Chapter Text
Why is no one saying anything?
A brief silence, subtle but deeply uncomfortable, settled between them. Doubt and fear were reflected on the faces of the men, though not all of them. Henry looked at them firmly after delivering his words: "I will never run from that bastard again."
No one seemed to support him, and he searched for Hans with his gaze. A gesture that required no words, pleading for an understanding that went beyond that palisade. Hans knew the true meaning of those words; he knew why Henry had promised not to run again.
They remained silent.
Someone had to do something.
And Hans had no more doubts.
He nodded, not taking his eyes off Henry; and when he gathered the strength to face his decision, he leaned over the palisade, resting himself elegantly against the wood. He wanted to project confidence, determination... even though he felt his legs were about to give way.
"Lord Von Bergow... Sir Markvart, Lord Nebak… and you..." his gaze fixed directly on Istvan "...treacherous shit!"
That felt good.
"KISS OUR ARSES!"
He shouted that insult with all his strength, shedding all the humiliation and frustration he had endured over those days. Casting off the weight of those words as if the wind could carry them far away.
He felt a brief but intense regret when he saw the nobles turning to organize their men. What have I done?
However, all doubt vanished from his heart when he saw Zizka amused with a smile on his face, but above all, when he saw Henry smile. He had not done it only because he owed it to him, but because he truly felt that Henry should not betray his principles. And neither should he.
And that made him happy too.
Even if that act led them to death.
There was no time to lose. Hans ran for a crossbow and followed Zizka’s orders to cover the main entrance, crossing the courtyard and helping to brace the door. A soldier whose name he did not ask stayed beside him, and both waited from the machicolation for the enemy to approach.
They saw the pavises in the distance, while he listened to the shouts of the men fighting desperately to repel the attack on the walls. He had seen the Praguers with ladders; he was certain that Henry and the others were trying to push them away to hold the position.
He felt alone for a moment as he thought about Henry’s fate. He wanted to fight side by side with his friend, as on so many other occasions... but he knew his place was here. If they wanted to get out alive, each of them would have to do their part.
The pavises were beginning to draw dangerously close.
Hans tried firing a couple of bolts, but none pierced the heavy wood of the shields. He focused instead on trying to hit the soldiers advancing behind, in a futile attempt to shelter behind the pavise carried by the first man in line.
The exposed area was minimal, but Hans was used to striking the hearts of small moving prey. This would be no different...
He aimed. He fired. And a Praguer fell to the ground.
He could not help letting out a shout of joy, which was quickly cut short by the urgent need to keep firing bolts and slow their advance. Where do so many men come from? He kept firing and firing, but the Praguers covered themselves better and better and managed to get dangerously close to the gate.
Speed took precedence over precision, and Hans was forced to shoot with barely any aim. It was enough to keep them at bay, but not to stop their advance. Closer. They were about to reach the gate.
If he leaned out further over the battlement, they could hit him.
But then he heard Henry’s deep voice running up the stairs.
Thank God!
"Sir Hans!"
"Henry!" he interrupted before he could ask anything. "Quick! Grab those stones and throw them at those bastards."
He allowed himself a few seconds to catch his breath while Henry hauled the heavy rocks to the opening. He was covered in splashes of blood, but seemed otherwise whole. Tireless, unstoppable... always ready to watch his back. He did not know why, but his mere presence filled him with courage and resolve to keep shooting.
Hans loaded the crossbow, and the bolts flew again.
He was not aware of how many stones Henry threw, or how many shots he fired, but the Praguers began to retreat from the entrance. He shouted insults as they withdrew, encouraged by that small victory, but the relief did not last long.
Zizka had just appeared in the courtyard, shouting Henry’s name.
At first the young man seemed not to hear him, firing at the stragglers from the machicolation, but Hans knew he could not stay there. He felt far safer and more confident with him at his side, but the battle was not yet won.
"Henry! Zizka is calling you!" Henry turned toward him, breathing hard. "I can handle this, go, hurry!"
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then Hans caught out of the corner of his eye how he descended the stairs. Damn, this doesn’t look good. Hans wanted to follow him; there were no more enemies at the gate and the shouts of the soldiers were already being heard inside the inner palisade.
He did not stay much longer; Captain Michael came running up, pleading for help. Hans and the soldier immediately abandoned the gate and returned to the wall, where a new assault had broken through. They held them back until Hans’s sword slit a couple of throats and threw one man off the wall.
They were surrounded; enemies were pouring in from every corner and nothing seemed organized anymore. Michael shouted from the base of the tower that more enemies were approaching.
He exchanged a quick glance with Henry as soon as he appeared in the courtyard, and felt his fear in his own body.
"We have to fall back!" Henry shouted to Zizka.
Fortunately, the captain was not a fool. He glanced around and fully understood their situation, avoiding prolonging the inevitable.
"Everyone to the tower! Now!"
Hans felt the weight of those words as if they had already been defeated, but there was still a faint touch of hope. Otherwise, the men would not have run inside and secured the door to keep the Praguers out.
They could hold. They could barricade themselves and defend their position until no enemy remained standing… or until they decided they were not important enough. He felt a hand on his shoulder, conveying calm, and then he breathed.
He was about to thank Henry when he moved away, his gaze fixed on the arrow slit, as if something had caught his attention. "Henry... what...?"
He followed him and stood beside Godwin, who had begun to pray ever since something outside had frightened him. Hans could no longer contain his curiosity: he leaned toward the narrow opening and made out a massive object of metal, something he had never seen before.
"What the fuck is that?"
No one seemed to know, but they all sensed it was something very dangerous. The Praguers shouted to their men to move away from the tower, and up there the tension could be cut with a knife.
"Everyone… away from the wall…" Zizka ordered in a calm voice, but filled with fear.
Hans was confused. Henry did not know what to do and Godwin kept praying in an attempt to save their souls, whatever was about to happen. They held their breath without knowing why, without knowing what to expect… until they heard the thunder that came from no storm. A roar unlike anything they had ever heard.
The wall burst inward as if a child had knocked over sticks with a stone. Effortless, as though those walls had never been meant to withstand it. Splinters of wood flew in every direction along with fragments of the tower’s stone. The ground trembled beneath their feet and the roof groaned with a tearing cry before giving way.
Hans did not even have time to react.
He felt a sharp blow to his side and then everything became confusion. Something heavy crushed him against the ground, trapping him and knocking the air from his lungs. He coughed, trying to breathe, but each breath seemed caught between his waist and chest.
He could not move. He could not breathe… he felt that at any moment the armor that kept him alive would give way and he would be crushed beneath the massive wooden beams that had fallen over him. His heart began to pound violently, and he felt it in his throat, but it was not enough to move. I can’t, I can’t get out of here. He tried to move an arm. Nothing.
"I’m buried. I’m… help! Someone!"
I’m going to die here. I can’t breathe.
He kicked desperately, but it was useless. He needed help.
"Henry?" he asked without thinking. "Henry, I’m trapped!"
He could barely see anything through the cloud of dust filling the tower. Around him, the remains of the roof kept falling with small creaks, as if the structure had not yet finished collapsing. He could hear the groans of the men, but not for a moment did he think Henry might be trapped like him.
His agony clouded his mind completely.
"Henry!" he called again. "For the love of God!"
Why isn’t he coming? Why isn’t he helping me?
Another beam fell from the ceiling, and the silence that followed was far heavier than before.
Hans regained consciousness when someone removed the wooden debris from him and his body was able to breathe again. They had to strike his chest a couple of times to make him react, and he woke coughing, fighting to survive, completely confused.
"That’s it…" said a man dressed in red while continuing to pat his back.
They lifted him between two men and he felt the world move around him, his head spinning amid the chaos full of dust and, again, groans. He thought he saw a yellow blur in front of him, and then his mind reacted. Henry?
He thought of him, but could not speak. The mere attempt caused a terrible headache.
They practically dragged him down the stairs, not because he resisted, but because he could not stand. He kept stumbling and his mind drifted dangerously between consciousness and reality.
He breathed in relief when he finally felt them sit him down somewhere. The world shifted again and he thought he must be in a cart, or this was the worst hangover of his life. He made a superhuman effort to open his eyes, and it was a good thing he did.
Henry was sitting in front of him. Those blue eyes were as unmistakable as a lighthouse in a storm.
He became increasingly aware of the pain in his body, his crushed chest and his battered head... that his hands were not stiff, but bound with rope. The light hurt his eyes, and the movement of the cart made his stomach churn. He curled up on himself and tried to make himself as small as possible in that corner that was now his world.
Henry was speaking with the others... from the voices, it was Zizka and Godwin, no doubt. No one else? He tried to recall how many men had taken refuge in the tower. He could not count them, but there had been far more than four.
The shrill, hateful voice of Istvan Toth echoed in the distance that Hans tried to keep at bay in his mind. He knew he was mocking them; he did not know exactly how... but he could feel Henry’s tension through the faint touch of their legs.
"The last time I ran, I lost everything. I won’t do it again," Henry murmured, glancing at Hans without anyone noticing.
And that’s why we’re like this. he thought. No. I’m being unfair to him.
He felt so guilty for that thought that he dared to open his eyes to apologize for something he had not even said. But it was too late. The cart had stopped and several Praguers had climbed aboard to take Hans.
Like a sack of flour, he let himself be carried without resistance and stumbled when his feet touched the ground. He immediately felt strong arms holding him, and they dragged him away.
Where were they taking him? Why were they separating him from his friends? This was bad, he could feel it.
He did not know how, but he knew it in the same way an animal senses a storm before the first thunder. Lord Von Bergow and Istvan murmured at a distance, exchanging notes, plotting their next moves. The men seemed in no hurry, and Sir Markvart watched with that mixture of superiority and indifference.
The feeling of being completely at their mercy, unable to do anything... felt strangely familiar, but no less terrifying.
His heart began to pound violently.
"No…" the word died in his throat.
He heard the sudden movement of legs rising behind him and then Henry’s voice.
"Hans!"
He had never heard him shout like that.
Hans turned his head at once, desperate, just in time to see him struggling inside the cart while two men held him back.
"Where are you taking him? Hans!"
Fear froze his blood.
Henry… he tried to answer, but no sound came out. He was too terrified of the unknown to beg for mercy. He did not want to be separated; he was afraid. Afraid for himself and for Henry, for what fate would bring them and above all... because now they could not protect each other. He was alone.
He thought he heard one last shout from Henry. But this time he did not turn around. It was already too late.
They had dragged him to another cart, where they lifted him up and made him sit. Capon tried to look back, protest... something. But he could not. He was completely exhausted, defeated by the battle and did not even seem to have control over his own body.
"Where...?" he tried to ask about his fate, but gave up as soon as the words began to form.
Von Bergow had stepped up beside him, silencing him with his mere presence.
"Do not worry so much, Lord Capon. You will be treated as befits your station." The old man cast a proud look, perhaps recalling the insult from hours before and seeing himself victorious over the enemy.
How much I would pay to wipe that smile off your face... he thought, but simply curled up and tried to hold himself together for the rest of the journey.
The cart set off at Von Bergow’s order, and Hans saw how he slowly moved away from the rest of the garrison... and from the other wagon. Where a pair of blue eyes peered over the wood to make sure Hans was still safe and sound.
That distance opening between them weighed on his chest, and Hans still did not understand why it hurt him so much.