The recent desperate battle was like a bucket of cold water, suddenly splashed over Rostislav's head, cooling down his brain, which had been dominated by fighting and killing, and reminding him of his most important task.
Under the protection of his retainers, the Prince observed the chaotic battlefield; he saw groups of Bulgar infantry collapsing, Polish Knights and Hungary riders wantonly slaughtering the disorganized soldiers, but further away, more Bulgar infantry were approaching.
But none of this compared to something even more dangerous; Rostislav saw a unit of Bulgar heavy cavalry galloping towards him.
"Damn it, prepare to follow me! We must block those heavy cavalry."
Charging against heavy cavalry was extremely risky and would inevitably cause heavy casualties, but it had to be done; if that unit of heavy cavalry reached the battlefield, the situation might be reversed!
Just as Rostislav was about to spur his horse forward, his retainer suddenly stopped him. Before the Prince could speak, the man pointed to a unit charging directly at the Bulgar heavy cavalry.
"It's the Polish... Little Meshko..."
Seeing the surcoats covered in red leaves, Rostislav immediately understood who was before him. He was not surprised by this relative's actions; after all, Little Meshko had always had a strong self-destructive tendency.
"I really have to thank him this time..."
Rostislav muttered, he had originally planned to make a huge sacrifice and have his retainers go up, but now his Polish relative had beaten him to it—though he probably hadn't thought of that layer.
However, he still had to lead his army to reinforce them. Since the Polish had helped him hold off the most dangerous part, the subsequent support must follow.
When countless heavy cavalry galloped, the sound of hooves hitting the ground rumbled like thunder.
The main forces on both sides were heavily armored cavalry. Their warhorses wore barding, and the knights on them wore different styles of iron armor, holding lances or longswords, with their spearheads and sword tips pointed forward.
The two armies approached each other quickly, in a very short time. Soldiers on both sides tried to thrust their weapons forward, intending to use the immense momentum of the charging warhorses to kill their opponents. This was an unchanging tactic in cavalry engagements for thousands of years.
From time to time, knights were forced to scatter due to the might of the charge, but more people persevered. These were all glorious warriors; deserters would be scorned by everyone after the battle. To avoid such a fate, many forced themselves to hold on to the end.
Finally, two clouds of dust, from two different directions, collided, and what followed was like a mountain collapsing and the earth splitting.
Warhorses skillfully weaved into the enemy's gaps. Many people charged out of the enemy's cavalry formation almost unscathed, but behind them, there was a continuous sound of clashing steel.
Some unfortunate souls were pierced by flying lances and thrown from their warhorses, to be submerged in the torrent of the battlefield. But more people were thrown to the ground by horses that were stabbed to death—many warhorses were stabbed to death in such battles.
As the commander of the Polish Knights, Meshko used his lance to unseat a Bulgar Knight, the lance precisely piercing the poor wretch's throat, and then he flung the corpse away.
And once someone fell from their horse, a large number of cavalry immediately reined in and gathered to stab them, while their comrades found it difficult to risk getting close to rescue them. Most of those who fell died there.
The cavalry, as if by agreement, turned around in a wide arc, not forgetting to trample any unfortunate infantry who got in their way, and then both sides charged again.
Another fierce charge, and many knights fell from their warhorses, then were trampled by hooves. In this charge, both sides' formations completely broke down.
However, no one missed the opportunity to fight, and they all engaged in close combat. What followed was a melee belonging to the cavalry.
The Polish Knights were clearly at a disadvantage in such a battle. Poland's recent war experience had been to lighten heavy cavalry as much as possible to gain faster speed and more flexible reactions, and the direct result of this was a decrease in armor weight.
The Polish Knight's light armor was very ineffective against the Bulgar's heavy swords and hammers, while in contrast, their longswords and lances found it difficult to penetrate those scale and chain armors.
But fortunately, many Polish Knights still retained the habit of carrying javelins. Javelins thrown with the acceleration of a warhorse could easily penetrate even two layers of iron armor!
However, these differences meant nothing to one particular person; no matter what kind of armored warrior stood before him, he could easily cut them down.
And that person was Little Meshko.
Amidst the swinging of his longsword, blood flew, and iron rings, plates, and even steel plates shattered under his attacks.
Cutting off the arm of the enemy before him and watching the blood fly in the air, Meshko felt immense satisfaction. The pleasure of slaying a pagan and venting his anger surged into his heart simultaneously. The blood also splattered onto him, but he already had much blood on his body, which only made him more ferocious.
His demeanor on the battlefield was like that of a demon, causing many Bulgars to involuntarily recoil and retreat. The shattered corpses illustrated the fate of those who did not retreat.
Suddenly, an arrow volley rained down from somewhere. Meshko subconsciously raised his shield to block the arrows, but his warhorse was struck by an arrow. The barding failed to stop the flying arrow, and the horse immediately collapsed to the ground, wailing. Fortunately, Meshko was prepared and jumped directly off his warhorse, avoiding being crushed beneath it.
As Meshko fell, his helmet with its splendid plumes fell directly to the ground, revealing his young face. His armor was also covered in dust, losing its previous flamboyance.
When they saw Meshko fall, a group of mercenaries with varied armor surged forward. These mercenaries had been looking for dismounted knights to hunt down. They swung their long spears, thrusting at the Polish.
Meshko reacted quickly. He grabbed a broken lance from the ground and threw it at the fastest charging mercenary. The spearhead directly pierced the mercenary's leather armor, causing the spearman to fall.
Then Meshko drew his dagger and threw it at another mercenary, hitting him directly in the face.
Seeing Meshko quickly deal with two men, the mercenaries couldn't help but flinch. They were on the battlefield to earn money, not to risk their lives. This man, covered in dust, didn't look wealthy, and he was so difficult to deal with. Fighting this troublesome fellow was simply not worth it.
But their hesitation led to their deaths, because in the next moment, a heavy cavalryman galloped up and directly trampled over these mercenaries.
As the dust cleared, Meshko saw everything before him. He smiled, for what appeared before him was a fully armored Bulgar noble, his armor still gleaming so clearly on this dust-covered battlefield.