The battlefield was a tempest of chaos. The screams of men, the clashing of steel, and the pounding of hooves filled the air, creating a cacophony of war. Dust and smoke billowed up from the ground, mingling with the blood that soaked the earth. Kara's forces were pushing relentlessly, their determination palpable. As the enemy soldiers fled, they began to gather around the makeshift fortifications of the baggage trains, their last hope for survival.
The Kipchak riders, who had retreated earlier, reappeared, regrouped and ready for another assault. Their presence ignited a burning rage in Kara. His eyes locked onto them with fury, and without hesitation, he gave the signal. The Hunnic riders, always swift and deadly, let out a war cry, shooting their infamous whistling arrows high into the sky. The haunting sound of the arrows screeched through the air, followed by the loud, piercing blast of battle horns, signaling the charge.
But unbeknownst to Kara, King Janusz, ever the cautious strategist, had sent word to the nearby Teutonic Order, calling for reinforcements. His messengers had reached them in time, and now, as the Hunnic riders prepared their attack, the thunder of hooves announced the arrival of 2,000 heavily armored Teutonic knights, riding in from the distance with the Kipchak riders by their side.
The sight of the charging knights was like a dark storm descending upon the battlefield. Their armor gleamed in the morning light, their banners flapping violently in the wind. Kara's eyes narrowed in fury as he saw the heavily armored cavalry moving toward him. He gripped his spear tightly, the massive, wide blade catching the light as it swung with practiced ease. His heart pounded in his chest, not from fear, but from the deep rage that boiled inside him.
As the enemy forces gathered near the baggage trains, Kara turned to his men, his face a mask of iron will. "We will destroy every one of them," he growled, his voice low but filled with raw determination. "No one escapes."
Without another word, Kara led the charge himself, his horse thundering across the battlefield, his men following close behind. The Hunnic riders, though exhausted from the long days of pursuit, found renewed strength in their leader's relentless will. They knew this was their final push—the moment to decide the fate of the battle.
Kara's spear led the way, cutting through enemy ranks with brutal precision. His strikes were calculated, deadly, and efficient, splitting men apart with ease. Blood splattered across his fur cloak and thick armor, but he pressed on, ignoring the arrows that thudded against his shield and body. The Kipchak riders faced the brunt of his wrath, their forces breaking under the relentless assault. They took heavy casualties, their formation collapsing as Kara and his men sliced through them like a scythe through wheat.
But even as Kara pushed forward, something felt wrong. He could feel a growing dizziness, a strange weight in his limbs. His vision blurred momentarily, but he shook his head, trying to clear it. He looked down at his body, and only then did he realize—arrows had pierced his fur cloak, and blood seeped from multiple wounds. He had been hit without even noticing. His breathing became labored, and he could feel the strength draining from his body.
Wolfram, ever watchful, saw his leader stumble. His heart clenched with fear, and without hesitation, he rushed toward Kara. When he reached him, Kara turned to him with a pained smile, blood dripping from his lips. With trembling hands, Kara pulled the wolf sigil, given to him by Timurtaş, from his chest and pressed it into Wolfram's hands.
"You, my friend," Kara said, his voice hoarse and weak, "will take the charge now. Block their exit at the baggage trains and bombard them with arrows until they break." He coughed violently, blood splattering from his mouth. His face was pale, slick with sweat, and his once indomitable presence seemed to be fading before Wolfram's eyes. "I... I don't have much time left," Kara whispered. His smile was faint, bittersweet.
Wolfram gripped the sigil, his heart pounding in his chest. "Don't say that," he urged, his voice trembling. "We'll survive this. You've never failed before, Kara. You won't fail now."
But Kara, always the warrior, only chuckled. "Ah... This damn temple on my ass," he muttered with a grin, referencing the wound that had been slowly killing him. "It's part of me now."
Before Wolfram could protest, Kara shouted for Tanrıverdi, his second-in-command, to block the enemy at the baggage trains. Tanrıverdi rallied his riders, moving swiftly to flank the enemy.
But Kara, ever defiant, wasn't done. Though bleeding and weak, he raised his massive, bloodied spear once more. "With me!" he shouted to the seasoned riders who stood beside him, veterans of countless battles. They were older than the rest, grizzled men who had fought alongside Kara for years. They knew what this charge meant. They were going to their deaths, and they accepted it without hesitation.
Wolfram tried to stop him, but it was too late. Kara spurred his horse forward, leading the charge toward the Teutonic knights. His spear dropped to the ground, and he drew his sword, the familiar weight of it giving him a final surge of strength. The clash was violent—horses collided, men screamed as swords met flesh. Blood sprayed into the air as Kara fought with the strength of a man who knew this was his last stand.
The Teutonic knights, though heavily armored, were not prepared for the ferocity of Kara's assault. But even as he cut them down, Wolfram saw Kara begin to falter. His horse slowed, and he slumped forward, his eyes half-closed. He was bleeding heavily now, his strength almost gone.
Wolfram dismounted and rushed to his side. He caught Kara as he was hugging his horse trying not to fall from it, holding him up with trembling hands. "Kara," he whispered, his voice breaking. Kara's eyes fluttered open for a moment, and he smiled faintly at Wolfram.
As Wolfram held his friend in his arms, the battle raged around them. Tanrıverdi and the Hunnic riders harassed the Teutonic knights from the flanks, driving them back, while Wolfram, his heart heavy with loss, prepared to lead the final assault.
The battlefield was a scene of utter chaos and exhaustion. The once organized ranks had dissolved into disarray. Tanrıverdi and the Hunnic riders were still harassing the Teutonic knights, trying to keep them from regrouping, but the toll of the battle weighed heavily on everyone. Soldiers on both sides were scattered, some fleeing to the baggage trains, others collapsing from sheer exhaustion. The dark clouds above loomed ominously, and the air smelled of rain, blood, and sweat. The storm was coming, and with it, the finality of everything that had transpired.
Kara, the unyielding Bear of Altai, now lay weak and broken in Wolfram's arms. The giant who had once struck fear into the hearts of enemies was now at his most vulnerable. His face, usually hardened by the weight of countless battles, was pale, and his breaths were shallow. Wolfram, the man who had fought beside Kara for years, could hardly comprehend the sight before him. The mentor, the brother-in-arms, the indomitable warrior was fading before his very eyes.
Wolfram knelt beside him, his heart pounding in his chest, not from the battle, but from the overwhelming pain of seeing his friend like this. His eyes welled up with tears, blurring his vision as he struggled to keep himself together. His hand shook as he gently placed it on Kara's shoulder.
"Just catch your breath, Kara. I mean, come on," Wolfram pleaded, his voice shaking. "You're Kara, the Bear of Altai. You can't leave us like this. You've survived worse, right?"
Kara smiled weakly, his once powerful gaze now softened. He looked up at the sky, the dark clouds beginning to release the first few drops of rain. He took a deep breath, his chest rising slowly, then falling with a labored exhale.
"Let me tell you... my real name," Kara whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds of battle and the falling rain. "My real name is Batu..."
Wolfram's heart sank. He had never heard this name before. The man he had followed, trusted, and admired for so long was now revealing his true self, and it struck Wolfram to the core.
"You were my friend... and my comrade," Kara continued, his eyes closing briefly before flickering open again. "I never thought... I'd have non-Turkish comrade, friend... but I'm glad we met, Gengiz." His breathing grew more ragged. "My journey... ends here."
Wolfram shook his head, tears streaming down his face. "No. No, Kara. You can't say that. You can't leave us. Not like this."
Kara chuckled softly, though it came out as a weak cough. "I want you... to have children... and die of old age... There's no dishonor... in protecting those you love. Don't be like me."
"No..." Wolfram choked out, his voice breaking. His inner Viking blood, the raw, primal force within him, surged. "NOOOOO!" His shout echoed across the battlefield, a thunderous roar of defiance and pain, a cry that shook him to his very core.
Kara smiled one last time, the faintest hint of his usual wry humor flickering in his eyes. "Are you... trying to scare the enemy off... or make me deaf... to ease my pain, Gengi..." He coughed violently, blood splattering his lips. He tried to continue speaking, but his words were cut short as his body gave in. His head fell back, his eyes closing for the last time.
The rain began to fall harder, each drop cold and sharp against Wolfram's skin. He stared at Kara's lifeless body, unable to process the reality of what had just happened. The towering, larger-than-life warrior who had once led them all into battle with unbreakable strength was gone. Kara, the man who had stood like a wall against their enemies, was no more.
Wolfram sat in silence, his body trembling with a mix of grief, anger, and disbelief. The rain soaked him to the bone, mixing with the blood and tears that streaked his face. He felt as though the world had collapsed around him, and in that moment, nothing else existed but the sound of the rain and the stillness of Kara's body in his arms.
After what felt like an eternity, Wolfram felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Tanrıverdi, his expression filled with sorrow. "We have to decide what's next, Gengiz," he said quietly, using the name Kara had given him, a name now laden with even more weight and meaning.
Wolfram didn't respond immediately. He looked down at Kara once more, his mind racing with memories of battles fought side by side, of moments of laughter, and of the bond they had shared. His fists clenched, and his tears mixed with the rain. Slowly, he rose to his feet, his heart pounding with a fury he had never felt before.
"We should move back now," Tanrıverdi said gently. "We caused a lot of damage. It's time to regroup."
But Wolfram stood tall, his eyes burning with determination and rage. "No," he said, his voice cold and commanding, filled with an authority that surprised even Tanrıverdi. "Give me a horse."
There was something different about Wolfram now. His voice, his posture—it was no longer the uncertain tone of a soldier following orders. It was the voice of a leader, a man ready to take charge. It was as though the spirit of Kara and Uluç had passed into him, giving him the strength to carry on.
"Call the riders," Wolfram commanded, his tone sharp and filled with purpose. "We're not done yet. We will finish this."
As the soldiers began to gather around him, sensing the shift in power, Wolfram mounted his horse, the rain pouring down around him. His eyes were set on the horizon, where the enemy still regrouped around the baggage trains. His heart was heavy with loss, but his resolve was unshakable.
Kara was gone, but his legacy, his will, and his fight lived on in Wolfram. The battle was far from over, and now it was Wolfram's turn to lead them into history. And so, under the stormy sky, Wolfram, the grandson of the Holy Roman Emperor, the friend of Kara, and now the bearer of the wolf sigil looked towards Teutonic riders with fury