Sternberg Castle churned ceaselessly, like a massive machine.
The granary was steadily filling with the wheat, beans, and salted meat that Janos had scraped together—emergency rations all.
The forge rang day and night with the clamor of metal. While blacksmith Tomasi threw himself into crafting the trebuchet, his apprentices hammered out dented armor and sharpened notched blades without pause.
In the inner courtyard, soldiers trained on how to handle "Ulrich's Wrath."
"This is nothing like a sword or spear! The moment you panic and drop it, you'll roast yourself and the comrade next to you alive! Got it?!"
"Yes, my lord!"
I drilled them relentlessly: from the proper way to light it, to throwing with the wind at your back, to precautions for keeping friendly fire to zero—until their ears rang with it.
At first, some soldiers nearly scorched their own feet, but in time, they learned to arc it smoothly through the air.
I conscripted more defenders too. With promises of bread and weapons, thirty able-bodied men volunteered from the village below.
Green recruits who knew nothing beyond thrusting a spear, but once clad in the patched armor from storage, they looked the part of soldiers.
Of course, I knew a few more numbers wouldn't dramatically shift this lopsided war. Still, I poured everything I had into surviving.
Despite those desperate efforts, the ominous air cloaking the castle only thickened.
Soldiers gulped dryly whenever they scanned the distant fields from the walls. Servants inside jumped at every little noise, hunching their shoulders.
The mood in the village below was even graver. Some stayed, trusting their lord, but more packed up furtively each night and fled the territory.
Rumors even swirled that some had promised the Hussites to open the gates.
And finally, the day arrived.
A dust-caked scout galloped up to the gate, gasping as he shouted.
"My lord! They're... they're coming!"
I stared silently toward the horizon.
Far off, where earth met sky, a massive dust cloud rose. At its heart, blood-red Hussite banners fluttered like waves.
Faces atop the walls turned to stone, broken only by the sound of dry swallows here and there.
But the first to reach the castle weren't peasants with axes and scythes, nor knights in armor.
"My lord! Mercy, please!"
"Open the gates, we beg you!"
Hundreds of refugees streamed toward the castle.
Villagers who had spotted the Hussite advance, clinging to their last hope of sanctuary.
The gate filled instantly with wails, pleas, and screams.
"Open the gates."
No sooner had I spoken than Steward Konrad blocked the way, face grim.
"You can't, my lord. Please, judge wisely."
"What do you mean?"
"Letting them all in would exhaust our stockpiles in a week. There's no space in this cramped castle for so many, and if plague breaks out... there's no containing it. And..."
Konrad hesitated, then voiced the gravest concern.
"...The odds of enemy spies among them are high."
"..."
I peered down from the wall instead of answering.
'Logically, Konrad's right. Letting them in gains us nothing but trouble.'
Below was pure chaos. Grandmothers shouldering hastily packed bundles, mothers shielding terrified children's eyes, people numb with fear.
All of them cried out my name, begging for their lives.
'But if I abandon them here, what's the point of winning—even if we do? A lord who ditches his people in danger... Who would follow such a commander?'
I gripped Konrad's shoulder firmly.
"Konrad. The dishonor of watching my own people slaughtered before my eyes outweighs any risk of spies."
"But your safety, my lord...!"
"I've made up my mind."
I bellowed down louder.
"Open the gates! Let all the refugees inside!"
Rumble...
With a heavy groan of iron, the gates swung wide. The villagers poured in, tears streaming.
"Aaaah...!"
"The gates are opening!"
"Thank you! Thank you, my lord!"
They collapsed to the ground, prostrating themselves in gratitude.
"Janos, escort them to the church. And keep them from wandering—control the lot."
"Yes, my lord... But you know our manpower's too thin to manage this many."
As Janos fretted, the castle's mood soured fast.
Desperate refugees eyed coldly by soldiers already stretched thin.
Resentment simmered over sharing scant food and space. Unease about Hussite spies lingered too.
Watching it unfold, Janos ventured cautiously.
"...Did we have to let them in? Some might even support the Hussites. Fellow peasants wouldn't turn on each other, right?"
"Shed naive thoughts first on the battlefield, Janos."
I replied coldly.
"Whether they support the Hussites or not, to the enemy, this village is just a Catholic lord's loot. Plenty of justification for pillage."
Then, a watchman's scream pierced from the turret.
"They're here! The enemy... they're coming!"
All eyes on the walls snapped to the horizon. Through the choking dust, amid earth-shaking thuds, a colossal shape slowly emerged.
Knight Captain Kuno traced a trembling sign of the cross.
"Lord have mercy..."
Dozens, hundreds of wagons chained together into a vast wall, creeping forward. Like a centipede writhing along the horizon.
Atop them stood soldiers armed with flails, crossbows, hand cannons—hundreds of red banners whipping in the wind overhead.
"W-Wagenburg! It's the Hussite Wagenburg!"
Soldiers cried out in quavering voices, as if reliving a nightmare.
'So that's the rebels' fabled mobile fortress... the Wagenburg.'
The wagon train forming up before our eyes was a moving wall in itself.
The sheer pressure made me swallow hard.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Wagenburg.
The mobile fortress devised by the peerless strategist, Jan Zizka.
Sigismund's Crusaders had scoffed the first time they faced this odd wagon formation.
Just farm carts lashed together—no real fortress. The crude ploy of poor peasants, they'd sneered.
But that arrogant complacency soon turned to screams of horror.
Europe's mightiest heavy knights charged headlong... only to shatter futilely against the Wagenburg's sturdy barricade.
Pinned down, they became sitting ducks for the hand cannons and crossbows firing from the wagons' gunports.
As the knights flailed in the barrage's chaos, gates between wagons swung open. Out poured Hussite infantry with flails, smashing skulls to pulp.
Built on this genius tactic, Zizka's ragtag peasant army began scripting an invincible legend.
They repelled overwhelming foes at the Battle of Nekmír, opening salvo of the war.
At Sudoměř, they crushed a Crusader host five times their number.
In the fateful fight for Prague's Vitkov Hill, Zizka and just thirty men held off a thousand Crusaders—a miracle.
Now, that same Wagenburg, which had rained hell on Crusaders and imperialists, encircled Sternberg Castle to claim it.
On the hill overlooking Sternberg Castle.
Two men reined in side by side, gazing at the fortress from afar.
One was Mikulas z Husi, fierce Hussite leader and Hus's champion.
The other: Hynek Krusina of Lichtenburg, moderate noble heading Prague's coalition forces.
Both had crushed Sigismund's Crusaders at Vyšehrad alongside Zizka—Hussite heavyweights. Yet their gazes on the castle differed sharply.
Mikulas spat with contempt.
"What a grand pile. Filthy Catholic dogs' lair, bloated on plundered peasant blood."
To this peasant-born warrior, the noble castle symbolized an old order to smash.
"No need to drag this out. The pitiful handful on those walls means we can have that whelp lord's head flying highest by nightfall."
Mikulas boasted. But Krusina disagreed.
"Brother Mikulas. Bloodshed isn't always the answer. The castle's master is a boy freshly inherited. Trampling him without a chance to repent isn't the justice true warriors of God seek."
"Justice? Mercy to a heretic spawn is justice?"
"No—pragmatism."
Krusina's eyes gleamed coldly.
"Sternberg is an ancient Bohemian house. Killing the boy and seizing it pales next to swaying him to our side. A prime example to shake other imperial nobles."
"Hmph. Politics aren't my game. All I know is lopping heads off rotten priests and nobles."
Krusina countered Mikulas's gruffness with a dry smile.
"...You do know I'm one of those nobles, right?"
"Only too well."
The scar twisting Mikulas's lip twitched.
"That's why your head's still on your shoulders. Without our shared cause, it'd be dangling from those walls by now."
"Haha. Mine wouldn't be the only one rolling then."
Krusina laughed, but his eyes held a chill edge.
"My noble coalition and Prague forces wouldn't stand idle."
Their gazes clashed in the air.
One: head of the moderate noble Utraquists, compromising with the Church to guard privileges.
The other: Taborite radical, bent on razing both corrupt clergy and feudal order.
United under "Hussite," they allied uneasily solely against Sigismund.
"...Fine. Have it your noble way."
Mikulas bristled at noble methods but couldn't outright dismiss Krusina, the moderate commander.
Besides, taking the castle bloodlessly suited Taborites fine.
Krusina smiled softly.
"My thanks, brother. I'll draft the surrender demand then."
Astride his horse, Krusina unrolled parchment and penned terms without hesitation. He handed the finished missive to Mikulas.
Mikulas barked a hollow laugh at its contents.
"Ha! All that mercy talk, and your letter's sharper than any blade. Makes my quick-kill offer look downright kind."
Krusina smiled faintly.
"If they see our might and still refuse, it's not courage—it's folly. No mercy for foolish heretics."
"Hahaha! Fair enough."
Moderates or radicals, mere methods apart—they were all Hussites. Crush foes utterly when you can? No argument there.
Mikulas issued a final warning.
"But if they delay or refuse... I'll wash those walls in blood my way."
"Gladly draw sword with you then."
Moments later.
A herald spurred from the Hussite camp toward the firmly shut gates of Sternberg Castle.
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