1636: The Ottoman Onslaught - eARC by Eric Flint

Author:Eric Flint [Flint, Eric]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781476781846
Amazon: 1476781842
Publisher: Baen
Published: 2017-01-03T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

Jaroszówka, Lower Silesia

Northwest of Legnica (Liegnitz)

“I wish I had my armor and my lance,” said Lukasz Opalinski, peering over the hedge.

“Why not wish for your saddle wings while you’re at it?” said Jozef. He was crouched beside Lukasz, studying the village of Jaroszówka—what was left of it, which wasn’t much. The raiders had set fire to most of the buildings. “It’s sad, to see a mighty hussar brought so low.”

Lukasz’s only response was a dignified sniff. “Just try to keep up with me. Do you see any more?”

Wojtowicz shook his head. “There’s just the five of them. Might be one or two more, but they’d be too drunk to stand, much less ride.”

“Let’s go, then.” Still crouched over, Lukasz moved toward the horses, which they’d left behind them in a meadow. The hedge was atop a slight rise which kept the meadow out of sight of the village.

They hadn’t bothered to tether their mounts. They were both well-trained warhorses.

They walked the horses out of the meadow toward a small grove of trees. They’d be able to stay out of sight of the small party of soldiers in the village until they launched their attack. The distance from the grove to the village was less than a hundred yards. Their mounts were coursers, who could have covered that distance in seven or eight seconds even if Lukasz and Jozef had both been wearing heavy hussar armor. Wearing only buff coats, they’d probably reach their target in no more than six seconds.

Six seconds is a long time for a trained and alert soldier to react to danger. But the small detachment from Holk’s army in Jaroszówka was anything but alert, however well-trained they might or might not be. At least one of them was visibly drunk. He was struggling to get onto his horse while his companions made jokes and jeered at him.

After they reached the grove, they saddled up and took a moment to reorient themselves. They could see the village again from here, through the trees. The soldier who’d been trying to get on his horse had apparently fallen in the process and one of his mates was getting off his own horse to help him. The other three were still laughing. One of them had a jug of something—not likely to be water—which he brought to his lips.

“Now,” said Lukasz. An instant later he had his courser charging out of the grove.

Jozef followed, making no effort to catch up with his friend. He was content to remain a few yards behind. Wojtowicz had a great deal in the way of martial skills, as he’d demonstrated on several occasions over the past year. But he wasn’t in Lukasz’s class on a battlefield.

Besides, his friend was new to the fury that Jozef had been experiencing since he first went into Silesia from Dresden. It would do him good to unleash it.

Lukasz hadn’t drawn either one of his pistols from their saddle holsters. He was clearly planning to start with his saber—and probably end with it also.

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