Chapter 16: "World War"

Carlo followed Lezalit through the marching ranks, his heart heavy with foreboding. His gaze drifted aimlessly, his thoughts involuntarily pulled back to the harrowing scenes of the last naval battle. The arrows loosed by the English longbowmen had descended like a terrifying, pitch-black rain of steel, sweeping down with overwhelming force. The whistling of the shafts sounded like the shrieks of demons—sharp, piercing, and bone-chilling. Each arrow carried a lethal threat, slicing through the air with ruthless precision to bury itself into their ships and comrades. He remembered clearly how the men on deck had cried out in panic, their voices thick with terror and despair. They had scrambled in every direction, desperate to escape the relentless volley, but it was too dense, a trap from which there was no way out. The screams of the wounded rose one after another like agonizing laments, and blood gushed forth to stain the decks crimson. That visceral, nightmarish scene remained seared into his mind, leaving him shaken to this day. Whenever he recalled it, his body would tremble of its own accord, that profound fear lingering like a phantom, refusing to dissipate.

"Are we really going to take on the English with this tiny detachment?" Carlo lamented inwardly. "This is nothing but throwing an egg against a rock; it’s sheer folly." He couldn't help but cast an anxious glance at his companions. While they wore expressions of resolve and marched with steady steps, he knew all too well that against the might of the English army, their small band was fragile and insignificant, a mere drop in the ocean.

From the conversations between Lezalit and the other cavalrymen, Carlo had gradually come to understand the complexity and turbulence of present-day Flanders. It had become the vortex of a power struggle, a chaos so profound it defied imagination. On one side, the feudal nobility, led by the Count of Flanders, clung to traditional feudal ideals and loyalty to the crown, steadfastly supporting King Philip VI of France.

Conversely, the faction centered around urban aristocrats and merchants, driven by their own interests and visions for the future, did not hesitate to defy their lords. They fervently supported King Edward III of England, even forming infantry guilds that frequently clashed with the Flemish nobility, escalating into fierce skirmishes and brutal warfare. Through massive bribery and his marriage to Queen Philippa, Edward III had allied himself with Louis IV, Holy Roman Emperor (who had been excommunicated by the Church). Louis IV appointed Edward as the Vicar-General of the Holy Roman Empire, granting him authority over all imperial lands outside of Germany. Theoretically, Edward could now summon the nobility of all the Low Countries as their lord, including the Counts of Burgundy and Savoy. Although this title was little more than a name, Edward III used contracts and gold to amass not only English troops but a staggering number of German and Netherlandish mercenaries. These forces included original noble contingents alongside a multitude of opportunists from various lands, speaking a babel of different tongues.

Meanwhile, King Philip VI of France, arguably the most powerful lord in the world, commanded his own formidable army, bolstered by allies from Bohemia, Sicily, Denmark, and Poland. With so many armies flooding into the relatively small expanse of Flanders, the situation was predictably chaotic. It was a medieval version of a "world war," with the smoke of battle hanging over every corner and every village a potential target. The infantry guilds, being locals, held some restraint, avoiding excessive harm to their own people. The French forces and their allies, being on their own soil, mostly limited themselves to extorting grain from the farmers. The Netherlandish and German mercenaries, though foreigners, maintained some semblance of fraternal restraint. But the English were like greedy wolves and bandits, plundering and looting without restraint. They stormed villages, seized property, and burned homes, deaf to the pleas and cries of the common folk. Many families were shattered, and innocent people suffered untold misery.

The group labored across the wilderness as the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and red like a magnificent tapestry. Yet, this beauty could not dispel the fatigue and anxiety in their hearts. As twilight descended, the encroaching darkness brought with it a biting chill. It was time to find a place to make camp; no matter the era, sleeping in the open wilderness was neither comfortable nor safe.

The night air whistled with cold, bone-chilling winds. Lezalit, leading the column on horseback, swung his whip and shouted, "Pull yourselves together, men! Godifie, the village head of Wode village ahead, is a dear friend of mine, and their ale is exceptionally fine. Push on! Once we reach Wode, I’ll treat you all to all the ale you can drink and plenty of roasted meat."

Exhausted from the long day’s march, the men felt a spark of hope at the mention of ale and meat. Expectation and longing flickered in their eyes, and their weary faces lit up with excitement, as if they had forgotten their fatigue in an instant. They quickened their pace, and a few low cheers even broke out in the ranks, as if they could already see a pleasant evening beckoning to them.

But when they crested a small hill, the sight before them left everyone stunned. Their mouths fell open, their eyes widened, and for a moment, they were struck dumb. In the distance, flames were shooting into the sky, a raging beast of fire enshrouding the entire village in a sea of red. Thick, billowing smoke rose like a massive black cloud, obscuring half the sky. The fire, set against the backdrop of twilight, was piercingly bright—a scene of apocalypse.

Roberto raised a trembling hand, pointing toward the inferno, his voice shaking with terror: "Lord Lezalit, that burning village... is it...?"

Lezalit’s expression darkened instantly. His brows knitted together, and his eyes flashed with a mix of fury and urgency. He spurred his horse forward, raised his sword high, and bellowed, "Follow me! We save who we can—that is Wode village!"