Free Web NovelChapter 742: The Battle of Nikomedia (10)
Late into the night, as the crescent moon hung pale and silent over the blood-soaked land, the Sultan and his nobles slept soundly in their silk-lined tents. The campfires crackled quietly, guarded by drowsy sentries who leaned on their spears, lulled by the rhythm of routine.
But not all was quiet.
From the refugee pens, newly filled with Rumelian captives gathered from the shattered villages of Nikomedia, came the restless rustling of fear. As usual, those with skills in crafting or medicine were separated and marched away. The rest—young and old, men and women—were handed a rough wooden token, a symbol of their fate. Tomorrow, they would carry siege ladders and carts of rubble forward under sword point, fodder for Roman bolts and Turkish arrows alike.
Some cried. Some collapsed in despair. Some tried to flee—only to be dragged back by jeering Turkish soldiers, beaten with whips, or subjected to horrors that had become routine in this place where death came easier than food. Torture, rape, and mock executions—what once would have been crimes were now boredom-killers in the eyes of men who had forgotten what it meant to live without war.
The Romans, too, were numb.
Behind their battered walls, those same defenders who had once fought tooth and nail to protect the city now loosed arrows without emotion. Their faces blank, their eyes empty. They had long run out of pity for the dying masses before them.
But then—beneath the shadows of the moon, the silence broke.
From the rear gate of the Roman fortress, two groups of cavalry assembled in darkness. One wore light armor, the familiar veterans of the wall who had spent the past month as foot soldiers. Tonight, for the first time in weeks, they stood once more beside their faithful warhorses, reunited at last. The mounts neighed and nuzzled their masters, sensing what was to come. Firewood bundles, sulfur, and oil-soaked cloths were strapped to their flanks.
On the other side stood the second group—a thousand in strength, every man clad in full plate, their shields polished, their visors lowered, eyes glinting behind steel slits. Spears, lances, longswords—every weapon gleamed in the starlight.
Before them stood Giovanni Junior and his teacher, Khalid.
The younger commander gripped the old general’s gauntleted hand. "Master... remember what we agreed. You are not to go too deep. Your task is only to create chaos on the left flank. Draw their eyes. Once they move toward you, withdraw. You’re in heavy armor—when it’s time to leave, do not hesitate. Just go."
Khalid chuckled. "Ah... it’s strange. My student lectures me on tactics now."
Giovanni held his stare. "This isn’t about pride, Master. It’s about the war. You told me once: on the battlefield, rank means nothing—we are all just men. Please, the empire still needs you alive."
The old general paused, then gave a gentle laugh, filled with affection. "If I must die, I would rather die with steel in hand, not wasting away on a sickbed surrounded by women and incense like some forgotten relic. No more words."
He mounted his horse.
"To arms!" he cried. "With me!"
The gates creaked open. One by one, the thousand iron-clad riders slipped out into the night, their horses’ hooves muffled in cloth. Not a single sound escaped, save the wind brushing through the leaves.
They formed in wedge formation on a low ridge overlooking the Turkish camp—a sleeping beast, sprawled and complacent in the belief that victory was already assured.
Khalid squinted down at the firelit tents, gauging the distance. Then, slowly, he unsheathed his blade, and with a roar that echoed across the plain and shattered the stillness like thunder, he raised it to the sky.
"CHARGE!!"
With that cry, the earth began to tremble. freewebnovel.cσ๓
A thousand horses thundered down the slope—a wall of steel and muscle, their hooves tearing into the ground like drums of war. Torches lit. Lances lowered. The sleepy Turkish camp stirred too late, confusion turning to panic as tents collapsed, soldiers tripped over stakes, and cries of alarm rang through the lines.
The storm of hooves descended.
By the time the Turks were awake, Khalid’s riders were already upon them.
Chaos erupted like wildfire.
Turkish soldiers scrambled in every direction, confused and disoriented. In the pitch-dark night, under the faint flicker of distant torches, most had no idea where the attack was even coming from. Some thought it was a mutiny, others believed it was an accident. Most had no time to react at all—still dressed in nightclothes, clutching only sidearms or daggers.
Then came the thunder of hooves.
The Roman heavy cavalry, ironclad and relentless, rampaged through the heart of the camp, trampling tents, crashing into unarmored troops, leaving a trail of dead and dying. Though they numbered barely a thousand, their shock and fury sent terror cascading through a camp of more than twenty thousand.
At the center of this storm, the Sultan himself tore out of his tent. The moment he saw the burning western horizon and heard the panic of his men, he knew—they had been caught unprepared.
"Light my tent!" he bellowed.
A guard hesitated. "But Your Majesty—if we light the camp, the enemy will know where you are! It’s dangerous!"
"Shut your mouth!" the Sultan growled, slashing down a panicked soldier beside him in a single, brutal stroke. Blood splattered the ground. "If my men are bleeding in the dark, I shall stand with them in the light! I will be their beacon!"
With no further hesitation, a squad rushed to obey. Flames roared to life as the Sultan’s grand pavilion was set ablaze, its towering plume now a burning signal fire, visible across the whole battlefield. Troops began to rally toward the central camp, organising by the beacon’s glow. More followed, galvanised by the Sultan’s personal presence.
Drawing his sword high, the Sultan roared: "It was my complacency that brought this upon us—but that also means the Rumelians are desperate! They’ve sent out their precious cavalry to stage a spectacle! Let us crush them here, and the fortress will crumble soon after! Come with me! Soldiers!"
Cries of obedience thundered from the troops around him. At the same time, his brother, Ali Celebi, followed suit—igniting his own command tent atop a nearby rise to rally the eastern flank.
But the flames did more than summon order.
They also drew the eye of the Romans.
Giovanni Junior, watching from atop the fortress wall, spotted the beacon and immediately realised what had happened.
"They’re concentrating their forces around the light," he murmured.
Back in the field, beneath that very firelight, Khalid’s charge had not gone unnoticed. A small contingent of Roman heavy cavalry, regrouping from their first assault, found themselves staring straight into the face of the Sultan’s forming lines.
And at the head of the Roman force—Khalid himself, as he roared out his orders left and right to his men.
The Sultan’s eyes locked on the figure with a familiar voice. His jaw tightened with rage. He pointed his sword directly at the aging warrior right before him.
"Khalid! You traitor... and bastard, I have treated you as an old heroine, but for multiple decades you have been helping those infidels to kill innocent men of our kind, and now you even dare to lead an army to raze through my camp? You will rot in hell! You will be remembered by all believers of the Great Prophet as a traitor! Traitor!"
Khalid lowered his visor, raised his lance—and responded with a voice that carried across the night.
"And you, Mehmed Zaganos—you murderer, you usurper, you tyrant! You speak of betrayal? Where were you when your people starved? When you slaughtered innocents, burned villages, and used children as shields for your failures? You speak of faith, but you abandoned every principle your father died for! You are no Sultan. You are a carrion lord, a blight upon these lands! If your father, Zaganos Pasha, sees you like this, he will slit your throat himself out of shame and disappointment!"
The Sultan’s face twisted in fury. With a primal scream, he spurred his horse forward.
"TO ME!!" he cried, as he charged into Khalid’s line.
The old general met the charge head-on.
Their blades clashed, a storm of steel exploding between them. Around them, both armies converged, two tidal waves of iron crashing in the night.
Meanwhile, Ali Celebi’s messengers shouted across the battlefield, pleading for the Sultan to retreat and resume overall command. "Let the nobles finish this skirmish! You must return to the center and coordinate the army! This is just a distraction!"
But the Sultan was already too far gone.
Lost in fury, pride, and vengeance, he paid no heed. And Khalid, too, despite his earlier vows to Giovanni, had no intention of pulling back. He had seen too much, buried too many, lost too many comrades to the flames of Zaganos. His soul would accept nothing less than judgment—here and now.
Steel rang.
Blood flowed.
The clash of these two titans echoed through the night.
