Free Web NovelChapter 746: Finally Behind Walls
The village itself seemed to hold its breath.
Husrev paced from left to right, eyes flicking to the horizon, timing the distance until his reinforcements would return. His riders moved like shadows around the settlement, sealing every exit so no Turkish man could slip away. He was certain there had to be something valuable hidden in that village — the Turks’ stubborn silence only confirmed his suspicion.
"Your Majesty!" a loyal Janissary inside the hut blurted out, voice trembling with urgency. "We should strike for the east. We can cut through these Rumelians before their reinforcements arrive, get a boat and sail along the Black Sea coast!"
"Yes, Your Majesty! The men searching the ports should have found something by now. If we board a ship we can reach friendly garrisons, rebuild, and—" the Janissary’s words rushed out.
The Sultan sat very still, willow-gray hair falling over his forehead. A small, weary smile ghosted his face. "Run?" he echoed softly. "Run east, to the shoreline? Where is it safe for me now?"
"I have calculated the route, sire!" the Janissary pressed. "About fifty miles away there’s a garrison that can hold. If we can reach Eskişehir, we can regroup and raise a new army."
The Sultan closed his eyes and sighed. Then he asked, voice flat and hollow, "How many men do you think we have lost in this battle?"
The Janissary froze. The number hovered like a blade he dared not speak. He swallowed.
"If you do not know," the Sultan went on quietly, "let me tell you. At least twenty thousand. The finest sons of our sultanate—sent by mothers and fathers who trusted my promises. I led them here with the promise of riches and honor. What do I have left to show those families now? Empty vows? A hollow crown?" He looked at them all, and the words cut the air like a confession.
"My Sultan—"
"Do not waste time on me." He pushed a bowl of thin soup toward the soldier nearest him. "Eat. Buy some time with your bellies full. Then run." freewebnoveℓ.com
"But, Your Majesty—"
"This is an order," the Sultan snapped, more weary than angry. "Do you think we can all escape together? I have failed you as your ruler. If nothing else, let me be useful in this last thing." He forced his hands steady. "Eat, and then go. Live."
The men looked at him—at the ruin of a man who demanded courage from those he had led to ruin. In the hush that followed, the soldier took the bowl, hands trembling, and drank. Outside, Husrev tightened his circle, counting heartbeats, waiting for the moment to close the net.
A Janissary gave a subtle twitch of his eye toward a comrade behind him. The other, clearly seasoned in this grim art, instantly pulled a cloth from his side and rammed it into the Sultan’s mouth. Without hesitation or a word exchanged, another hopped forward grabbing the Sultan’s legs, and together they forced their sovereign down onto the bed, binding him despite his furious struggles. Outside, a runner dashed to summon the rest of the Janissaries with their horses.
The faithful Janissary commander gazed at his bound and thrashing lord, then sank to one knee. In a low, almost trembling whisper, he said, "Forgive me, my Sultan... but this is the only way I know. For the future of our Sultanate, I cannot allow you to be consumed by despair, nor permit you to act on such thoughts."
He hoisted the Sultan—his eyes wide and bulging in outrage—onto his shoulders and staggered out into the courtyard. There, he set his sovereign onto the back of a horse and looked around at the assembled Janissaries, including those still holding their posts, eyes fixed on the Rumelians surrounding the village.
But his heart sank—there were eleven fewer men than before.
The commander’s jaw tightened. He had no strength left to wonder if they had fled, deserted, or fallen. In moments like this, only those with iron wills remained. All others would find their own path out of this death trap.
He took a long breath, his chest burning, then spoke loudly enough for all to hear: "I will take the Sultan to safety with nothing but myself and my blade. I know this road is one of certain death. Those who dare walk it with me—follow! Those who will not—stay behind. I shall not curse you." freēwēbnovel.com
The men exchanged grave looks. One by one, most lifted their blades high, vowing to follow their sovereign to the end, wherever that road might lead. But one hesitated. His voice quivered as he confessed his wish to surrender to the Rumelians.
The commander did not blink. He strode forward and, with one swift motion, slit the man’s throat. Blood darkened the dirt at his feet.
"The Rumelians do not yet know their Sultan is here," he growled. "Any man who deserts risks exposing him—and that, I will never allow. Now, ride!"
He swung onto his mount, grabbed the reins of his sovereign, and with a shout charged toward the enemy. The other Turkish cavalrymen thundered after him, blades drawn, following his lead.
Seeing this sudden eruption, Husrev called to his men: "Disperse to the roads!" The Rumelians pulled back in haste, desperate to block the escape.
The Turkish cavalries wasted not a heartbeat. With hooves thundering like rolling drums, they burst past the Rumelians, refusing to waste strength on combat, driving instead toward the eastern side with desperate urgency.
But in the corner of their eyes, the Janissaries at the rear saw the inevitable—the Rumelians were mounting as well, readying for pursuit. A handful of Janissaries clenched their jaws until they almost bled, their eyes burning with resolve. With a roar that tore from deep in their chests, they shouted toward their comrades ahead:
"Ride with the Sultan! We will stay and stop them here!"
Without waiting for reply, these men wheeled their horses around and hurled themselves into the enemy charge. Steel clashed against steel, sparks flying as cries of agony, rage, and curses in the Turkish tongue split the air.
The Janissary commander kept his head bowed low in the saddle, his lips pressed tight to dam the grief threatening to break free. He would not allow his men to see tears, not now, not when they were dying to buy their Sultan another breath of life. On his flank, the Sultan too sat silently, unable to move or command, his chest heavy with the knowledge of what his soldiers gave up for him. A weary sigh escaped him, swallowed by the chaos behind.
It was not long before the dreadful sounds—the ring of steel, the gurgling screams, the guttural curses—fell silent. The battlefield behind them was no more; it had been consumed in blood. The Sultan and the surviving Janissaries pressed farther away, carrying both guilt and duty in equal measure.
Yet fate allowed no respite. From ahead came another thunder of hooves: five Rumelian riders appeared, cutting across their path. From their formation and haste, it was clear—they had broken away to deliver word of the Sultan’s presence to their superiors. Seeing the Turks, these five men did not falter. Without hesitation, they lowered their lances and spurred their mounts into a headlong charge, eyes alight with grim resolve, as though death was already embraced.
The Janissary commander’s heart clenched. His voice, rough with anguish, barked the only command he could: "Hold them! Buy us time!"
Once again, a few loyal riders tore away from the group, bracing themselves for certain death. Steel rang out again, filling the air with yet another bitter chorus, while the commander pressed forward, dragging the Sultan with him.
He rode and rode, the wind stinging his face, until his vision blurred and he no longer knew whether the wetness in his eyes came from sweat or from tears. His chest burned with guilt, but his body kept moving, as though fueled only by duty.
Beneath him, his faithful mount began to falter, its breath ragged and labored. The commander’s heart twisted with pain as he realised—this was no ordinary beast. This was the same horse he had first been given upon joining the Sultan’s guard, once the pride of the herd: tall, unyielding, with muscles like sculpted iron. For years, it had carried him through battles, through triumph and shame alike. But now, like him, the stallion had grown old, its once boundless strength withering under the weight of time and exhaustion.
The horse has became a middle aged horse, and the man it is carrying, has became a middle aged man as well.
It just seemed that just some more distance away, there seats the citidal, that the Janissary commander has wished for so long, seemingly still standing there upright, untouched by all the recent squabbles in the region.
The Janissary commander held on to his mount, as he suddenly felt a sense of relief, for he knows that his mission is accomplished, as he can finally bring his Sultan to the protection of tall walls.
