only to order, and it was done.
They had never seen a lord plead with them to fight together, appearing in person with such fervent passion.
That was when it happened.
An old farmer in the corner thrust his clenched fist skyward and roared at the top of his lungs.
"For the lord!"
His cry was the signal. Flames kindled one by one in the eyes of the hundreds gripped by fear.
It was the blaze of rage and madness from those with nothing left to lose.
"For the lord!"
"Kill the Hussites!"
"Waaaaah!!"
The old man brandished his staff, the blacksmith his hammer, the women clutching their children grabbed whatever they could—and they all roared.
I answered their cheers.
"Fight! For Sternberg!"
"For Sternberg!!"
In moments, the church overflowed with shouts of fury and resolve.
That night, Sternberg Castle did not sleep.
Children hauled small stones with tiny hands, stacking them neatly atop the walls. Women boiled water in every cauldron, changing bandages for the wounded.
Men melted down farm tools to forge makeshift spears, even tearing down their own homes to erect defensive barricades on the walls. Even the wounded swallowed their groans and rose to carry stones.
The line between soldiers and civilians vanished. Now, there was only united Sternberg.
Janos and the retainers were astounded. No matter the external threat, they had never seen villagers so eagerly leading by example at their lord's command.
But this fire wouldn't last long. The last food went to soldiers and able men; the rest quenched hunger with boiled water.
From the enemy camp, hammer strikes echoed through the night.
They burned with thirst for revenge, crafting new siege engines.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The Hussite camp, routed from Sternberg Castle's walls, was pure pandemonium.
Agonized groans from the wounded rose ceaselessly from every corner, as medics rushed between them, wrapping bandages and setting broken bones.
But despite their efforts, soldiers burned head to toe by the mysterious flames died without remedy.
Their screams amid melting flesh burrowed into the bones of the survivors.
Acrid smoke still rose from charred wagon wreckage, the air thick with the revolting stench of burning flesh and blood.
Mikulas z Husi's command tent.
The atmosphere inside was even heavier than outside.
Mikulas paced like a enraged beast, unable to contain his fury. The scars on his face twisted grotesquely in rage.
Hynek Krusina of Lichtenburg, by contrast, sat calmly stroking his goatee, his eyes coldly calculating the battle's losses.
Thud!
Mikulas slammed his fist on the table, unable to hold back.
"Damn it all! What humiliation is this—failing before a castle guarded by a mere whelp! God's army toyed by a heathen's sorcery!"
His voice seethed with unbearable rage and shame.
Krusina spoke quietly, his tone icy cold unlike Mikulas's passion.
"Brother Mikulas, calm yourself. Anger solves nothing. We must assess the situation coolly now."
"Coolly? You expect cool heads in this, Sir Krusina? Our brothers burned alive beneath those walls! It wasn't mere fire—it was the devil's flame, cursed magic!"
"Magic..."
Krusina didn't deny it. He too had witnessed flames defying all reason.
Fire that exploded on water. The stuff of alchemists' ancient tomes.
"Whether magic or some new weapon, the key is we've suffered unexpected heavy losses. Over a hundred dead, twice that wounded. Worst of all... morale has plummeted."
Krusina glanced outside the tent. Soldiers' groans and wails still carried on the wind.
"Their spirit is unnatural. The castle had barely dozens inside, yet they fought like hundreds of elites. And if the villagers who fled inside join them..."
"Villagers? What can those peasants do!"
"Desperation sharpens a farmer's scythe more than a knight's sword, Mikulas. They'll do anything to survive now. We left them no path of retreat."
Krusina paused, then voiced his opinion carefully.
"In my view, pressing the attack like this is reckless. We should pull back, regroup... and send a messenger to General Zizka requesting reinforcements. That's the wise course."
"What?!"
Mikulas's eyes widened in disbelief.
"You call that sane? That I, Mikulas, beg General Zizka for aid against a single boy—like some failure?!"
"It's not pride. It's strategy. Or we could besiege the castle and starve them out. Their food must be limited; time is on our side."
That snapped Mikulas's patience.
He ground his teeth and seized Krusina by the collar.
"Sir Krusina! Is it because you're a noble that you treat war like merchants' haggling? This is a crusade! Judging filthy heathens in God's name!"
Mikulas's eyes bulged red with blood.
"How can God's warriors cower before the foe, waiting for them to starve? That's no warrior's way—cowards'!"
"Release me, Mikulas."
Krusina remained unmoved even gripped by the collar, his voice frigid.
Mikulas roughly let go and resumed pacing, snarling.
"The general focuses on Pilsen now. We can't blemish his grand campaign over some frontier speck!"
Mikulas turned to his adjutant outside and issued a chilling order.
"Tomorrow morning, at dawn—we launch total assault."
Krusina shot up from his chair in protest.
"Have you lost your mind? The men are exhausted, the enemy's weapon unidentified! What miracle in one night..."
"Tonight, we build a new siege tower. Tall enough their cursed fire can't reach, layered with wet hides to resist flames! Tomorrow, we scale the walls behind it!"
Mikulas's plan was simple, brutal. But his will was rock-solid.
"That's an order, Sir Krusina. Your Prague coalition joins the attack. Refuse, and I'll deem you a filthy noble betraying God's warriors."
Krusina said no more. He simply rose silently and left the tent.
He knew argument was futile against Mikulas's mad eyes.
Alone, Mikulas picked up his war hammer.
He wiped the blood and grime from it with a cloth, murmuring low.
"Tomorrow, I'll smash that whelp's skull with this hammer myself..."
His murderous vow chilled the cold night air.
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