Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Chapter 160 Whose Chance?

"My lord, how can you question the decisions made with your own extraordinary wisdom? Doubting oneself is the privilege of the mediocre, not the virtue of the noble."

István's voice was still sweet.

He leaned slightly forward, the shadow of his deep blue velvet coat casting a shadow over half of the count's face. His tone was slow and deliberate, each word carefully crafted: "Red-haired Peter—indeed known for his cunning. But have you ever considered—"

'

He paused for a moment, leaving the suspense hanging.

Could yesterday's battle report have been a staged performance for us? A meticulously choreographed dance of death awaiting your entry?

Count Turnov's Adam's apple bobbed, and his voice hesitated.

"But----"

"No buts, sir."

Istvan responded seamlessly, his voice soft yet as tight as a clamp.

"Red Peter is adept at using feints. If we rashly enter his territory, who can guarantee that his elite troops aren't lying in ambush on both sides of that open battlefield? Haven't we learned enough from the lessons of Paissen and Baron Rowan?"

He paused, observing Count Turnov's approving expression, before continuing, "Temporary forbearance is never cowardice."

"That was the lion's final measurement of distance before its pounce. Your inaction yesterday precisely proves that you have transcended the role of a mere warrior—you are a strategist who knows how to wait for the right opportunity."

He took a half step back, placed his right hand on his chest, and performed an elegant courtly salute as a sign of respect.

The count's furrowed brows seemed to be smoothed out by an invisible hand.

His chest rose and fell slowly, and a light rekindled in his eyes—not of anger, but of a carefully nurtured wisdom.

Vanity.

"Yes! You're right, my friend! It must be a trap! Redhead—he really is a cunning fox!" He nodded vigorously, his voice booming.

"So, what should we do now?" The Count had completely regarded Istvan as his pillar of support.

Istvan remained calm and composed, smiled slightly, and spoke with a stirring enthusiasm, his pace quickening like the beating of war drums.

"Red-haired Peter has just gone through a fierce battle and a long march, and what he has captured is just a dilapidated village with no defenses!"

At this moment, his men and horses were exhausted, their formation was scattered, and they were not yet on their feet!

What should we do?

Assemble all your cavalry! The most elite guard!

Like a sacred warhammer, it struck his heart with thunderous force!

Before he could react—before his filthy thugs could tighten their belts—crush them completely!

Let the entire kingdom know: the only consequence of provoking Count Turnov is blood and fire!

"good!!"

The count's roar shook the hall. His face lit up with wild joy, like a hungry bear smelling blood.

He loved the plan—simple, brutal, and chivalrously romanticized raid. It matched his entire vision of war:

Charge, fight, glory.

Count Turnov turned to the messenger outside the door, his voice booming: "Sound the horns! Assemble all the cavalry and armored guards! I want to be here before the sun sets behind the tower."

"My lord! No! Absolutely not—!"

The old man's hoarse cries were like a dull knife slicing through hot blood.

Old Steward Locke fell to his knees, his withered hands gripping the Earl's boots. He looked up, every wrinkle on his face trembling.

Steward Locke's voice cracked as he said, "We don't even know how many troops he has! Are there any ambushes? Are there any reinforcements? We know nothing!"

Our strength lies in the castle! In our complete mobilization system! Please—please close the city gates and issue the call to arms!

Have all the vassals and their men come and assemble!

"Only when we have amassed a thousand troops and advance steadily like a rolling stone—that is the path to certain victory!"

silence.

The count's excitement froze.

He looked down at the old servant, his eyes flashing with a complex mix of emotions: anger, impatience, and a hint of humiliation at being questioned in public.

Istvan let out a soft chuckle.

The laughter was very soft.

But it's like an icicle, piercing through all temperatures.

István stepped forward slowly, his heels tapping the stone ground, each step like a countdown: "Defend the castle? Wait for your 'perfect plan' to slowly take effect?"

He shook his head, his expression one of pity as if looking at a child.

"By then, Red-haired Peter will have already plundered your rich lands—grain, livestock, women—he will return laden with spoils, and what will you do?"

He approached the count, speaking in a whisper, yet making sure everyone could hear him.

"When the Prague reinforcements—the knights and ladies from the opulent court—arrived, they found only a ravaged, burned, and serf-filled count's estate."

and then?

Count Turnov's reputation for "prudence" will likely become the most popular joke in Prague salons.

They would raise their glasses and whisper among themselves: "Look, that bear on the coat of arms—is there a rabbit hidden under its skin?"

The count's face drained of all color instantly.

Veins bulged on his forehead.

The word "coward"—before it was even uttered—was like a red-hot iron, searing his most sensitive nerves.

Count Turnov roared, spitting in the old steward's face: "Enough!!"

"Your cowardice has brought shame upon me! It has brought shame upon my family!"

He forcefully shook off the old steward's hand, turned around, and roared, "Blow the horn! Assemble! As the sun dips below the tower, I will personally chop off Red-Haired Peter's head—as for those peasants, they need not wait!"

The old manager slumped to the ground, like a stone statue that had been overturned.

István stood in the shadows beside the Count, a slight, unnoticed smile playing on his lips.

Meanwhile, the atmosphere was quite different outside the occupied villages on the edge of the Turnov territory.

Sunlight pierced through the clouds, illuminating a gradually rising slope. The view was expansive, overlooking the path leading to the village and the hazy outline of Turnov Castle in the distance. Red-haired Peter chose this spot to set up camp and ordered the construction of defensive positions.

Unlike typical invaders of the time, he did not wreak havoc in the villages; instead, his soldiers were strictly disciplined.

Many soldiers removed their heavy breastplates and moved around the village wearing only ordinary leather uniforms.

Some people drew a bucket of clean water from the bottom of the deep well and poured it into an old woman's worn-out water jug ​​by the well. They also told them to store more water in the next couple of days. His gentle manner showed no trace of conqueror's arrogance, only calmness and sincerity.

Several soldiers not on duty were helping villagers repair fences and roofs that had been damaged in the earlier chaos, under the command of their officers.

Some soldiers used the copper coins they brought to buy eggs, cheese, and black bread from the villagers fairly, even paying prices higher than the market price.

A young soldier is clumsily helping a little girl herd her frightened lambs back into the pen.

An old farmer said to the person next to him, "I've lived for sixty years and I've never seen soldiers like this—they even give money!"

A little girl secretly slipped a wildflower to the soldier who was helping her find lambs, and a blush appeared on the soldier's dark face.

Smoke rose from the camp as soldiers cooked wheat porridge, its aroma mingling with the scents of earth and grass, filling the air.

The villagers went from initial fear and wariness, to doubt and observation, and finally to initial acceptance and gratitude. The situation changed quietly.

Meanwhile, outside the village, soldiers were diligently digging a shallow trench along the route personally drawn by Peter, both on the village perimeter and at the foot of the hillside, and piling the excavated soil into a low breastwork. This was not for a long-term siege, but to gain a crucial defensive advantage in open battle.

In medieval battlefields, the defending side always held the advantage of terrain; this was a law proven by countless lives lost.

George Seidletz led his cavalry back from the direction of the castle and reported: "Peter, the scouts report that there are frequent movements in the direction of Turnov Castle, as if they are preparing to attack."

Peter laughed and said, "My position is gradually being built up, and I'm just waiting for them to arrive."

"Then you should call back those idle militiamen in the village as soon as possible. War may break out soon, this is not the time for them to play house in the village!"

George pointed at the militiamen who were helping the villagers with their work.

Peter's gaze swept over the working soldiers and the villagers whose fear was fading. He smiled slightly; the sunlight shone on his dark red hair, making it appear like a burning flame, but his smile carried a comforting power. "When I first arrived, what did they say about me? A red-haired devil? A cruel bastard?"

Peter shook his head and said, "Farmers who have been trapped on the land their whole lives cannot distinguish between the truth and falsehood of the lord's propaganda. But when my troops arrive, they will see with their own eyes, hear with their own ears, and feel with their own hearts what kind of person I am. The image of the red-haired devil in their minds will naturally dissipate."

"But what's the use?"

George still didn't understand.

Peter laughed.

"Uncle, look."

He raised his hand, pointing to the fields, farmhouses, and the villagers peering out.

"They are just like us, people who grew up on this land. It's just that their lord—happened to be surnamed Turnov."

Conquest requires more than just swords; it also requires the hearts of men. Once I defeat that bear, this entire place will be mine. And what I desire—

It simply means that the people living on this land won't have to die needlessly in the games of the nobility.

"As for my enemies."

Peter looked toward the distant Turnov Castle, his gaze gradually becoming sharp and cold, as if his previous gentleness had been an illusion.

"They will also feel my kindness!"

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