1221 (Twenty Years Before Batu's Invasion)
The Middle Ages was one of the strangest and bleakest eras imaginable. Dark at its core, yet at times astonishingly bright while elsewhere gray and utterly indifferent to human fate. Disease, famine, war, and banditry were commonplace, as though the world itself stood ready to destroy you at any moment.
I was merely the last son of a noble family left without lands. All that remained to me was a small house in a remote village the only possession left of a once-proud house that had owned a castle and three villages. It was barely enough to survive, let alone wield power or influence.
In twenty years, the great invasion of the Horde would descend upon these lands, sweeping them away, turning towns and villages to ash, driving people into slavery or leaving them to rot among the ruins. The Mongols, who knew no mercy, would ruthlessly destroy everything in their path, ravage homes, and slaughter entire peoples. No army was more deadly than one that could not be stopped in open battle.
And yet… things were not entirely hopeless.
*
Heinrich Leider (the Landless)
STRENGTH — 2(1–2: child; 3–4: average adult; 5–6: trained warrior; 7–8: veteran; 9–10: great warriors, legends)
CONTROL — 2
ENDURANCE — 3
CHARISMA — 2(5–6: skilled speaker; 7–8: master of words; 9–10: orator)
INTELLIGENCE — 3(5–6: well-read; 7–8: well-educated; 9–10: scholar)
CUNNING — 2(5–6: sly; 7–8: master of tricks; 9–10: elusive, a phantom)
Skills(I will not list them all too inconvenient only those developed):
Athletics: 30
Like skills, human attributes strength, control, endurance, charisma, intelligence, and cunning would naturally develop through training, experience, and the choices one makes in life.
*
That was all I amounted to. I was only twelve years old what more could be said? I had barely developed any skills, save perhaps athletics, and even that only to the extent of running without collapsing from exhaustion. In battle, I was useless; in commanding men, even more so.
During a minor noble feud, my house lost its lands, and nearly all its members were slain. The rival family had hired Cuman mercenaries, and they spared no one within the castle its gates opened by traitors. Yet for that family, it proved less a victory than a mirror of their own doom perhaps karma does exist somewhere in this world. The Cumans were not satisfied with their payment and, in retaliation, slaughtered those who had hired them. In the end, that house too fell, finished off and torn apart by other rival families.
A handful of servants, loyal to my house, saved me and settled in a small village called Roshtvaald, once belonging to my family. My guardians became the former estate steward, Martin Holzer, and the maid Anna a strict but kind woman. They had two sons: Lukas, fourteen, and Friedrich, nine.
They carried me away at the last moment, while flames were still devouring the main hall and чужие banners were rising above the tower. In the end, I became their third son without a title, without a family name, without a past.
That had happened three years ago. Only recently had I begun to remember who I had been in my previous life. My memories returned slowly, in fragments, as if through fog. Only when my mind grew stronger and more mature did I truly begin to understand myself and everything happening around me.
Hungary was one of the regional powers. The kingdom possessed considerable military strength and rich lands, yet all of it was undermined by endless internal quarrels and border skirmishes. These wars drained the country year after year bleeding its people and weakening its economy. Hungary was surrounded by restless neighbors.
To the south pressed the steppe nomads, who regularly raided the frontier lands. The Byzantine Empire, once feared across the world, had long since lost its former influence and was preoccupied with its own survival. Even so, it remained a dangerous and unpredictable neighbor.
To the north, Poland traded and prospered, increasingly meddling in foreign affairs. Rus' was fractured into numerous weakened principalities, consumed by internecine strife. The German lands were steadily growing stronger. In truth, nearly everyone was entangled in their own feuds, intrigues, and blood vendettas so few were truly prepared for a real war.
What frightened me most was the coming invasion of the Horde. Under Batu's command, they would sweep through Eastern Europe in fire. These were seasoned armies, hardened by dozens of campaigns. Unfortunately, I stood in their path.
A pity there was no Dracula in this world to drown the invaders in blood. Vampires were only myth tales for dark nights. Though, I admit, I would not have refused immortality, even with the minor inconvenience of losing the sunlight.
"Hey! Why are you staring at the birds? Work faster," came the voice of my adoptive father. In truth, I knew him far better than my real one. I had seen my true father only a handful of times, and his face had long since faded from memory.
Sighing, I tightened my grip on the hoe and returned to tilling the field. Village life had never been easy. The mornings began early, and most of the day was spent working. Most of the time you plowed and sowed; at other times you repaired fences, patched the roof, or worked around the house.
That was my athletics exhausting physical labor from dawn to dusk. Though I had not started working in the fields as early as other village children.
Glancing at the bright sun, I drove the hoe into the soil again. There was still a full week of work ahead. It was a shame we had no livestock to ease the burden. There was almost no money left. Only occasional surplus grain, which we sold for a few miserable coins.
By evening, my hands felt as though they had been fed through millstones. They burned with fire, the skin raw and stinging, and a dull, throbbing pain pulsed through my back, making it impossible to straighten fully. I lay on the grass in the shade of a tree, staring up at the leaves overhead and thinking about everything at once.
I was used to it. I had lived a peasant's life before, endured the same relentless manual labor without sparing myself. But I did not want to live such a life again not after what I knew, not after what I remembered.
"What are you thinking about, Heinrich?" my father asked.
"My family," I lied.
Martin was silent for a moment before replying.
"I understand. You saw another life. You were meant for something different. But it is dangerous for you to claim your noble birth. The enemies of your house may still live and sooner or later they may wish to finish what they started. And those who now hold what once rightfully belonged to you will never allow you even the chance to reclaim your place."
He sighed and continued:
"To remain here is to survive for certain. Yes, this life is hard. But you are alive. And that is what matters most."
It was not merely this life that troubled me. It was the fact that nothing outside castles and fortresses would be spared from the Horde. And even stone walls would not guarantee salvation.
"I want to become a mercenary," I said.
It was the only path I could see in my position. If death would hunt you regardless, better to use your life to its fullest. For the system, battle remained the most powerful catalyst.
"It is dangerous. Still, the choice is yours. Saving you was my duty. What you do next is up to you," he answered, without reproach only tired honesty.
That summer proved astonishingly fertile. The crops grew well; the rains were frequent but gentle, and the bright sun did not scorch the earth. Such a fortunate year had not come in a long time. The wheat ears were heavy and full, their color vivid almost golden. The fields held something precious, the most precious thing of all: food enough to sustain entire settlements.
Gold might be valuable, but everything came down to something simpler. Food was the foundation of all things. Perhaps the farmer in me spoke louder than I realized.
But I forgot one thing. If summer had been generous, then the meadows stood thick and lush, brimming with fresh green grass.
"Ha! Ha!""Ya!""Ket!"
The shouts of the Cumans urging their horses forward tore through the calm like the crack of a whip.
A horde of screaming riders descended without warning. They were Cumans light sabers at their belts, leather armor, swift and vicious horses beneath them, and deadly bows in their hands.
All I managed was to gape in shock. In the next instant Martin shoved me aside and began shouting, drawing attention to himself. I pressed myself into the earth, hiding among the tall rye, praying I would not be seen. With my ear against the ground, I heard hundreds of hooves, the soil trembling beneath their thunder.
A terrible scream rang out then was swallowed by the roar of voices and the howling of the raiders.
Only when the storm quieted did I cautiously open my eyes and lift my head above the wheat. The field had been trampled by horses, the earth torn apart, the village consumed by fire and steel. All I could do was crawl through the grain toward the forest, hoping to find shelter there.
When your life hangs by a thread, you begin to value everything you once had. From the outside, I must have looked mad eyes wide, breath ragged, hardly blinking, my hands trembling so badly I could barely move them. Only when I reached the bushes did I freeze among them, unmoving, until the thunder of hooves finally faded.
An hour later, I dared to rise and slowly make my way back to the village. A dead silence reigned there. Only dying fires crackled in the wind. The village was utterly destroyed. Not a single field remained untrampled. After slaughtering the inhabitants, they had mercilessly ruined the harvest as well. Some people had been driven off into slavery; the rest were simply cut down.
I saw Martin lying on the ground. A little farther away my elder brother. Of the house, nothing remained but a heap of charred beams, collapsed walls, and ash where life had stood only yesterday.
Lifting aside the ashes of my home, I stepped inside, forcing myself not to look at the bodies. Step by step, I reached a small place by the wall where a hatch lay hidden beneath a scorched plank. There was a cache there. With a dull thud, the lid gave way, and I pulled out my family's sword, wrapped in cloth the last true proof of my lineage.
It had been forged two centuries ago. More ceremonial than practical, perhaps, yet no less finely made for that. The blade had been carefully maintained and preserved in excellent condition. Now it was all I had left.
There was no longer a home. No longer the people I had known and loved.
"Forgive me for my weakness and cowardice," I whispered, pressing the sword to my chest, before stepping out of the house.
I wandered without direction, like someone who had lost all sense of where to go. There was no food here now, no shelter. To remain would be foolish. To wait for the local troops was pointless. Most likely they had taken refuge in the castle, waiting for the Cumans to depart or for enough forces to gather for retaliation.
I barely knew how to wield the sword I clutched to my chest. Casting one last glance at the village, I walked forward and did not look back again.
There was no road behind me anymore.