Chapter 196: The War Between the South and North 11

Mansfeld had never regretted his life’s choices.

Though a life of betraying those he once served and trampling upon allies, he took unrepentant pride in the path he had trodden.

The strong subjugated the weak, while the feeble merely awaited opportunities to strike at their overlords’ heels.

Profit reigned supreme – not hollow concepts like duty or loyalty. Accruing maximum gains through deft exploitation constituted the sole imperative.

Such were this world’s immutable laws.

Dwelling on superficial justifications only squandered fleeting advantages.

Fixating on such trivialities prevented seizing tangible benefits when fortune availed itself.

Discard the extraneous. Claim the essential.

Unhesitatingly slay obstacles. Acquire coveted prizes through any means necessary.

This philosophy had defined Mansfeld’s existence – a life of mercurial allegiances and ruthless self-interest.

Ever willing to betray, ever ready to exploit…

A freewheeling existence unfettered yet inherently unstable – perpetually outcast, perpetually adrift.

The ‘Vagabond’ – an appellation befitting the path he had treaded until this culmination.

Now, that anarchic liberty dissipated like a fiery conflagration consuming a hapless, winging sparrow – an existence extinguished with bitter, vacant futility.

“Advance! Retreat now only ensures our demise!”

“Commander! Such recklessness…! Withdrawal remains our sole recourse…!”

“Impossible! Should we suffer defeat here, no future awaits us! Our fates shall be decided on this field today!”

“Lord Mansfeld!”

Despite Christian’s impassioned pleas, Mansfeld had already resolved upon his course – swiftly calculating their dire prospects within that maelstrom.

‘Retreat now forfeits any chance of recovery. My life ends here. The mercenary band I painstakingly assembled shall disintegrate, leaving my weakened remnants prey to those seeking vengeance. If such oblivion looms regardless…’

Burdened by a litany of accrued enmities denying any sanctuary, this perilous crucible compelled his bleakest determination.

Gritting his teeth, he spurred his steed forward, issuing the order to advance.

“Forward, march! I, Mansfeld, shall lead you! Crush these foes without mercy!”

A 7th-rank archmage of renown, his commands prompted the surviving mercenaries’ reluctant pursuit despite their forlorn predicament.

Not from renewed courage or optimism – they too recognized their flight’s futility.

Retreat now only invited their inevitable slaughter.

Thus they mechanically followed their commander’s reckless charge toward their objective.

Awaiting them beyond that ill-fated bridge crossing stood Wallenstein’s disciplined ranks – their preparedness starkly contrasting the mercenaries’ battered disarray after enduring the preparatory bombardment.

“So you are this ‘Wallenstein’ whelp!”

“And you must be Mansfeld – the mercenary ‘king’ whose grandiose title belies your vile treacheries against your Bohemian homeland.”

“As if you retain any moral high ground, betraying your Imperial sovereign! In such chaotic times, such hollow conceits prove meaningless. Victory alone crowns the last man standing with blade in hand!”

Punctuating that diatribe by drawing his weapon, Mansfeld’s defiant bravado met Wallenstein’s icy disdain.

Then:

“Attack!”

“All forces – engage and annihilate those mercenary scum!”

As both commanders issued their charges, the ensuing melee erupted.

Yet despite seemingly even odds, the battle’s outcome had effectively concluded before engaging.

Nearly a third of Mansfeld’s forces lay slain from the bombardment, their ranks in utter disarray.

Conversely, Wallenstein’s troops had already assumed their optimized firing arcs upon taking the field – their disciplined volleys prepared to receive the foe.

Against such imbalanced dispositions, Mansfeld’s reckless assault amounted to little more than a doomed wretch’s final, futile throes.

“Kkhuhh!”

“Kkhahh-guhakk!”

As Wallenstein’s musketeers and mages opened fire, the mercenary charge crumpled beneath the systematic onslaught without mustering meaningful resistance.

Like waves shattering impotently against unyielding stone, their defiant charge drowned in absolute, inglorious defeat.

Even while directly witnessing this rout, Mansfeld stubbornly pressed his hopeless offensive alongside his dwindling troops.

“Slay them! Slaughter these vile Imperial curs in God’s name!”

Invoking divine sanction until the bitter end, his frantic exhortations fell upon increasingly deaf ears.

Most survivors had already scattered – slain, fleeing or surrendering their weapons in despair’s throes.

Their contrived ‘just cause’ had disintegrated long ago, the avarice and arrogance fueling this doomed thrust finally expended.

As his forces evaporated from every quarter, Mansfeld’s solitary figure charged ever onward – issuing hollow warcries amidst that vacuous carnage.

The mystical wards shielding his path had all but collapsed under the relentless barrage.

His steed, mortally wounded, perished slowly beneath him.

An unmistakable spectacle – the Vagabond’s pathetic endgame writhing towards its pitiful denouement.

Eyeing that suicidal persistence, Wallenstein’s troops prepared their final volleys.

Until:

“Hold your fire – capture him if possible. Despite appearances, this ‘Mercenary King’ has wrought grievous harm against the Empire. Such a vile criminal must face the Emperor’s justice directly.”

“Understood, sir.”

At Wallenstein’s command, the firing ceased as his battlemages prepared immobilization spells to subdue the rampaging Mansfeld at close quarters.

Paralysis hexes and steed-binding enchantments – short-ranged but potent for disabling spent foes about to enter their optimal radius.

As the beleaguered Mansfeld neared that threshold, the mages initiated their spellcasting…

“Lord Mansfeld!”

“…!”

“What…what is this…?!”

…Only for an intervening force to suddenly manifest – interposing itself between Mansfeld and his would-be captors before spiriting him away under armed escort.

“Those troops – who are they?”

“I’m…uncertain of their precise allegiance…”

“That banner…it likely belongs to that woman – the ‘Mad Baroness of Hilburghausen’, was it?”

“…Christian, is it? Hmph. An inopportune yet timely arrival.”

Receiving Otto’s brusque report, Wallenstein’s features betrayed his bitter disappointment.

In that pivotal instant when immobilizing Mansfeld loomed, Christian had arrived to whisk him away – a stroke of impeccable timing from their perspective, but one leaving Wallenstein lamenting the prize’s escape.

“Shall we pursue? We may still have a chance to apprehend him.”

Otto’s query hinted at his readiness to act on Wallenstein’s command.

However, after a momentary contemplation, the Imperial general shook his head dismissively.

“No…regrettable, but let them go. With this, Mansfeld and his mercenaries are effectively neutralized regardless. More pressing matters demand our full attention over apprehending a toothless wolf.”

“…Understood. As you command.”

Though clearly disappointed, Otto acquiesced as Wallenstein swiftly refocused his troops.

“Reform our ranks – our greater battle remains unresolved.”

This particular skirmish had concluded.

Yet Wallenstein recognized the war’s pivotal confrontation still raged unabated elsewhere.