The two armies approached each other rapidly, with the fastest nomadic cavalry colliding and clashing first.
These men were all Magyar, but now they all let out the sharp cries that the Westerners of old most feared, then rushed together to slaughter each other, and the blood of kinsmen was thus spilled upon this meadow, the neighing of horses and the screams of men mixing together.
It is believed that next year, this meadow, soaked with the blood of warriors, will be even more lush.
The infantry followed quickly, and in a short while, the fighting had begun along the entire battle line. The infantry frantically slammed their shields into the enemy, constantly pushing and shoving, while seizing every opportunity to thrust their long spears forward.
The cavalry, still maintaining their nomadic traditions, continued to fight. When the main infantry force arrived, they simultaneously galloped towards the wider flanks, where they either chased each other or exchanged arrows.
The thud of hooves, the whoosh of arrows, and the screams of the fallen mingled together, playing a symphony named War.
The direct forces of King Andrew and the immediate subordinates of Duke Bela were where the fighting was most intense; this could be said to be where the most elite parts of both armies converged. The knights of the King and the Duke fought desperately here, with swords and spears clashing back and forth.
However, because of this, there was no progress in the battle, and the situation became a stalemate. After all, when one person fell, another immediately filled the void—this was true for both sides.
The King's knights harbored a burning desire to wash away their shame with blood, while the Duke's elites, having been favored by the Duke for many years, were prepared to offer their lives for his daily kindness, and this was the Way of the Warrior.
People continuously fell, and the corpses of both sides piled up layer upon layer, but the battle continued. Under the gaze of the King and the Duke, the soldiers fought with all their might, long spears and short axes constantly clashing, sometimes biting into flesh, sometimes devouring steel, and sometimes breaking dully.
Both sides held their breath. The King's soldiers viewed the rebels as having put them in such an awkward position, and admitting such an insult was truly unforgivable. The Duke's soldiers, on the other hand, saw this as a crucial opportunity to repay their lord and a key chance for advancement, which they absolutely could not miss.
Everyone exerted their last ounce of strength, fighting desperately here for glory, for the future, for wealth and honor. All fought for their respective reasons, dedicating their final strength to this brutal slaughter.
The Border Counts also led their subordinates into this fierce battlefield. For them, only by taking the King's head could they feel at ease, so they also fought desperately. Almost all the Border Counts led from the front, inspiring their subordinates to fight fiercely with their own combat.
However, the King's knights remained as steadfast as ever against the rebels. No matter how many enemies were added, their morale showed no signs of breaking, for that unit contained the great essence of the entire Magyar.
Nevertheless, the Border Counts would not shrink back because of this. They were also warriors who had fought their way through battlefields, and they would never fear combat!
On this battlefield, everyone gave their all, and from time to time, mad horsemen would gallop through the chaotic ranks, then crash into shield walls, sending both horse and rider tumbling.
Under such fierce fighting, corpses quickly piled up into a small mountain, but both sides continued to fight. Soldiers unhesitatingly began to climb the mountain of corpses, then continued to fight the enemy.
A brave Magyar warrior climbed the mountain of corpses, holding a scimitar in his mouth. He first cut down an enemy above him with a frontal strike, occupying the top of the corpse mountain. He held his shield in front of him, only to find that there were no more enemies above him; he had occupied the top of the corpse mountain.
He instinctively utilized this position, using the height advantage to stab down one climbing enemy after another. For a time, he consecutively dealt with ten enemies, all of whom were heavily armored warriors.
This warrior was impaled with arrows, but fortunately, his armor was hard enough to block them. Coupled with the scenes of him killing enemies just now, and looking at the battlefield below his feet, this person felt like the master of the battlefield, and even the climbing enemies were deterred by this scene, not daring to advance for a moment.
If this person could survive this great battle, then he would surely become a legend in the mouths of poets, but the battlefield is always full of surprises.
Just as this person was feeling proud, an arrow suddenly pierced his eye socket, and the warrior screamed and fell from the corpse mountain.
Seeing this scene, both sides paused for a moment, but then frantically continued to climb, attempting to occupy the vacated high ground, and so the battle became even more frenzied and the slaughter even more terrifying.
The mountain of corpses grew higher and higher, but whoever climbed it, from either side, was destined to meet death, just like the warrior before.
After several such examples, naturally no one dared to throw their lives away again, for even in the heat of battle, it was clear something was wrong. Both sides could only stab at each other across the corpses, but found it difficult to reach the enemy on the other side.
In such an awkward situation, both sides shouted for a stop, and then began to move the corpses. Temporarily, with so many corpses between them, they simply couldn't fight.
As they watched the corpses being moved, both the Duke and the King were slightly moved. The essence of Magyar was thus spilled on the ground, so many warriors had left themselves here.
But then their hearts immediately hardened. This was a great battle to decide the throne, not a time for melancholy!
When the corpses were slightly cleared, another round of fierce slaughter began.
Edward watched this scene, unable to suppress his gasp. He hadn't expected the battle to be so fierce from the very beginning.
He had never witnessed such a sight in his many years of military life, and it was even more unheard of in Northeast Rus', a place where low-intensity raids were constantly carried out.
He suddenly began to congratulate himself on being a reserve unit. If he had entered the intense core of the battle at the very start, how could his small force possibly fight? They would probably have been wiped out in minutes on that incredibly fierce battlefield.
At the same time, the battlefield intensified again. Originally, battle emphasized a single surge of momentum, followed by decline, and then exhaustion. The King and the Duke both understood this principle, so they simultaneously stepped onto the battlefield. The monarchs personally fighting on the battlefield brought the atmosphere to its peak.
And in such a situation, even the laziest farmer was infected and began to fight with all his might.
Both monarchs entered the battlefield under the protection of their respective guards. Regardless of their thoughts before the battle, at this moment, both sides harbored the belief of killing the other.
And at this moment, their blood ties seemed to take effect. The King and the Duke both found each other, and they briefly stared at each other for a second, followed by an incredibly brutal fight.
"God, are these Magyar mad?"
Watching that scene, Edward's mouth opened wider and wider. This was truly unimaginable. He watched two Christian monarchs, who were also blood brothers, fighting each other on the battlefield, surrounded by a battlefield boiling like a hellish cauldron.
Andrew and Bela were both seasoned veterans of the battlefield, their martial skills second to none. Although Andrew was plagued by illness, at this moment he ignited all his vitality for the current fight, and Bela fought with all his might against his brother; the victor would gain everything of the deceased!
Edward watched this scene, completely engrossed, but he couldn't watch for long, because he realized that his reserve unit's work had arrived.
Unbeknownst to him, the Imperial army had already been routed by the Polish Knight they faced. The Polish Knight had just launched an extremely fierce charge, and that impact directly broke through the German army's shield wall in one go.
Siczech and his elite death-sworn warriors seized this opportunity, launching a desperate charge that broke through the Imperial Knights' defenses and reached the Turin Border Count, who was unable to reposition in time.
Then the Turin Border Count's head was cut off and hung on a spear. As for the one with the Archangel Michael, it was also cut off, then trampled into the blood like garbage, instantly becoming filthy.
With the death of their commander, most of the Imperial army had already routed. They were indeed the elite of the Empire, but without a commander, even the most elite troops would fail. The only reason the front line had not collapsed was that those warriors wielding large cleavers were still fighting.
These warriors seemed to have their own values; they cared more about the glory of the battlefield than their lives. Therefore, they continued to fight here, fighting with no regard for their lives.
Siczech stood before the army. His skill with the spear was no less than any warrior Edward knew. That spear was like a venomous snake; whether it was an Imperial Knight or a desperate greatsword warrior, facing it brought only death.
Without hesitation, Edward led his subordinates into that gap. The fleeing soldiers who dared to stand in their way were either directly killed or forcibly driven back to the battlefield.
The Polish did not expect King Andrew to still have a reserve unit, as the King's army was smaller than the Duke's. Under such circumstances, keeping a mobile force was unimaginable.
Therefore, they were caught off guard. The Polish, who had just been celebrating victory, found themselves encircled.
Edward ordered his soldiers to block the gap at all costs. The Rus' warriors, hearing this, lowered their long spears towards the enemy, then advanced like hedgehogs, stabbing to death one after another those who dared to face their spearhead.
The Anglo-Saxon noble desperately protected their flanks with the Magyar cavalry, maximizing the combat power of these spearmen.
In terms of offense, the most powerful tactic of this Rus' army was this: charge with long spears and teammates, stab whatever they faced, and after stabbing, continue to charge until they could no longer move.
This tactic was very powerful, but its weakness was also obvious: the moment the momentum of the charge dissipated, that was the moment of their defeat.
Even heavily armored Polish Knight could hardly withstand the impact of so many long spears, and even if they were not killed immediately, they would be knocked to the ground and then mercilessly trampled to death.
And their martial arts were difficult to bring to bear against this charging mass of spears, for no matter how good one's skill with spears, swords, or shields, when dozens of long spears came charging at you, how much of those skills could you possibly utilize?
However, some spearmen also had comrades who were unfortunately injured or even killed by friendly fire due to slow movements, but at this moment, no one cared. Everyone was mad with the explosion of adrenaline.
These spearmen were the most fanatical. Watching those noble lords rendered helpless or even killed by their long spears—what a satisfying feeling that was.
The Polish were repeatedly pushed back. Facing this forest of spears, they instinctively had no other choice, appearing utterly disheveled. Their recent victory and current retreat formed a stark contrast.
But Siczech's Polish death-sworn warriors lived up to their elite name. Many daring individuals rolled directly under the long spears, which then thrust fiercely into the ground that had been vacant for less than a second.
Upon reaching the spearmen's feet, they then desperately swung their short axes and small swords, trying to inflict as much damage as possible. Although these individuals all eventually died at the hands of the Rus', some were even trampled to death by the Rus' in the momentum, this greatly slowed the Rus' charge.
Seizing this opportunity, Siczech regrouped the knights. Amidst shouts and commands, the knights formed a shield wall, and the momentum of the spear charge had now dissipated.
As the hormones subsided, everyone inevitably grew weary. The fatigue that had seemed to disappear now surged back, and so the battle returned to the familiar close-quarters combat.
All the intense fighting from before now made everyone feel incredibly weak, utterly listless, but this listlessness was actually to conserve energy. This was an unspoken understanding between both sides; once energy was restored, the fierce slaughter would begin anew.
Edward was no exception. They, fighting on the flank, were also unclear about the situation, as they had to block all enemies coming from the side. Edward's scimitar had become blunt from hacking, and he was now holding a long spear he had casually picked up from the ground.
But it was at this very moment that a voice rang out on the battlefield. It stopped all fighting. Everyone froze and looked in the direction from which the voice came.
"The King has fallen! The King has fallen! This... The King is dead!"
Such a cry echoed across the sky, and it was a scene everyone longed to see, for it meant the battle had been decided.
However, since both Andrew and Bela were considered King by their respective subordinates, it was temporarily unknown who had died.
Edward looked towards the place where the two Arpad nobles had been fighting, but he could see nothing. Countless soldiers blocked his view, and a bad premonition arose in his heart.
The Magyar all stopped fighting, waiting for the loser's head to be hung on a spear, and that head soon appeared.
Although the head had suffered much abuse, as if it had been trampled by horse hooves, Edward recognized it. This made him instinctively open his mouth.
"God, it's Andrew."
Looking at his kinsman's head, now displayed, Edward was utterly astonished. This could only mean one thing—they had failed.
An earth-shattering cheer erupted at this moment, belonging to Bela's supporters, while Andrew's supporters began to flee, and some even surrendered, for if they did not wish to go into exile, they could only bow to Bela.
Bela's supporters did not immediately pursue, as they too were incredibly fatigued and had no strength to chase.
And so the battlefield suddenly seemed very peaceful; the defeated retreated in disarray, while the victors were too exhausted to pursue.
Edward watched this scene, biting his lower lip tightly. Then he made a decision. As a guest army, he could honorably withdraw from the battlefield simply by surrendering, but he was unwilling, unwilling to do so!
The Anglo-Saxon noble turned his horse around, shouting for his subordinates to follow him, and everyone immediately reacted, following closely behind.
They had failed, but not entirely. He had to immediately protect Andrew's sons and move them to a safe place.
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