The air was thick with tension, a weight pressing down on both armies as they stood facing each other on the open field. The banners of the enemy rippled in the breeze, and Kara raised his eyes to the sky. He turned his horse, riding between his ranks, his gaze scanning the faces of his men, and then he raised his voice for a final speech before the charge.
"Today, we will write history. We will not be history. You understand me?" His voice was commanding, carrying over the rows of soldiers as they tightened their grips on their weapons. "We are the sons of Ashina, the blood of Gök Turks. The blood of our ancestors gives us courage. Their tales, their victories on the battlefield, are what make our souls stronger, what makes our horses ride faster, fiercer."
The soldiers, listening intently, their breaths held, felt a surge of energy rise within them.
"Now listen to me!" Kara's voice rang out, sharp as the wind. "Listen to me, riders! If the sky above cannot be pierced, if the ground below cannot be broken, who can spoil your tradition, your culture? If Turkish blood boils, darkness shall lose its glory."
And with that, Kara reared his horse, its front legs rising toward the sky as if to touch the heavens. "Now charge!" he bellowed, his voice echoing across the field.
Without hesitation, the riders surged forward, their horses galloping into battle, hooves thundering against the earth. The soldiers behind them charged too, a wave of relentless force pushing toward the enemy. Chaos broke loose, the ground shaking with the power of their advance.
From the enemy camp, there was a mixture of disbelief and panic. "What are these madmen doing?" one of the enemy commanders shouted, his voice tinged with shock. "Don't they see our numbers?"
But Kara's men—the horse archers—were already closing in. As they neared the enemy lines, they pulled back their bows, the tension of the strings matching the tension in the air. Arrows whistled through the sky, cutting through the wind like sharp whispers of death. They shot with precision, hitting their marks at close range, and the enemy lines began to scatter.
The enemy cavalry units, not able to withstand the onslaught, charged in retaliation. Horses screamed, and the ground trembled as they collided with Kara's riders. It was a storm of dust and blood, the battlefield erupting into a frenzy of slashing swords and flying arrows.
But from afar, Kara watched. His eyes, sharp and calculating, followed the unfolding chaos. His lips curved into a slight smile, a predator watching its prey fall into the trap it never saw coming.
"That's it," Kara murmured under his breath. "You're falling right into my hands. Slowly but surely."
The trap was in motion. The enemy, thinking they had the upper hand, had no idea what awaited them. Kara's plan was unfolding with the precision of a blade slicing through the battlefield. Victory was not just a possibility—it was an inevitability.
Kara raised his arm, giving the signal as the sound of horns cut through the air—long, deep notes that reverberated across the open battlefield. It was the call for retreat, a well-rehearsed maneuver, and immediately, Kara's forces responded, pulling back with precision, galloping across the plains as if they had rehearsed this moment for years. Every movement was calculated, their retreat nothing more than a tactical lure, a deadly dance meant to bait their enemies into a devastating trap.
On the opposing side, Kiev Duke Halftan watched the retreat with disbelief, his face contorting into an expression of pure rage. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the reins of his horse, his anger barely contained. "Are they mad?" he bellowed, his voice slicing through the air. We outnumber them ten to one! How dare they mock us like this?!" His eyes, wild with bloodlust, darted to Janusz of Poland, who sat next to him on horseback. "Don't they see our superior numbers? They dare mock us like this! Janusz, we shall put them on crosses, and leave their bodies rotting on these lands for all to see!" His voice dripped with bloodlust, his eyes flashing with reckless ambition." The Duke's voice dripped with malevolence, his ambitions clear—he wanted not just victory, but humiliation for Kara and his men.
Janusz, however, was not so easily swayed. He furrowed his brow, casting a skeptical glance at the retreating forces. Something didn't sit right with him. "They're falling back, Halftan. But not in disarray. They're pulling us into something, into the unknown." His voice carried a note of caution, though his concerns were quickly dismissed by the bloodthirsty Duke. "This pursuit could be a mistake," Janusz added, though his words fell on deaf ears.
Beside them, King Igor of Galicia-Volhynia—a seasoned warrior with a mind for strategy—nodded in agreement with Janusz. His sharp gaze followed the retreating forces, and though his face was calm, the tension in his voice betrayed his unease. "They're stalling us. Trying to buy time and slow our progress. We shouldn't fall for their bluff." His voice was calm, but the tension in his words revealed his unease. The enemy was fast, too fast for a simple retreat.
But just then, Kipchak riders, some of the most hardened and battle-worn soldiers, pushed forward, their eyes gleaming with a thirst for vengeance. They had suffered losses at the hands of Kara in the past, and now, the chance for revenge was too tempting to resist. One of the riders, his voice low and filled with menace, growled, "We shall crush them. Our information was correct—there's no army in the west. We must press on. And Kara…" His sneer widened as he spat the name. "I want him for myself."
The memory of Kara killing their respected leader burned in their minds, and without waiting for orders, the Kipchak riders spurred their horses forward, their bloodlust driving them headlong into pursuit. Janusz watched in disbelief, anger flashing in his eyes. "We shouldn't act so recklessly!" he shouted, trying to rein in the impulsive charge. "We have the upper hand! There's no need for this madness!"
But Kiev Duke Halftan, ever the warmonger, let out a wicked grin. "This will be over by dawn," he sneered, spurring his horse into motion. "Igor, with me!" His voice carried the unmistakable thrill of a man convinced of his own superiority, eager to deliver the final blow. And with that, he too charged, certain that victory was within his grasp.
Reluctantly, Janusz followed, his heart heavy with doubt. "This is a mistake," he muttered under his breath, but with the majority of their forces already in motion, there was no turning back. The battlefield was no place for hesitation, and though his instincts screamed otherwise, he had no choice but to lead his men into the unknown. His reputation, respected though it was, had its limits. This was no courtroom where reason held sway—here, in the chaos of war, only swords and soldiers commanded authority.
Meanwhile, Kara, Wolfram, and the Hunnic riders continued their tactical retreat, their eyes ever watchful of the enemy's movements. They were a lighter army, their mobility far superior to the heavily armored knights and soldiers that lumbered after them. For five relentless days, the enemy army tailed them, driving their horses hard in a desperate attempt to close the gap. But Kara's forces were nimble, weaving through rough terrain with ease, while the enemy—though larger in number—was weighed down by their sheer size and heavy equipment.
Each night, the enemy camp grew more weary, their supplies dwindling and morale beginning to fray. The constant chase was taking its toll. Their men weren't used to such long, grueling rides, and their horses, pushed to their limits, were beginning to falter. Frustration simmered in the ranks, the anticipation of battle slowly giving way to exhaustion and doubt. They were now deep in enemy territory.
Kara and Wolfram rode at the front of their army, watching with calculating eyes. They had led the enemy deeper and deeper into their trap, each day pulling them further into unfamiliar territory. The time was drawing near. The enemy was tired, strung out from days of pursuit. Soon, Kara would make his move—the final, devastating blow that would turn this chase into a slaughter.
As the sun began to set on the fifth day, Kara turned to Wolfram, a glint of determination in his eyes. "It's time," he said, his voice calm but edged with steel. "They've fallen for it. Now we finish this."