On the streets of Sibiu, lively trade was in full swing. People offered their goods, shouted out deals, haggled over prices, praised their cloth, furs, and iron. The air was thick with the smells of smoke, spices, and fresh bread. Buyers moved slowly between the stalls, examining wares, fingering woolen fabric, appraising jewelry.
It was a small, relatively new town built on the border of Transylvania. Though its population was not large, the town had been founded by colonists of German descent.
A little apart, at the very edge of the marketplace, beggars sat on the cold ground with outstretched hands, asking for alms. Among them was Heinrich. His face was gaunt, the skin drawn tight across his cheekbones, dark shadows pooling beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted, having spent the last days without sleep or food.
The family sword was no salvation.
*********
Leaving the village with the sword in my hands, I headed toward the outskirts, where forests pressed up against the mountains. In those very places, rumor said, the Cumans were prowling. I did not understand where so many of them had come from.
To the west we were protected by a natural barrier of mountains. The only roads into Transylvania lay from the northwest and southwest. The mountain range had always served as a reliable shield, preventing nomads from the endless steppes from easily entering these lands. Had they found a new pass?
Before, they were rarely seen here. Occasionally footpad raiders appeared but never horsemen. The Cumans usually preferred the richer regions of Kingdom of Hungary, or they raided the Slavic lands, where plunder was more plentiful. Had they truly managed to drive their horses through the hilly passes? Or had someone shown them the way?
In truth, this region was far weaker and poorer than the others. No great trade routes crossed our lands. There were no magnificent cities here, no vast fertile fields capable of feeding whole armies. But we had plenty of stone and iron a land of stone houses and deep mines, where men dug more than they sowed.
Still, there was no point dwelling on that now. I let stray thoughts drift through my mind so I would not focus on my empty stomach, which was beginning to twist painfully.
Clink.
I heard the sound of a coin falling into my wooden bowl. I surfaced from my thoughts.
"Thank you, kind sir," I recited automatically. I had repeated that phrase dozens of times over the past week, and it slipped from my lips without feeling.
Quickly glancing around, I hid the coin in the folds of my clothing in one smooth motion. Even such a small thing meant everything to me.
It was a pity I could not sell the sword and get money for it. Then I could at least buy some equipment and a poorer weapon. But I understood: the moment I appeared inside the town with it, it would remain in my possession for less than an hour. The guards would brand me a thief, cut off my hands, and seize the weapon. And if not them, others would gladly covet my prize.
So I chose another way to preserve it. I buried the sword in the earth, in a noticeable spot between a narrow stream and a fallen tree. I remembered the place well.
Clink.
Another coin struck the wood of the bowl.
I lifted my eyes.
"Thank you, kind sir."
I ran my fingers over the coin again. It was hard to survive on alms alone, but besides field work I could do almost nothing. I could read and knew the basics of writing, for once I had begun an education. But I could barely write in Latin. And who would accept a filthy, exhausted stranger?
The most burdensome thing was that we had four languages. Hungarian was used by the nobility, Romanian in the old villages and settlements, German had arrived with the settlers, and documents were written and kept in Latin. I knew Hungarian; in the village where I had lived, Romanian was spoken, and so I had learned that as well.
Suddenly, above the murmur of the market, the loud voice of a herald rang out. He stood upon a barrel to rise above the crowd.
"By order of the castellan, a host is being raised to repel the accursed Cumans! All men of sixteen years and older are required to present themselves for service!"
The crowd stirred at once. People began whispering to one another, trading anxious words. They drifted toward the herald mostly those who had nothing left to lose. Many, having lost their homes, had moved closer to castles and fortified settlements, hoping to find protection behind stone walls. There was little choice. If the Cumans were not driven off, no one would return to their lands and that meant hunger.
This was a chance to escape my wretched existence.
I rose so abruptly that darkness swam before my eyes. Hunger dragged at my body, but I still pushed toward the herald at almost a run. After learning where recruitment was taking place, I made my way beyond the fortress walls.
A camp had already been set up there to gather the militia. Finding the place where they were enrolling men, I joined the line. Soon enough, I reached the front.
The knight overseeing recruitment wore chainmail that covered his chest and shoulders, and a metal helmet with a nasal guard. By my reckoning, he was well equipped.
He measured me with a glance.
"Be off with you, whelp," the knight said, waving his hand as though shooing away a bothersome fly.
"Sir, I can work. I can carry things, at least," I said quickly, trying to keep my voice firm.
He looked me up and down.
"And what would you carry? Your arms are like twigs. The wind would blow you over. And the moment you see a Cuman, you'll drop to your knees and start praying. Don't waste my time. Go, before you get a cuff round the ear."
"Let him be free labor," one of the soldiers standing nearby interjected. "We'll take him. Let him work for food."
The knight spat to the side.
"Tch. Fair enough. At least someone will clean my boots."
"Go to the quartermaster. You're his assistant now," another knight said, no longer irritated.
I nodded silently and stepped away.
There were not many eager to fight, despite the duty. A castellan was chiefly bound to defend his own fortress and not much more but without peasants to till the fields, the land would grow poor. In truth, the militia were in the worst position of all. They fought for tax relief and the right to cultivate their lord's land.
Real money went to professionals: the garrison soldiers who served in castles and towns. Above them were the mercenaries who had devoted their lives to war. And above them stood the knights, who rode not only for gold but for honor, for renown, for the right to earn land and title through valor.
And yet this was better than holding out a bowl in the market.
For I possessed something that fed upon battle.
I was assigned as a simple camp laborer. I was to obey the quartermaster, who oversaw supplies, wagons, and the practical affairs of the camp. It was not what I had dreamed of but war was the road open to me, even if it began with filthy work.
For the first time in my life, I took up a training sword late one evening, when the day's duties were finished. It was a simple wooden blade. I stepped to the edge of the camp and struck several times at a log driven into the ground.
It felt unfamiliar. The blow seemed too light; there was no weight in the pommel. I was used to splitting firewood, not wielding a sword. Here, one had to feel balance, precision, the direction of force.
Several swings came out awkwardly, like a child at play. I tried to imitate the strikes I had seen knights perform, until exhaustion overtook me.
*
One-Handed - 2
*
A smile spread across my face despite the weariness in my arms. Two levels were nothing. But it was a beginning.
The rhythm of the camp slowly came alive as new recruits arrived. The novices trained from morning until evening, while I labored among the provisions: unloading supplies, carrying sacks of grain, helping with repairs, running errands from one end of the camp to the other.
Almost every day, new refugees arrived from the villages. Many bore wounds from arrows or saber cuts. Their faces were gray with exhaustion. Of those who came, more than half enlisted in the militia to avenge the slain.
The army was slowly growing. By my count, we had reached about two hundred men. It was not the full strength of the Transylvanian lands only a small part. The main forces were gathering in the north, at Transylvania's principal fortress, under the command of the voivode.
Our detachment was ordered to wait. When the main host advanced, we were to join them and march to reclaim the lost territories.
Rumor had it that the current king was summoning the noble levy throughout Kingdom of Hungary to repel the raid and drive the Cumans beyond the borders. Yet therein lay the chief weakness of such wars. By the time the nobility were called, their retinues assembled, and orders delivered, the Cumans would already have withdrawn into the степpe with their plunder and captives.
Three weeks had passed since my village was attacked. And only now was the army beginning to gather in earnest.
A standing army was always expensive. But it was ready and trained able to respond at any moment. A levy, on the other hand, was slow to organize, incapable of serious military action in the shortest time.
The end of the summer month was approaching the time when the harvest should have begun. But the villages lay in ruin, and the fields, never especially fertile, had been trampled by hooves and burned. Even if the war ended tomorrow, winter would still be hungry.
At last, the first real news arrived. The voivode's army had advanced and begun pressing the Cumans back. It was a slow pressure, without decisive battle. We had no endless steppes to raise great numbers of warhorses. Most of our strength was on foot. Only the nobles and knights possessed cavalry in any number.
During that time, I managed to improve considerably. Each evening, once my duties were done, I trained with a wooden sword. One night, after another long series of strikes, I finally reached what I had been striving for.
*
One-Handed - 10
*
After the eighth level, progress had slowed noticeably. For nearly a week I could not move beyond the ninth, and only today did I finally reach the tenth. Growth had become sluggish, as though the system itself demanded more from me than mere blows against wood.
It seemed the training sword was no longer enough.
To grow stronger, I needed a real fight.
"You're still as clumsy as ever. A sword is wasted on you," a soldier in a light tunic said with a yawn. Evening was deepening into night; the camp was settling to sleep.
"Did you become a good warrior in a month?" slipped from my lips. I realized almost at once I had said too much. "Forgive me, sir."
He smirked.
"I'm no lord. Just a mercenary. And no I didn't. When I first closed with a man and drove my blade into his neck that's when my path began. With blood."
He shifted his gaze to the weapon rack, walked over, and took up a spear.
"Catch."
He tossed it to me.
"In my first battle, I wore my father's mail. The blow struck it, and I lived. My opponent had no armor. Remember this: if you want to survive in close combat, don't go in without protection. The sword is the last thing you should reach for."
I gripped the shaft awkwardly and looked up at him. The mercenary merely raised an eyebrow and nodded toward the training dummy.
"Hold it tight. Use your legs when you strike don't work with your arms alone. Step back, step forward. That's where the strength comes from. Otherwise, you'll do nothing with a spear."
With that, he pushed off from the low fence and went about his business.
Listening to his words, I began using my whole body for the thrusts. The shaft seemed to have a will of its own at first, but gradually I found the rhythm.
I thought about the sword without armor, it meant little. The mercenary was right. One serious wound was enough to die. For now, keeping distance with a spear was my best chance at survival.
Perhaps it truly was the wiser choice.
*
Polearm - 10
*
When I finished another series of thrusts, I noticed my skill level had jumped sharply. Could his seemingly simple advice have advanced me so much? Then it was not only the number of strikes that mattered, but proper technique.
It seemed that in the future, a mentor would be far more valuable than I had thought.
At last, my efforts were noticed. Reluctantly, they issued me a simple light armor. It was made of thick, stiff leather, roughly stitched in places with heavy thread. It did not fit well it hung awkwardly on me but it was better than my plain linen shirt. Poor protection for the torso, and no one would grant fine armor to a militiaman.
Two days later, we set out to join the main forces of the voivode, and then to drive back the Cumans, destroy their camp, and seal the pass they had found for their cavalry.
We moved painfully slowly. The baggage train stretched behind us in a long line; wagon wheels creaked, exhausted horses neighed. The roads were to blame. Most paths were narrow and trampled by men stone-paved roads were rare even in towns. The hilly terrain and the thick woodland hindered us no less.
The uneven ranks trudged forward under the shouts of commanders urging on the stragglers.
Looking at the bleak faces around you, you understand that morale is not merely a state of mind it is one of the most decisive forces in an army. Most of the militia were men driven from their homes and forced into service. Many did not wish to fight, though some were fueled by vengeance.
The fortress garrison fared best. They were accustomed to discipline, formation, and arms. Their armor was heavier and sturdier than ours, and they were placed at the rear and the front of the column, so they could respond quickly if needed.
Militiamen like me marched with spears and the same light armor. From fragments of earlier encounters, we knew that though the Cumans favored light protection, they still held the advantage: steel helmets, sturdy cuirasses, swift horses. Their strength lay in sudden strikes and maneuverability. Though they had infantry enough, their true power was light cavalry. Later, the Mongols would prove the superiority of light cavalry over most armies of this age especially on open ground.
"From the rear!"
Shouts rose behind us. Several men ran forward, shoving through the ranks. One collided with a soldier in mail.
"You bastard, where are you running? Speak! What's there?" he barked, grabbing the man by the collar.
Heads turned. The formation stirred, an anxious murmur passing through the lines.
"Cumans! There are hordes of them!" he gasped.
A wave of unease rippled outward; some men were already edging back.
"Back in line! Any coward will be put to death! Turn around! Form up!" His voice rolled along the front of the column.
The garrison troops formed almost at once, taking positions with practiced speed. With the militia, it was worse. Driven by their officers, men moved chaotically pushing, arguing, stumbling, unsure where to stand. To control a crowd that did not know what it was doing was a living hell.
Shoulders slammed into me from all sides; spear shafts struck my ribs. I felt like a small stone in a raging current, swept wherever the flow carried me. My short height and the press of bodies left me no room to move as I wished.
"Faster! Archers to the right flank, by the forest! Militia, spread wider! Move, you dogs! Decurions, keep them in line!" Orders were shouted down the ranks from the front.
We had been taught the basics how to hold formation, how to move but when it happens here and now, under the threat of a real enemy and amid chaos, everything unravels. We formed something like a dense block four or five ranks deep and ten men wide one cluster of about fifty, another of forty. In truth, the line comprised barely half our force.
"Faster!" came the shout again.
I could not see what was happening ahead. Only mounted figures flickering through the dust then dark specks streaking across the sky.
Whistle.
"Kh" A man beside me clutched his throat, choking, and fell to his knees.
Then others began to fall. Men collapsed with arrows protruding from their bodies, dark blood soaking their clothes. Those who did not die at once writhed in agony, crying out for mothers, for God or simply howling like wounded beasts.
"Hold!"
The formation began to compress and buckle. We collided with one another; morale plummeted. The horror around us shook the mind; animal instincts screamed for escape, and the suffering only sharpened the terror.
"Spears up! Prepare for charge!"
Perhaps my only stroke of fortune was my small stature. Arrows flew overhead, sometimes so close I felt the air shift. Had I been taller, I would have lain among the first dead.
Our line slammed into chaos men and horses colliding. Everything blurred: shouts of rage, neighing steeds, splintering shafts, dull impacts. The ground trembled under hooves; the air filled with dust and the iron scent of blood.
Through gaps between shoulders, I saw a saber slash a militiaman's throat. Blood sprayed outward, warm droplets striking faces and shields, and the sight froze me in horror.
"No… no…" Our line wavered; more men yielded to panic.
"HOLD YOUR SPEARS, YOU DAMNED BASTARDS!" the commander roared.
The shout jolted us. Cuman infantry crashed into our formation, and our spearpoints drove against their armor.
I raised my spear between the shoulders of those before me and thrust forward. The line bent so quickly it pressed back to me. My hands trembled so violently I could barely hold the shaft. Gathering all my strength, I lunged. My spear struck the Cuman's steel armor with a dull clang.
He had already driven his saber into the man beside me, who fell in torment. I yanked the spear back and, scarcely aware of what I did, thrust again hard, desperate. This time the tip found a gap. I felt the shaft sink in just above the chest.
The Cuman cried out in his own tongue fierce, almost animal but I understood nothing. His eyes widened; life drained from them swiftly, and he toppled heavily to the ground.