Free Web NovelChapter 743: The Battle of Nikomedia (11)
The Sultan, consumed by fury, led the charge himself, clashing with Khalid at the front lines. Their blades met again and again, sparks flying with every furious strike, each man battling not just to kill, but to bury decades of betrayal. Around them, chaos churned as Janissaries fought to hold the Rumelian cavalry within the camp’s limits, while the clash between the two old generals became a symbol of two worlds colliding — one fighting for conquest, the other for retribution.
Ali Çelebi, seeing the danger and his brother’s reckless tunnel vision, immediately took command. Though it defied the Sultan’s direct orders, he dispatched contingents of Janissaries away from the central brawl, reinforcing the outer camps and scanning the darkness beyond. His instincts screamed that this was not the full weight of the Roman attack. He knew Giovanni Junior too well — the prince was not one to gamble elite cavalry on a mere diversion.
And Ali was right.
While the Sultan and nearly all his main forces had been drawn to the western edge of the camp — lured by Khalid’s fearless assault — the rest of the camp lay dangerously exposed. The Rumelian Cataphracts, now reduced to just eight hundred men, were dismounted and cornered atop a slope, fighting desperately to form a last stand. Many were bloodied, their armor cracked, their breaths short, but they held the line — with Khalid still leading from the front, blood streaming down his cheek, wounds across his arms and chest, but blade still in hand.
Then came the second blow — not from steel, but from light.
To the east, atop another ridge previously quiet under the night’s veil, the darkness suddenly vanished.
Thousands of torches erupted in unison — a sea of flame lining the slope — illuminating the terrain like a sudden sunrise that had no business appearing in the dead of night. The Sultan turned to the glare, his blood-soaked blade still in hand, and froze. His mouth fell open, eyes wide in disbelief.
Before him, stretching across the ridge, stood a massive army of Roman cavalry — the main force — fully armed, fully assembled, and fully unnoticed until now. They had snuck out of the fortress during the confusion, maneuvered under cover of night, and now stood as one united front, their spears gleaming in the torchlight, aimed straight at the heart of the Turkish camp.
The Sultan could only watch.
"Charge! Burn them all!" came the distant cry, echoing over the hills like thunder.
And then, they moved.
Thousands of hooves struck the earth like rolling drums, their rhythm merging into one deafening roar. The firelight shimmered off metal and armor, illuminating roaring faces and flowing banners, as if a dragon made of fire and steel had come alive and descended upon the Turks. Sparks flew, grass smoldered underfoot, and the ground trembled — a second earthquake that shattered the Turkish morale far more than the first.
Leaves burst into the air from nearby trees, torn loose by the violence of the moment, and in the dry wind of the season, they fell like ash before the storm.
Seeing this, the old Khalid—his face cloth soaked with his own blood, covering his left eye—burst into laughter, still gripping the blade in his trembling hands. "You have been tricked, Sultan! Now face your own demise! Regret in hell the actions that led to yet another war!"
The Sultan, too, was enraged, realising too late the terrible mistake born from his own complacency. "You old dog!" he shouted, swinging his blade with all his strength at the general.
Khalid tried to block, but his his entire body’s energy already drained away, the blade dropped from his already shivering hands, and immediately, the Sultan too dropped his blade, as he picked up a spear from his men, and pierced right through the amours, penetrating the old general’s neck. causing blood to splatter instantly. But as the Sultan looked into the eyes of the dying Egyptian, he didn’t see fear—only a mocking glint. The old general slowly tilted his head and collapsed, lifeless.
The circle formation by the Romans behind him, is still holding strong, although the size of the formation have already shrunk a lot. Motivated by the blood of their commander, and also the sudden movements in a few miles away, the soldiers here continued to hold, knowing that they will be freed from this eventually as long as they hold it together.
As a battle hardened commander, the Sultan knows very clearly that there will be not a single bit of benefit of him if he continued wasting his time on this circle, instead of soon followed the deeds of his younger brother, after giving a hated stare towards the Rumelians here, as he commanded his Janissaries attempting to rush to the central army.
However, it is already too late.
The Roman cavalry had driven their spearheads deep into the camp, tearing down fences and barricades, hurling torch after torch into tents, armories, buildings, stables, haystacks—anything they could find. Alongside them, heavily armored riders wielding horse-lances slaughtered any who resisted, clearing the way for their comrades.
Within the time of just an hour, the entire Turkish encampment, home to tens of thousands of people, have been sunk into flames, engulfing up the works for the entire past half a year.
The eyes of the Sultan almost bulged out as he sees all the efforts that he has worked so hard for, that carried the glimpse of hope of conquering the final two spots of Anatolia, before he can proclaim that he has conquered all of Asia, have vanished into the air, as the Turkish soldiers, who once showed their dominance on this land, now scattered as they are facing the very natural fear of all living things, that is the fire that is still spreading.
The air in the atmosphere is being heated up, with the burnt smell being spread into everyone’s nose, as their horses neighed and moved their hooves in horror from the hellish scenery before them, and running troopers with some already caught in fire, running out of nothing but pure instinct, all warning the Sultan, who is still there rooted watching, that he should fee as soon as possible, as the fire is spreading towards him at an incredible speed.
"Sultan! It is time to go!"
The Janissaries exclaimed, as they rushed their Sultan, but instead their Sultan continued to be rooted to the ground, as he watches all his efforts getting burnt into nothing but ashes.
"Sultan!"
Another Janissary called but the Sultan did not respond.
"Sultan!"
A third voice called, but still no reply.
Seeing no choice, the loyal Janissaries grabbed the reins of the Sultan’s horse and fled toward a hilltop, where many Pashas and Beys had already gathered. Some stared coldly at the chaos below. Others wept over their men and fortunes. Most just sat in silence, eyes hollow.
Touched by the mood, the Sultan finally spoke, voice hollow.
"Where is my younger brother, Ali Çelebi?"
It took a while before a Janissary came.
"I saw the Rumelian cavalry charge directly into his hastily formed lines... then they were swallowed by fire."
The Sultan went back to silence again, as his soul wandered around.
The air before them are getting increasingly moist.
By dawn, the devastating effects of the Roman strike were clear. The complacent Turkish army had been caught off guard, two-thirds of the camp burned, all siege machines destroyed, and Roman captives freed. Over half the Turkish forces were gone—killed, burned, or dispersed. The remaining twelve thousand men stood shocked, demoralised, poorly equipped, each face marked by grief or terror. ƒгeewebnovёl.com
Most importantly, the last of the food reserves—dug up from every corner of the sultanate to support this campaign—had also been destroyed in the fire.
It could now be said that the Sultan had already lost the war. His once-mighty army stood on the brink of starvation.
Just then, a heavy raindrop struck the Sultan’s face as he gazed at the smoking ruins of the camp.
A chilling wind swept through the Turkish ranks. Thunder crashed. More rain poured down. Soldiers, trembling in the sudden cold, scrambled to find shelter.
At the very least, the fire was now extinguished. Steam rose from the scorched earth, mixing with the falling rain to form a mist that hovered above the wreckage—making the place seem almost like it floated in the clouds, if one could forget the horror that had taken place just hours earlier. The sun should have risen by now, but thick clouds kept the sky dark.
Scattered Turkish soldiers emerged slowly from hiding after the Rumelian cavalry had withdrawn, limping through the mud in an attempt to salvage what little remained. Across the battlefield, the Rumelian camp sat in an eerie stillness—no cheers, no celebration. But the Sultan knew his adversary, Giovanni Junior, was simply allowing his men to rest, waiting for the rain to pass before launching another strike.
Guided by his loyal Janissaries, the Sultan descended from the hilltop in haste, seeking refuge from the downpour. But most of the tents had been burned or trampled. There was nothing left—not even a roof under which to hide.
