Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

The massive iron gates of Trossky Castle were slowly pulled up with a grating creak from the winch.

Steward Ulrich led the way out of the castle. Today, he had changed out of his usual dark steward's attire and put on a set of gleaming half-plate armor, over which was a robe embroidered with the flying fish emblem of the Borgo family. This made his face, which was still swollen from the beating, look even more dignified, but his narrow eyes could hardly contain his smugness.

"Forward! For the Count's glory, reclaim Nebakov!"

Ulrich drew his sword, the tip pointing diagonally forward, his voice loud yet carrying a deliberately crafted air of grandeur.

Behind him, the army snaked out like a giant python made of metal and cloth. Thirty heavily armored cavalrymen were the spearhead of this force; they were clad in heavy armor, their horses draped in skirts, their lances raised high, and their hooves thundered rhythmically on the road.

Following closely behind were two hundred heavily armored infantrymen, their main equipment consisting of cloth armor and chainmail, with some captains also wearing half-breastplate armor. Their halberds, axes, spears, and swords and shields gleamed coldly in the morning light. Bringing up the rear were one hundred archers, relatively lightly dressed, carrying longbows and quivers, their eyes scanning their surroundings warily.

The army marched through the village of Troski below the castle. The villagers, already stirred by the commotion, gathered by the roadside or peered out from behind dilapidated windows. They looked at this "powerful" army with eyes that held no welcome, only deep wariness and hidden resentment. The lords' wars would only bring them more suffering.

"Look, it's Ulrich," an old farmer with a missing front tooth whispered to the young man beside him, his tone sarcastic. "He used to cower in the castle like a dog, but today he's going to war like a hero."

"Pah!" The young man spat in the direction the column had gone. "For some reason, Lord Peter only took the Griffin Guard last night and didn't send us militiamen to fight. Otherwise, we would have definitely taught them a lesson!"

These whispers went unnoticed by Ulrich, who was reveling in the feeling of commanding his army. He stood tall, accepting the awe-inspiring gazes of what he perceived as the villagers. His thin frame swayed slightly in the saddle, and the seams of his armor beneath his robe creaked softly.

"Lord Ulrich is quite the sight today," Hanko, the goatee-headed knight, said jokingly to Busek Dub beside him. "Anyone who didn't know better would think he was Count Borgo."

Busek Dub, the burly man with a full beard, waved his hairy arms and laughed loudly: "Come on, Hanko, he's just a hound in front of the count. Wearing armor won't turn him into a wolf! After we take Nebakov, I'll see how much spoils he gets. I hope he doesn't even lose back the cost of his nice armor!" His voice was loud and clear, making no attempt to hide his contempt for the steward.

The knight of Bor, Jeseker, was rather composed, but a faint smile played on his lips: "At least he knows how to form ranks, doesn't he? Compared to some guys who can't even manage their own fiefdoms, Ulrich is somewhat useful."

His words drew a thumbs-up from the Knight of Olbrham of Ojdzde standing nearby.

The somewhat dim-witted Knight Hermann snorted in dissatisfaction. Knight Florian, who inherited his title through marriage to a widow, simply continued riding in silence.

Amidst the clamor and mockery, old Sir Semih stood out as an outsider. He rode a steady chestnut warhorse, his white hair peeking from the edge of his helmet, his deep gaze frequently returning to the receding silhouette of the castle. His son, young Auda, had been left behind in the castle, by the side of the enigmatic Earl von Borgo. This unease, like a cold vine, coiled around his heart. Like a bird leaving its nest, he always worried about the safety of its young. Old Semih's state of mind at that moment was exactly like that.

After leaving the village, the army proceeded along a road with deep ruts carved into it by carts. At first, the road was relatively flat, with harvested, somewhat desolate fields and scattered bushes on either side. But as they went deeper, the terrain began to undulate, and the surrounding scenery gradually became more desolate.

At noon, the group arrived at a treacherous place called "Wailing Gully." This was the only way to Nebakov Castle, and also the most dangerous part of the entire journey.

Here, a deep ravine lies on one side, and a towering, steep, rocky hillside on the other, sandwiching a narrow and deep gully between them.

The road at the bottom of the ravine was muddy and covered with gravel. The narrow road was only wide enough for three or four infantrymen to walk side by side, and cavalry could only pass slowly in a single file. The hillside was covered with dense oak forests whose leaves were beginning to turn yellow and low thickets of thorns, making it an excellent ambush site.

The sunlight was blocked by the towering hillsides, the ravines were dimly lit, the air was filled with the smell of earth and decaying plants, and a faint, unsettling silence; even the birdsong had become much rarer.

The column, like an elongated metal centipede, marched laboriously along the bottom of the ravine. The infantry's formation became denser, and halberds and axes clashed frequently, creating a clanging sound that was particularly noisy in the narrow space. The archers, meanwhile, cautiously looked up at the hillsides on either side, their fingers resting on their bowstrings.

The knights continued chatting and laughing.

"Bushek, look at this place. If there's really an ambush, we'll be like rats in a jar," Hanko with the goat head joked, though there was little real worry in his voice.

"Rats? Humph!" Busek Dub patted his breastplate nonchalantly. "This armor of mine, I could stand there and let them shoot, and they wouldn't be able to penetrate it! Besides, those peasants, seeing our formidable presence, would have already wet their pants and run far away!"

Sir Florian finally spoke, his voice low and deep: "It's never too late to be careful, Hanko. Have your men watch the flanks."

But their relaxed demeanor didn't infect everyone. Sir Sammy remained silent, his gaze like that of a keen hawk, carefully scanning every grove of trees and every rock on the hillside. Years of combat experience had taught him that the quieter the place, the more likely it was to harbor deadly danger.

Suddenly, his pupils contracted slightly. Above the hillside, at the edge of the shadow of a giant rock, something seemed to move! It wasn't a wild beast; it looked more like a crouching figure that, realizing it might be detected, swiftly retreated back onto the rock—a movement so fast it was almost an illusion. Only a fleeting glimpse of color, distinct from its surroundings, flashed before his eyes.

Old Semi's heart sank. He opened his mouth, intending to warn Ulrich ahead, "Sir, there might be an ambush here..."

"Enough, this godforsaken place... the roads are so hard to walk on."

Ulrich didn't want to listen to old Semi's attempts to demoralize the troops. He frowned, but his apprehension quickly replaced it. "Pass down the order: speed up! It's just a slightly difficult road. What chance do the rebels and bandits have of setting up an ambush here?"

He waved his hand, signaling the troops to continue advancing. In his view, with such a powerful force, he was more than capable of crushing any enemy who dared to stand in his way.

Old Sammy wanted to offer further advice, but seeing the steward's arrogant and indifferent demeanor, he swallowed his words. To the nobles, his warning would likely be seen as mere cowardice in his old age. He could only grip his sword hilt tightly, increase his vigilance, and slow his pace, positioning himself relatively far back in the group, in a position more vulnerable to unforeseen circumstances. A fine bead of cold sweat trickled down his forehead—a natural reaction to heightened tension and a premonition of danger.

Behind the giant rock on the uphill slope, Peter and Jan Jeska of Nebakov Castle, like lurking hunters, calmly watched their "prey" slowly moving below.