The ruse worked. The rebel Voivode Kolomsky was leading an army of eager peasants from the safety of his city to challenge Laczlo in the field. It would be perfect, except the plan seemed to work too well. It wasn't just a hundred unarmed, starving women and children as Laczlo secretly hoped, but well over seven hundred of what looked like militiamen. Far more than Vida had estimated.

He imagined she was fretting somewhere inside the walls right now, trying to figure out how to turn this unexpected complication into a victory. But her work was done. Now, it was time for voivodes and druzhina.

Laczlo wore his trusty mail coat and lamellar cuirass while riding his war horse from Nova onto the field. He had a fine nasal helmet with a horsehair plume secured to the saddle; the helm had mail secured to the base so that it protected all the way past the neckline of his armor.

Their village camp faded behind them as they went forth. He and his entourage of personal druzhina and aides ahead of the war host he'd brought to Kolomsa. Stanilo was not with him—still at sea after only recently boarding with a few dozen other hardened men. Poor timing, but that was war.

They stopped underneath a small grove and overlooked what would be the battlefield. It was flat and untended farmland, sandy and wet with the previous days of rain. But a bright, cloudless sky had dried the mud, making it tenable for heavy cavalry. This was good, considering that was their prime advantage.

In the distance, a small party came forth ahead of the horde.

"They come to ask for peace?" Isak scoffed. "They overestimate their position."

Laczlo frowned at all the men behind that small party. They were double his number, easily. Untrained and poorly armed as they might be, a clash was still dangerous. "This is the best position he could possibly have before the battle."

Isak grunted and shook his head. "Numbers aren't much, Voivode. Half of them won't even be engaged with our line during the fight. Just pushing from behind, pretending to be eager to join in."

"They could envelope us."

A druzhina named Krajik, who'd sworn his oath after his previous voivode betrayed the tsar, said, "They're not organized, if you beg my pardon, Voivode. If they were all militiamen, that would be different, but as it is, they'll just follow the voivode's lead."

"Means they will bunch up in their charge and ensuing engagement," Isak added. "They won't think of much more than that. They won't think, period."

Laczlo considered this. He feared being surrounded and cut down by far superior numbers. He could almost see it; it was so vivid. But Isak was rarely wrong about such things, and if another druzhina agreed… "Very well. Not that there was much choice in this battle anymore. But what of this peace party?"

The mounted group in question had stopped halfway from them, waiting in the wet dirt two long bowshots away.

Isak adjusted his lance in hand, rebalancing the awkward weight to keep the tip pointed at the sky. "No harm in talking to them. Not if you bring us, Voivode. If they want a duel, deny it."

"Would he ask for such a thing?"

"They're desperate. He knows his men will break fast if things don't go well."

"And I should say no to a duel? That seems dishonorable."

Isak shrugged. "It's war. Let them think what they wish." When Laczlo gave him a long look, he added, "And the men won't blame you. Not when we've won. Besides, all warriors know how fickle a duel can be—it's no way to decide the fate of all."

"This voivode… Is he a warrior?" Laczlo knew little of Voivode Kolomsky, in truth. He was local ruler of a frontier land, poorer than Vetera in the far east, though not quite as unruly. They did not have much contact with Nova or the tsar, so it was no wonder he was an eager participant in the rebellion, for he received little in return for his taxes and obligations. Almost as little as I received during my civil war, Laczlo thought, somewhat petulantly.

Still, a voivode eager for battle was one who must not fear a fight himself.

No one in his party knew much of the voivode. Much less how proficient of a fighter he was. I'll just have to see myself, he thought with a big sigh and nod forward. "Let's have ourselves a chat, then. Ride on."

Isak and Krajik led the way for Laczlo and half a dozen men beside. Their mounts carried them across the dirt at a brisk trot, and they met the people of Kolomsa within a minute. They looked poor and hungry, in truth. Even the druzhina seemed exhausted. The siege had been harder on the defenders, Vida had reported. But Laczlo focused on the voivode. Kolomsky was a young man, surprisingly. Younger than Laczlo, perhaps even in only his twenties. He was well-presented, but with dark circles under his eyes and soot staining a tabard worn over his mail, likely from one of the fires Vida's people had set in the city's grain stores. A cruel necessity of war. But it also meant this voivode personally saw to stopping fires. Curious.

Kolomsky sat comfortably in his saddle, carrying an axe balanced across his lap.

No stranger to his warhorse or weapon, then, Laczlo noted. Before the voivode could speak, Laczlo took control as Kapitalena would have advised and asked, "You've come to spare the lives of your people, then?"

"That's quite presumptuous of you, Voivode Vilsky." His voice was a proud, rich one. A man of good blood and strong upbringing. "I've come to speak. To avoid needless death. I was hoping you would be agreeable to such an intent. Was I wrong?"

"You were wrong to try and do so with so many civilians at your back bearing arms."

He raised his chin defiantly. A proud one, then. "They are defending their homes. You might as well be foreign invaders."

Laczlo couldn't help but laugh at such a claim. He exchanged an incredulous look with Isak, then said, "I represent the tsar of Vasia. You are a subject under his rule."

"He's been no tsar to us. Where was his support when the raiders hit our coastline, burning entire villages? When the south Rodezian peoples sought to migrate into our lands, flooding in like the tide? When we faced famine only last year? Where was his support then? Where did our silver and grain go, Voivode Vilsky?"

Laczlo felt rocked, dazed by the accusations. He'd not heard of such things. Raiders, yes, always a present annoyance, but on such a dangerous scale? The migrating tribes was an issue all western voivodes faced, but usually, it was dealt with by forced resettlement. Laczlo had never heard of Rodezian people fleeing their own country, however. Nor of this famine. For a long moment, he wasn't sure what to say, so he bit his tongue and let silence hang.

"So you see," this rebel voivode said, "this is our plight. Others have risen up, and why shouldn't we, when we've seen so little fair treatment? I would have preferred making my case in Nova, but I have no further trust in those dogs, you see. But what choice was I given by their silence? Their ambivalence?"

"Things are changing," Laczlo found himself replying. A line he'd told himself often and believed in the truth of, to some uncertain extent. "It won't be how it was. Your people will be supported by the tsar, now more than ever."

"How can I trust that? If I surrender myself, what promises can I trust will be delivered to my people in my absence? I'm afraid my death will accomplish nothing but removing the strongest voice for proper treatment that we have."

"What are you demanding, Kolomsky? What is your ask?"

The voivode sighed. It was the sigh of a man holding up some impossible weight. Laczlo knew it himself. "Let us put down our arms. Speak to the tsar with me. Help explain our situation. If I am confident of Kolomsa's future treatment, then I will surrender myself willingly."

"Why wait to make this ask?"

"I've heard of what you've done, Voivode. You could convince the tsar, if anyone could, I'm sure of it."

You're wrong, he thought grimly. No one can. No one except Vicarr Varul. "Yet you waited until you could wait no longer. You're in no position to demand this."

"I don't demand it. I beg it. I beg consideration for our plights, for justice, true as we can get."

Laczlo took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. This voivode was young. Ignorant. He thought the world's injustices could be talked through and resolved with peace and understanding. But if Laczlo had learned one thing in the last year and a half, it was that Isak was right: there were few things the sword couldn't take. And few things one could take without it.

Besides, the tsar would never agree to such a thing. Other voivodes would see Laczlo as insane and weak—his own men would—if he bent to something like this. What could the tsar do? Reputation was too important.

"One last time," Laczlo said after a moment. "I will give you the opportunity to surrender."

The rebel voivode bowed his head and looked up in proud, strong defiance, fit for a hero of a story meant for children. A foolish villain in reality. "I cannot abandon them."

"Then return to your craftsmen and peasants and explain to them that they must march against my druzhina," Laczlo hissed, impotent frustration eeking out of him with every word. "Explain to them how they must fight and how they must die. And when it is done, how I will try to stop my men from sacking their city. How I will try to stop his men from harming the women, the children. And how I will fail, all because of the stubbornness of their trusted voivode."

The color drained from the young man's face. It wasn't terror but dread that haunted him. Yet still, he did not surrender. "Fine. Let's avoid it. In place of our armies, I challenge you to a duel, sealed by the Column. We have priests for that. Swords, if it is agreeable."

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He's young, fit, confident, likely tested, Laczlo's mind rattled off. I've better armor and arms, but is that enough? No, likely not. He glanced at Isak and found the druzhina shaking his head slightly. That was enough. Laczlo, with much grim regret, looked at the young voivode and said, "We'll see each other on the field."

"Coward! Fight me if you're a man of any honor!"

Laczlo sighed. He turned his mount to leave. If only he could do something to avoid this damn mess. Deus, if only he had the wisdom, the strength, the power!

"Who do you fight for? Your people or yourself? Vilsi or Nova?"

He ignored the impudent voivode. There was no reasoning with ignorance and blunt bravery. He led his party back to their lines. For a time, no one spoke. "He's a young fool," Isak said just before they reached the shield wall. "He's never seen war. He doesn't know what's at stake."

Other muttered agreements, but it wasn't convincing. No one was heartened by the talks. This was not some petty fool they were fighting, but a voivode that might very well be honorable and just with enough grievances to justify his actions. But justifications simply weren't enough.

Laczlo gave no speeches. They didn't need it. The core of his fielded army was just under a hundred strong, his druzhina and their professional warriors augmented with auxiliary levies and mercenaries to fill out his numbers. There was no one untrained man among them. If anything, Laczlo was the greenest of the bunch. He took a position behind their shield wall with the other mounted men, screened by infantry on the right flank. The enemy had no cavalry besides the half dozen of the voivode's entourage—and they simply dismounted to join the infantry mass, likely to try and instill some sense of discipline. Laczlo sent the last of his orders through messenger boys training to be druzhina and watched the enemy slowly march forward.

"What do you think?" he asked Isak.

"They'll walk at us, then charge. We'll be forced back by numbers. When they think they've got the upper hand, then we move in. But again, Voivode, I don't know if it's a good idea—"

"I'll be there." He extended a hand, and a servant gave him his lance. It was almost twice as long as a spear and heavier, tucking under the arm to put the full force of his warhorse into a fine steel tip. "We need the mass. Besides, if there's anywhere I'm a good fighter, it's on a horse in an open field."

"Don't be so humble, Champion Slayer."

"Deus, is that a new one?"

"I like it myself." Isak laughed, and despite his nerves, so did Laczlo. "It's fearsome."

He laughed some more, feeling almost giddy with dread and anticipation. The enemy moved forward. Some of his men shot arrows at them, but there were too many to see if it did anything. We could have ridden forward, shot at them and ran away, Laczlo thought, then banished the idea. They weren't trained in that kind of battle. Regrouping for a charge at the right moment wouldn't be easy. And that was far more important.

The approaching horde was shouting. The sound was horrible. Hundreds of voices together resonated like a massive army. Laczlo wanted to run. His horse danced nervously. His shield wall shifted in anticipation. Less than a bowshot's distance away, the enemy started to run forward. Eager and in high morale, each other's bloodlust fed into the next, pushing the horde forward in one great charge. Laczlo stared on, mesmerized, terrified. His stomach ached, limbs jittered, and bladder hurt with a sudden need to piss.

"They're tiring themselves out," Isak muttered.

It was true. They ran for a hundred paces, their speed slowing, fatigue and fear setting in as they neared Laczlo's unmoving line. Distant orders ignored, buried under the stamping feet, rattling weapons, and shouts for blood and freedom. Ignorance.

"Steady on!" Laczlo shouted, feeling like he should say something.

Isak nodded, prompting him along.

"Wait until they're close!"

He adjusted the grip on his lance, keeping it pointed high. The servants and noncombatants had retreated, leaving their small force feeling even thinner.

The horde neared.

When they were thirty paces away, slowing to a jog, Isak grunted, and Laczlo screamed out, "Charge!"

A great bellow echoed forth from his men. As one, they pushed forward, first at a trot, then a run, then a sprint. They met a staggering, hesitant enemy in only twenty paces at full speed. The horde recoiled with the impact. Their front line was squashed between an eager allied rear and the bloodhungry enemy. Laczlo's men locked shields and started thrusting with their spears. Against tunics and cloaks, only a few shields and helmets in sight, the enemy began to fall quickly. But they still would have the numbers.

The momentum slowly shifted, and it was Laclzo's line that began to retreat. Only a step every few seconds, attacking as they backed up, keeping in good order. Isak had been right. A few stragglers tried to flank, but the two-man thick lines repelled them. A more ordered attempt would need to be made, and there wasn't any organization to do it—just a mindless grind to attack forward.

Laczlo led his horse to a trot to the side. Fifteen or so druzhina with him. They'd be useful in the shield wall, but Isak assured him that mounted for a flanking strike was better. He stared in the distance toward the city gates. A mile away. Maybe more. Some movement but few details.

"Alright," he said to himself, donning his helmet, "now's the time."

Before he could hesitate and reconsider, he brought his warhorse into a gallop around the end of his shield wall in a wide arc that ended with him facing the enemy's open side. A few turned to look and shouted out in slow realization and fear.

"On me!" he yelled, voice cracking, blood pumping through him hot and tingling. Everything on fire. He was facing the Gates of Light, Deus staring into him, through him. He was there. All believers to be accepted in His mercy. A warrior of the heavens.

Laczlo carried forward at a gallop, crossing the distance to the enemy in mere seconds. He lowered his lance, tensing everything. People screamed, lowered spears and crude farm instruments and bludgeons all too short to do anything. His lance smashed through someone's chest. The momentum slammed Laczlo back, but he held tight. Then he rocked forward, everything jolting. His horse had plowed through two men, knocking over others. All around, his druzhina smashed into the vulnerable peasantry, knocking them from their feet, dazing, crippling, skewering with lances. Before the enemy could gather their wit, his mounted force began to retreat, turning around in the space made by the charge. Laczlo rode away, falling in with the others, arcing in twenty paces deeper along the Kolomsian line. He was out of breath, somewhat dazed himself. His mount stamped its hooves and huffed out air like an angry bull.

Men turned to stare, hollering and rallying a defense.

"Let's swing about their right flank," Isak shouted above the din of madness.

"Aye," was all Laczlo replied with. He didn't care. He could scarcely think.

They went around at a trot until Isak stopped. Laczlo led the way again but was passed by some of his men. Others hit the line first this time, and he caught a glimpse of the carnage before he, too, hit the exposed flank. Men sprawled out like discarded dolls tossed by a child. Bones and blood and muted screams. He hit the enemy. All thoughts fled his mind. He nearly fell once more with the impact and strained a muscle in his leg just holding on, but the enemy was instantly killed, his allies trampled or running, crushing their allies in desperation to escape. Laczlo lost his lance, embedded in someone and twisted from hand, so he drew his sword and began to hack down at exposed backs, not really thinking. His horse turned, stamping at twitching bodies. He cut at heads and shoulders and arms.

"Forward!" Isak roared out.

He looked up and found the man carrying through the enemy's line. Isak was getting ahead of the others like a damn hero. Laczlo echoed him and urged his warhorse onwards. They barreled through running, scattering men, getting into the innards of the horde, chopping and swiping. No time for precise thrusts, just sweeping hacks, one after the other. No one even turned to fight him. Everyone was running. He whooped out a victorious yell and followed the fleeing enemy, cutting men down. Others were with him.

"Back at them, Voivode!" someone shouted.

He followed the voice of a druzhina and charged the men still engaged with his shield wall, Isak and a few others already there, smashing into the open flank. The result was disastrous for the enemy. Men fell by the handful. More injured than killed, broken and scattered upon the wet dirt.

"Here they are!" Isak pointed ahead with his sword, bloody and covered in hair and bone.

Laczlo stared at the small ring of druzhina and found the voivode among them. They were retreating slowly, steadily, from Laczlo's surrounding forces. And they were making good progress.

"Take them!" Laczlo answered, bringing his warhorse into a quick trot ahead.

The defending druzhina were brave, but they died quickly all the same. The voivode tried to run, and Laczlo called the others off. He gave chase, knocking aside a druzhina and his two-handed axe that was standing in the way, who was then trampled. Laczlo caught the voivode and cut him across the back. It slid off the mail but knocked the wind from the man's lungs, and he fell. He went to stand, but Laczlo attacked again, missing his head, hitting his arm, and cutting through the riveted mail rings, scoring a bloody gash. The voivode screamed and tried to create space with a spear scavenged from the field. He thrust it at Laczlo's warhorse, but it cut only superficially. Laczlo thrust his blade into the man's chest, missed, and hit collarbone, entering the side of the neck through meaty flesh and mail. Only a few inches, but it was enough to knock him down.

Laczlo moved his horse about, surveying the field. The enemy was broken and running for the city's walls. It was closer than he realized. But they wouldn't make it. Stanilo and his chosen men for the sea had reached it first, and though they couldn't seize the gatehouse easily, they blocked a safe retreat. Most of the mob dispersed in the countryside or surrendered to Stanilo. Mounted druzhina hunted the ones who ran as the others on foot secured prisoners to sell as slaves.

Laczlo looked down at the voivode beneath him, struggling to his knees, exhausted from fighting, fleeing, and then fighting a mounted man in an impossible duel. Laczlo felt like he should say something then. Do something. But he didn't know what. Nothing could make right what was done. He figured some hundred men were dead already. Many more would fall as his druzhina hunted them in the fields. Kolomsa's capacity for resistance would be crushed.

Laczlo gazed at the city and hoped it would not come to a sack. By Deus, he hoped he could keep the men on a good leash. Even after today, after fighting, some of them dying, he wished for some sort of honorable resolution, naïve as that might be. At the same time, he wanted vengeance for the deaths caused by this voivode's arrogance. The injuries that wouldn't heal. The disrespect dealt. He wanted gold and silver and all this man's wealth. He wanted to see the people scream in fear and beg for his mercy. He wanted the right of a conqueror, of the victor that he was.

Laczlo dismounted, feet squishing in the tossed-up dirt, mashed into mud. He approached the voivode, still struggling, and placed a boot on the spear he was trying to raise. The voivode tried to draw a knife, but Laczlo kicked him over. The other man was weak with exhaustion and could scarcely put up a fight. Isak was there, grabbing the bastard's arms, holding him down. They didn't exchange any words. They didn't need to.

They'd done this enough already to know what came next.

Isak forced the voivode to kneel, then tore off his helmet and tossed it away.

"Fuck you," the rebel wheezed out, blood bubbling from his lips. "We will not yield."

Laczlo stepped to the side, gripped his sword tight, and cut off his head. It fell into the mud with a splat after three strikes. Bone always made it a difficult endeavor.

Isak pushed over the body and picked up the head by the hair. "Looks like he yielded after all."

Laczlo snorted, all energy suddenly fading from him. He was too tired and worn out for rigid manners and some vague sense of honorable conduct. It was war—bloody and sudden and ravenous.

"Clear the runners, round up the rest, then to the gates?" Isak asked, nodding at the city. "They won't be eager to open up."

"Offer the guards silver and their lives."

"Smart." Isak spat to the side, face twisted in a grimace. He likely had blood in his mouth. Laczlo did as well, but it wasn't his own. "We letting them go, then? Or put horsemen on them?"

"They will spread word of what happened here."

"And the city?"

Laczlo took in a deep breath. "Don't touch the temples, whatever the gods. As usual, I'll be taking the voivode's hall. The druzhina will get half. A hand of anyone who ventures there without my permission."

"It'll be respected, I think. Even after the battle."

"And no fires."

"Right. We can try." Isak looked at him closely. "You sure you want—"

Laczlo glanced away. "Yes. Let them hear the message."

"The men will be happy. They want loot, as all do."

Laczlo had a sudden thought. "There was a druzhina who was our spy."

Isak shrugged. "Didn't see anyone switch sides and help us out there."

"No matter. If he's in the city, Vida will have him ready for us. We could always use more men." He wiped off his sword on the dead voivode's bloody and ash-stained tabard. A stupid piece of clothing, in Laczlo's mind. "Let's hurry up and be done with this."

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