Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Chapter 192 Internal Strife in the Military Camp

Chapter 193 Internal Strife in the Military Camp

Meanwhile, in the central tent of the Hungarian military camp, five generals were holding a meeting.

"Another grain requisition team has disappeared? People and vehicles, swallowed up as if by the earth? Silver Dawn, it's Silver Dawn again!"

Commander Ducat, an old nobleman with graying temples and the marks of countless battles on his face, slammed his hand on the table, making the map scroll on it jump.

"Grozhev! If this continues, our soldiers will be so hungry they'll pick up their weapons and face us, even before the enemy attacks!"

'

The officer in front of him, Grozav, a pale-faced young man with puffy eyes, was casually taking the silver wine jug away from his lips.

He wore an overly ornate velvet coat, embroidered with intricate gold thread, which clashed sharply with the rough and simple environment of the camp. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, completely unconcerned about Ducat's rage, instead displaying a hint of flippant mockery.

"Sir, mind your manners. Before you is a trusted confidant of His Majesty King Sigismund, not a mere servant you may order around at will."

Grozav's voice was sticky with alcohol as he leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg.

"Let me remind you, Commander. The grain requisition mission has repeatedly failed. Isn't this due to your incompetence and your delay in sending troops to suppress the rebellion? It is your incompetence that has prevented my work from proceeding. I will write to His Majesty the King to explain this in detail."

Ducat felt a rush of heat to his head.

Born into a long-established military aristocratic family in Hungary, he rose to his current position through military achievements. He disapproved of Sigismund's practice of stuffing young knights who were only good at flattery and had no practical combat experience into the core of the army.

In his deeply ingrained belief, only old nobles like himself, who inherited honors and had weathered the storms of war, were worthy of wielding military power. And what was the result?

The king sent Grozav, a complete incompetent, to him under the guise of "assistance," but in reality, Grozav took control of the army's food, finances, and mobilization, leaving Grozav with only a hollow command of the battle.

"Incompetent? I'm going to expose your true colors to His Majesty!"

Dukat growled like an enraged lion, “Look what you’ve done to the camp! Stables, latrines, manure piles, all on the high ground, while the soldiers’ tents are crammed into the low-lying areas.”

It rained a couple of days ago, and our soldiers slept in the mud and water like rats in their burrows! More and more people are getting sick; how many can still pick up a sword?

And the grain requisition teams you sent out had routes planned like headless flies. When they encountered those damned cavalry, they couldn't stop them, couldn't catch up, and could only passively take a beating. What could they do?

"Oh? Is this my responsibility?" Grozav asked lazily, shaking the wine jug in his hand.

"Isn't that right?!" Ducat's roar nearly ripped the tent roof off.

The other three commanders in the tent—the bold Cuman commander Hertan, the shrewd leader of the Prague artillery Dietrich Katz, and the Polish mercenary leader Zawis—all remained silent, as if they had become reliefs on the wall.

Hertan meticulously wiped the scabbard of his curved saber, Katz studied the crevices of his fingernails, and Zavish stared at a pattern on the tent fabric as if he could see something extraordinary in it.

But the storm eventually swept over them. Dukat and Grozav argued heatedly, neither able to convince the other, and finally, almost simultaneously, they turned their attention to the three "bystanders."

"What do you think?" Ducat asked, panting, his voice hoarse with anger.

Dietrich Katz, with his graying hair, was the first to raise his head. His tone was as calm as if stating a truth: "Your Excellency Commander, Your Excellency Affairs Officer, our artillery cannot move an inch without His Majesty the King's personal permission. This is the rule."

Dukat and Grozav exchanged a glance, and despite their mutual dislike, they had to admit that Katz was right. Those cumbersome cannons were indeed a force strictly controlled by Sigismund.

"I can send more Cuman knights to escort the convoy,"

Hertan placed his saber on his lap; the bronze-faced Kuman chieftain bore the fierceness characteristic of nomadic peoples.

His Hungarian had a heavy accent, but every word was as hard as stone: "However, the requisitioned grain must be given priority to our soldiers and warhorses."

He commanded over five hundred light cavalry, who moved like the wind. In his eyes, the "Silver Dawn," a group with only a dozen or so members, were nothing more than annoying gnats that could be torn to shreds in an instant once spotted by his flock of eagles.

"impossible!"

Zawis, like a leopard whose tail had been stepped on, immediately exploded, "Why should you get priority? We, the powerful Polish mercenary group, deserve the best supplies!"

When interests were at stake, this belligerent mercenary captain instantly abandoned all silence. He also commanded around five hundred elite soldiers, initially drawn by Sigismund's generous offer of a daily Groshin to participate in the campaign against Bohemia. Now, with the war over, they were stuck in this godforsaken place, their pay nowhere to be seen, forced to scavenge for supplies, and now they were being outdone by these Cumans who couldn't even afford proper heavy armor?

Absolutely impossible!

"We rely on our Cuman warhorses and bows and arrows!"

Hertan retorted without backing down, standing up with his chest puffed out.

"ha!"

Zawis scoffed and stood up as well. He was half a head taller than Heltan, and his chainmail creaked dully. "In my opinion, you flimsy cavalrymen are no match for a charge from our Polish heavy cavalry!"

He habitually touched the counterweight on the hilt of his sword, a trophy he had taken from one of the knights he had defeated.

"Want to give it a try, Polish guy?"

Hertan stepped forward, almost nose to nose with Zawish, the air thick with the smells of sweat, alcohol, and intense hostility.

"Fine, let's fight! Do we need to pick a day?" Zavish grinned, a fierce smile spreading across his face. "Dare to duel me in the rain? The loser will leave behind all their equipment and crawl out like a naked baby!"

This was his favorite pastime, and also his means of accumulating wealth—defeating his opponent in a one-on-one duel, then stripping them of all their possessions to gain the glory and tangible benefits of victory. He was full of confidence in his martial arts skills.

Hertan's pupils contracted. The pride of the nomadic people made it impossible for him to back down. He had just opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, he was interrupted by Dukat's loud shout.

"Enough! You two idiots!" The commander's face was ashen. "We're about to run out of food, and you're still tearing each other apart like dogs in heat over some trivial order!"

He took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing his surging anger, and made a decision. "Listen, after the rain stops, I'll send out two convoys simultaneously, both of you."

He pointed at Zawish and Khertan, "Each will lead a separate force to collect grain. Whoever brings back the most grain will have priority in receiving supplies. The force that collects the least will have to eat the scraps left by the others!"

"Ha," Zawish was the first to respond, glancing contemptuously at Heltan. "Just what I wanted. I'm not one of those Cumans who only know how to burn down villages but can't find the granaries."

"I'm not one of those Poles who can't see their own worth and always make the wrong choices!" Hertan immediately retorted with equally sharp words.

The two stared at each other, neither willing to yield, their gazes colliding in the air as if sparks could fly.

Then they all snorted coldly, turned around and strode out of the tent to gather their men.

The air was thick with the lingering smell of gunpowder, and a suppressed anticipation of impending plunder and conflict.