Edward did not arrive alone; behind him were a large number of Hungarian horse archers, all clad in blood-stained armor, clearly having endured a bitter battle.
The Hungarian nobles, wearing steppe-style heavy armor, charged forward, continuously drawing their bows and nocking arrows until the very last moment before battle, only then drawing their swords to fight.
"Boy, you've really made a mess of yourself."
Edward said, dismounting his warhorse, and after confirming that the Polish Knight was not seriously injured, he helped him to his feet.
"Cough, cough, thank you for this time."
If it were the old Meshko, he would never have shown such impatience, but now his words were full of humility and gratitude, a truly sincere humility and gratitude.
Meshko's injuries had eased considerably; although the affected areas still caused intense pain, walking and riding were no longer an issue.
"Strange, you boy, to be like this."
Edward was first surprised, then spoke to him in his usual teasing tone, but looking at those serious eyes, Edward stopped his words, as jesting had its limits, and any more would be disrespectful.
As someone who had also been forced to leave his homeland, Edward understood the feelings of an exile; he had experienced these things himself, but eventually overcame them with time.
He had thought this Piast descendant would need many more years of tempering, but now it seemed this battle had completely changed him. He was not surprised by this; the battlefield always changes people the most.
Edward's subordinates led over a warhorse, and Meshko weakly climbed onto it. Seeing his appearance, Edward knew he could no longer fight. He couldn't help but give instructions, for although the boy had changed, he still feared he might truly go mad and fight again.
"Rest well. I estimate my nephew should be blowing the horn to retreat in a little while."
Edward said, vigilantly observing the surrounding chaos. The nearby Bulgar forces were already on the verge of collapse, making it a good time to retreat.
Just as Edward said this, a deafening horn blast sounded, conveying only one signal—retreat.
---
Watching Edward rescue Meshko from afar, Rostislav couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief, and it was because of this that he ordered his subordinates to blow the horn for retreat.
He had just led his subordinates into the cluster of Bulgar archers. These fellows had been indiscriminately showering arrows, causing significant casualties to both sides, and now Rostislav had finally found them.
Thinking of the comrades who had died from stray arrows, everyone treated these archers with extreme cruelty. When their swords struck, they used their full strength, heads were split open, limbs were severed, and archers raised their bows to block the fierce attacks, but the bows would also break along with them.
"Retreat! Retreat! Faster!"
Amidst the horn blasts, Rostislav shouted loudly for a retreat. Except for a very small number of cavalry who were still immersed in the slaughter, most people began to flee towards their predetermined positions as planned.
Archers in the forests on both sides furiously drew their bows and nocked arrows at their fastest speed, casting as many arrows as possible onto the battlefield to delay the enemy's reorganization and pursuit.
The previously concealed crossbowmen even stood up. Under the fierce crossbow bolts, even heavily armored officers and warriors had to fall, and the fall of these command nodes undoubtedly caused more confusion among the Bulgars.
And in this chaos, Rostislav's raiding party withdrew completely, even collecting the wounded and the bodies of their comrades as much as possible, returning with victory and glory.
---
The broken sunlight shone on the post-battle ground, with numerous corpses strewn across the battlefield. The wounded screamed in agony, and everywhere lay shattered scraps of cloth and armor, making it difficult to imagine their former glory.
Brave warriors had now become mere corpses. A strong smell of rust permeated the air. Dejected survivors sat or lay, thanking their respective gods for surviving the disaster.
Many scattered soldiers were restoring order under the scolding and beatings of officers and warriors, but this could not change their low morale. Everyone hung their heads, looking utterly dispirited.
A few audacious crows had already landed among the corpses, picking at flesh and blood, only to be impatiently driven away by passing soldiers. For a time, the corpse-strewn battlefield was filled with flying crow feathers.
"How cruel."
Akad, surrounded by cavalry, looked at the bloody battlefield. His face was very grim, and he couldn't help but murmur.
This was the first time he had seen the Bulgar army suffer such a tragic state. The casualties from this raid must have been over a thousand.
And what was worse was the blow to morale; so many troops were broken by this sudden raid, and there were so many wounded. The situation was truly terrible.
What followed was anger. His old general of so many years had actually been ambushed by a boy, and suffered such heavy losses—his subordinates had reported their findings, allowing him to know that the Rurik boy was personally present on the battlefield.
"Phew, battle is just like this. I hate that boy didn't die by my hand the most."
Arel, with a bandaged shoulder, rode out from somewhere. He was the Bulgar warrior whose shoulder Meshko had pierced, but now, apart from the blood-stained bandage on his shoulder and the occasional pained expression on his face, there was no sign that he had sustained such a severe injury.
"Chase! Send people to chase immediately!"
Although Arel's words were flat, for some reason they made Akad's heart fill with anger. He had actually suffered such a great defeat in front of the Khan's people!
This anger naturally needed an outlet, so under his command, a Team of Bulgar elites quickly went to pursue the fleeing Slavs.
Arel's mouth moved. He wanted to say something, but in the end, he closed his mouth. Now was not his time to speak.
---
"Losses less than forty, very good. This is truly a great victory."
At the raiding party's temporary assembly point, Rostislav counted the casualties, and the result was that the number of dead and seriously wounded combined was less than forty.
This stop was both for counting casualties and for reorganizing the Team, as they still had to flee for their lives next.
Even more gratifying was that the majority of the losses were Polish, not his personal retainers—this was something that could not be spoken aloud.
Everyone was very happy, after all, this was such a great victory.
The Prince noticed that his relative's emotions had changed somewhat, but he couldn't quite pinpoint what that change was, only feeling that Meshko no longer had his usual belligerence, which made Rostislav curious about what had happened.
And just as everyone was immersed in the joy of victory, the sounds of fighting came from the forest behind them, but mostly the cries of Bulgars.
"Tsk, they really did pursue us. We still need to retreat quickly; the Chud Camp can at most rout them for a while."
Rostislav said, calling out to everyone to mount their warhorses, and led them back with that victory.