At the break of dawn, the first rays of light painted the battlefield with a faint golden hue, casting long shadows across the cold, dewy grass. Kara's army, having rested and prepared for this very moment, moved in silence as the sun rose. The enemy was still groggy from the relentless pursuit of the last five days. They had been expecting to continue their hunt, not face a sudden charge.
With a mighty roar that echoed through the valley, Kara gave the signal to attack. His war cry tore through the morning stillness like a thunderclap, and his Hunnic riders surged forward with ferocious speed. The enemy was caught entirely off guard. Their lines, disorganized and stretched thin, buckled under the sudden weight of the assault.
The first to meet the Hunnic charge were the Kipchak riders, the same men who had arrogantly pursued Kara's forces, hungry for vengeance. Kara's face twisted with fury as he saw them. These men were the source of his rage, and his deep, guttural curses filled the battlefield. He barreled through his ranks like an unstoppable force of nature, his massive shield strapped across his back and arm, while his sword sliced through the enemy like a scythe through ripe wheat.
He was a human tank, an immovable object cutting through the Kipchak riders with savage precision. One by one, their horses fell, their men slashed, as Kara moved forward with a relentless pace. His shield deflected blows from spears and swords, while his sword met flesh with every swing. The Kipchaks, realizing they were no match for his fury, began to fall back. But it wasn't a tactical retreat—it was complete abandonment. They fled the battlefield entirely, leaving their allies to face the wrath of Kara's army.
Seeing their vanguard collapse so quickly, Kiev Duke Halftan, who had been leading the enemy army, cursed his men. "Cowards!" he roared, his voice filled with frustration and disbelief. Rallying his remaining forces, he charged forward to engage Kara head-on. The two armies clashed with brutal intensity, the sound of steel on steel and the cries of men filling the air. It was chaos—Kara had pulled his classic feigned retreat, drawing Halftan into the fray. But it was still a bloody, hard-fought battle.
In the chaos, Wolfram, always calculating and ever watchful, saw his opportunity. His sharp eyes locked onto Duke Halftan's horse as it pushed through the melee. Calmly, Wolfram nocked an arrow and released it. The shaft flew true, striking Halftan's horse in the side. The animal reared in pain but did not fall. Wolfram, steady and patient, fired again. This time, the horse stumbled, its legs giving out beneath it, and Duke Halftan was thrown to the ground with a heavy crash.
The sight of their leader falling sent waves of panic through the enemy ranks. Confusion spread like wildfire. Men who had been fighting fiercely just moments before now hesitated, unsure of what to do next. In the midst of the confusion, Kara, ever the tactician, gave the signal. His men, who had formed a tight circle around the enemy, opened a small, deliberate gap in their formation.
To Halftan's soldiers, it looked like salvation. Desperate to regroup and escape the slaughter, they funneled through the gap, only to realize too late that they had walked into a death trap. As they tried to retreat, Kara's archers unleashed a devastating hail of arrows. Men fell by the dozens, tripping over each other in their panic. The once proud army of Kiev was now being butchered as they attempted to flee.
As Halftan's forces were driven into chaos, they collided headfirst with King Igor's troops, who had been racing to reinforce them. The two groups, now pressed together, collided like a line of dominoes, their movements sluggish and disorganized under the relentless rain of arrows. Men trampled one another in their desperation to escape, while those still on their feet were cut down by Kara's riders, who swooped in like vultures on a dying beast.
From the rear, King Janusz's army was advancing, their banners high as they rushed to aid their beleaguered allies. But as Kara scanned the horizon, his eyes locked onto a familiar sight—the Kipchak riders, those traitorous deserters, now escorting Janusz's forces toward the battlefield. The sight of them reignited Kara's rage, and he let out a primal roar that echoed across the plains.
"Traitors!" he bellowed, his voice dripping with fury. Without hesitation, Kara raised his arm and gave the command to charge. His men, fueled by their leader's rage, surged forward once more, their horses pounding the earth as they rushed to meet the Kipchaks head-on. There would be no mercy for those who had turned their backs on him. But Kıpçak riders fled the scene in mid charge.
Meanwhile, King Janusz, ever the cautious strategist, had anticipated such a turn. He ordered his men to fortify their position, arranging his baggage trains on a nearby high ground into a defensive circle. His goal was simple: to create a beacon for his fleeing soldiers, a last bastion where they could regroup and stand their ground.
But even from his fortified position, Janusz could see the chaos unfolding below. His army, now tangled with Igor's, was crumbling under the relentless assault of Kara's forces. Arrows rained down upon them from all sides, and the once mighty combined force of Kiev, Poland, and Galicia-Volhynia was being torn apart, their men falling in droves.
With every passing moment, the battlefield tilted further in Kara's favor. His trap had been sprung, and now, the only question that remained was how long the enemy would last before they were completely wiped out.
"Kara," Wolfram shouted through the din of battle, "we've broken their lines!"
Kara, his face streaked with blood and sweat, smiled grimly. "We will make them regret leaving their beds."