The forests of Lusatia were thick with shadow and smoke.
Pines crowded so close that sunlight could scarcely cut through, and in the gloom every thicket seemed to whisper with hidden eyes.
The Wendish raiders knew these woods as their own veins. Conrad's knights did not.
Iron-shod hooves sank into black mud, and mailed men cursed as arrows hissed down from branches above.
Spears thrust from ditches. Stones crashed from ridges.
The Wendish host never stood in open ranks, never gave battle like honest men, they struck, vanished, then struck again.
"Hold the line!" barked Duke Ernst of Swabia, his voice muffled by the great helm that gleamed with sweat and grime.
A spear clanged from his shield, and he wheeled his destrier to meet it, trampling a painted tribesman beneath iron hooves.
The forest roared back. Horns sounded, shrill and mocking, bouncing from tree to tree until it seemed the entire wilderness itself was alive with hatred.
