Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Chapter 227 Each with their own thoughts

In the woods at the foot of the mountain outside the ruins of Zimberg.

The Cuman light cavalrymen, like ghosts, roamed the shadows of the forest, their fur coats covered in dust, their horses snorting restlessly.

Chief Heltan reined in his warhorse. His face, etched with wrinkles by the winds and frosts of the steppe, was now clouded with gloom. His sharp, eagle-like eyes were fixed on the not-so-tall Zimbog Mountain ahead, which seemed to hold endless shame.

The scouts sent out in the afternoon brought back definite news: the patrol team that lost contact the day before, along with its valiant captain, had been completely wiped out in the mountains.

The traces were obvious, indicating that they were completely annihilated after fierce resistance.

More importantly, the scouts confirmed that the dazzling banner embroidered with the light of dawn was planted on the ruins atop the mountain.

The Silver Dawn Knights, the enemy who caused him to suffer heavy losses and lose face, were indeed hiding here.

A surge of burning rage shot from Heltan's chest to the top of his head, and the veins on his hand gripping the hilt of his scimitar stood out.

He could almost hear the suppressed breathing of his subordinates and feel their questioning yet equally angry gazes.

"Chief, the brothers can't swallow this insult! The sun is still high, let's charge up the mountain right now!"

6

The lieutenant, Abdul, brandished his saber, the silver-inlaid scabbard gleaming in the morning light.

"Let their heads be a tribute to the brothers who died in this battle, and let their blood wash away the shame of the previous sneak attack in the rain!"

Several Cuman generals around him echoed his sentiments, their teeth grinding together, their sabers drawn half an inch from their sheaths, gleaming coldly.

The desire for revenge spread like wildfire through the ranks.

However, Hertan took a deep breath of the air thick with the stench of horse manure, forcibly suppressing the rage that was about to overwhelm his reason.

The voice, like a winter's chill wind whistling through the treetops, clearly reached the ears of every general: "Charge? To use the precious lives of our Cuman warriors to fill the merit books of those Hungarian lords and Bohemian nobles?"

He surveyed the room, his gaze sharp: "Remember, we are the eagles of the grasslands, not the hunting dogs of nobles! Without real gold and silver, even God himself couldn't make us risk our lives!"

He paused, his voice carrying the disdain and alienation characteristic of nomadic peoples towards settled aristocratic classes: "Revenge must be taken, but it depends on how many silver coins are involved!"

The leader's words were like a bucket of cold water, extinguishing the impulsive flames of some, but also sparking a deeper resonance. The generals began to chatter amongst themselves: "That's right! Part of the last pay payment is still owed!"

"Those gentlemen are drinking fine wine in their tents, yet they expect us to risk our lives for them?"

"Chief Hertan is right! No money, no discussion!"

The Cumans' anger came quickly and went quickly.

They were quickly overwhelmed by more realistic considerations of self-interest. Like a pack of patient wolves, they lurked in the shadows, licking their wounds, waiting for the best opportunity to hunt, or rather, waiting for their employers to throw out enough bait.

At dusk, in the village of Bilani.

This small village, nestled not far from the foot of Mount Chimberg, has now completely lost its former tranquility.

Upon receiving confirmation from the Cumans, Commander Hermann Celle and his assistant Count von Polgau were overjoyed, as if they could already see the great achievement of capturing Prince Brunswick beckoning to them.

Orders were issued one after another, and the army of the Kingdom of Hungary quickly sprang into action.

To avoid alerting the enemy, they did not march in a large-scale manner. Instead, they broke into dozens of small groups and, under the cover of dusk, moved silently towards Bilani Village like streams flowing into the sea.

The infantrymen carried halberds and shields, trying to keep their footsteps as quiet as possible. The officers' low urging and the occasional clanging of metal armor plates sounded particularly clear in the dim wilderness.

The village of Bilani was instantly filled with soldiers.

In order to completely suppress the news, Count Hermann issued strict orders:

All villagers are strictly prohibited from leaving the village; those who disobey will be executed without exception.

The fierce soldiers brutally broke into the houses, driving the terrified villagers back inside. Any attempt to peek or escape would be met with merciless swords.

After a few short screams and barks, the entire village fell into a deathly silence. Only the crackling of torches and the footsteps of patrolling soldiers echoed in the air. The stench of blood mixed with the thick darkness of the night was suffocating.

However, the secret mobilization that the Hungarian nobles thought was clever had already been spotted by a pair of vigilant eyes.

Peter's sentry, the experienced gray rat Jerry, lurked like a lynx in a hidden canopy on the outskirts of Mount Zimborg, camouflaged to blend into his surroundings.

He calmly observed the movements of the army below the mountain, watching how they swarmed towards Bilani village like ants, how they blockaded the village, and how they kept the enemy under constant surveillance.

The original plan was indeed to fortify Mount Zimborg. The knights went to great lengths to set up tripwires and traps along the only way up the mountain, and buried gunpowder barrels in several key stone ruins, intending to give the attacking enemy a lesson they would never forget.

The plan was that while the enemy was overwhelmed by the mountain fortifications and explosions and their formation was in disarray, Peter and Henry's main cavalry force would appear like ghosts from an unexpected direction, strike directly at the enemy's command center, and carry out a decapitation strike.

But the latest intelligence Jerry sent back made Peter change his mind immediately upon arriving in Malesov.

With over five hundred Cuman light cavalry and more than three thousand Hungarian infantry, this force far exceeded his expectations.

In the relatively narrow terrain of Mount Zimborg, although it could initially cause considerable casualties, once the enemy reacted and stabilized their position with their overwhelming numerical superiority, the dense pike square of three thousand infantrymen was something that his thirty-odd knights could not possibly break through head-on.

At that time, as soon as the momentum of the charge is blocked, the five hundred Cuman light cavalry will surround them from all sides like hyenas that smell blood, using their mobility to carry out endless harassment and pursuit until the exhausted knights are completely worn down and annihilated.

The risks are too great, and the gains will be limited. We must remain mobile and seek opportunities in mobile warfare.

Therefore, he decisively abandoned his plan to fight a decisive battle on Mount Zimborg.

That night, defying all opposition, he insisted on going with Henry and, under the cover of darkness, led the main force of the Silver Dawn Knights away from the ruins of Zimberg Mountain and stealthily made their way to Malesov.

This is a risky move, but also a brilliant one, aimed at completely breaking out of the enemy's possible encirclement and regaining the strategic initiative.

Peter's precise nighttime relocation caused a critical intelligence error.

The Cuman cavalrymen responsible for surveillance, seeing no torchlight on the mountain—which they considered impossible for a night march without torches—arbitrarily assumed the Silver Dawn Knights were still trapped on the mountain.

This perfect information gap created the conditions for the implementation of Peter's plan.

The next morning, at the ruins of Mount Zimborg.

As dawn broke, wisps of smoke rose as usual from the ruins, standing out starkly in the tranquil morning air.

The Cuman scouts watching from below clearly saw this scene. They exchanged a smile, relieved—the enemy was still on the mountain, and everything was under control. They had no idea that the smoke was merely a ruse, a deception created by the French as ordered to cook on time.

Bileny village, the temporary headquarters of the Hungarian army.

The largest stone house in the village was requisitioned. The villagers' original furniture was haphazardly piled in a corner and replaced by a rough wooden table that was temporarily pieced together and covered with military maps.

Commander Herman Cele, in the prime of his life, was tall and wore magnificent plate armor with a scarlet cloak draped over his back, a confident smile on his face.

Beside him was the official Count von Borghau, a slightly aged nobleman whose eyes gleamed with shrewdness and anxiety.

The Cuman leader, Hertan, stood a little further away with his arms crossed, his expression indifferent, as if everything before him had little to do with him until he was paid.

Grozav, the former administrative officer who had been demoted to adjutant for poor performance, stood obsequiously beside the two counts, ready to offer his advice at any moment.

It is worth noting that the Polish mercenary lieutenant, Knight Jeseke, who was originally responsible for delivering the ransom and had contact with the Silver Dawn, was not present.

Not only was he absent, but the more than 700 Polish mercenaries he led were also left in the rear camp due to "questionable reliability" and did not participate in this operation.

"It's better that stubborn old man, Jezek, isn't around."

Count Herman chuckled smugly, tapping Mount Zimborg on the map with his finger, "so that he won't ruin our perfect plan with his chivalrous rhetoric, or even leak the information to that cunning Brunswick."

Count von Polgau nodded in agreement, but a hint of worry remained in his eyes: "That being said, this makes it difficult to figure out who will go up the mountain to confirm the situation and lull Prince Brunswick into a false sense of security."

We need someone to reach out to them and convince them that we are genuinely there to pay the ransom, thus lowering their guard.

At this moment, Grozav, eager to prove himself again, immediately seized the opportunity, stepped forward, and offered a fawning suggestion: "My lords, what's so difficult about this? We can find someone to impersonate Jezek!"

Anyway, all those rebels on the mountain want are silver coins; they probably don't even know what Knight Jezek looks like.

As for those captured Poles, in order to regain their freedom, even if they recognized us, they would never be foolish enough to expose us.

Hermann and von Porger exchanged a glance, their eyes filled with approval, and then smiled at Grozav: "Excellent plan! Grozav, you are indeed resourceful!"

Just as Grozaf's smug smile appeared, Count Hermann asked, "So, who will be in charge of this arduous and glorious task?"

The two counts' gazes, simultaneously and meaningfully, fell upon Grozav.

Grozaf's heart skipped a beat; he had a bad feeling. He quickly tried to recommend someone else: "We can find a knight who is old enough and looks highly respected—"

"No," von Polgar shook his head in denial. "Those who are too old are often not quick-witted enough, have poor adaptability, and are prone to making mistakes."

"Then let's find a clever and intelligent young nobleman—" Grozav continued his efforts.

"That won't work either," Earl Herman interjected. "Those who are too clever are often quick-witted but may not be bold enough. They might easily become nervous and give themselves away when facing the infamous Silver Dawn."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over Grozav. "This person needs to have enough status and charisma to convince the other party that he is an important envoy, and at the same time, he must have enough courage to remain calm in the face of danger."

"Then—" Grozav was completely at a loss, and fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

The Cuman chieftain, Hertan, silently turned his head and looked out the window. He inwardly believed he perfectly embodied the qualities of someone "of high status."

He met the criteria of "having temperament and courage," but his typical steppe features and unmistakable heavy accent meant he could not impersonate an old Polish knight.

Hermann and von Pölgau's gazes, like two invisible spears, were fixed intently on Grozav's face. The meaning couldn't be clearer.

Grozav pointed incredulously to his nose, his voice trembling slightly: "Could it be—could it be that the two lords mean—that I go?!"