Isabella's Heiress

The sun rose early that morning in Dresden. The morning chill allowed the dew to cling to the grass rather than fade away at first light. To the northeast, just outside the defensive walls, the bells of the Frauenkirche rung in the new day and a city held its breath.

Overnight thousands of men had taken up position on the close cut grass south of the moat that surrounded the ancient royal city. Now, on a large open field that stretched east to a small copse, they formed up in to two human squares and the birdsong was replaced by the regular thud of men's feet.

The steel tips of halberds swaying back and forth glittered in the low sunlight, an announcement of sorts to the entry of both sides pikemen. The infantry kept up by way of a half-run behind them, their low-slung swords swinging awkwardly to one side. Slowly, the once pristine field disappeared beneath a blanket of leather and steel until the two sides were within three hundred yards of each other. Once in position, both sides stopped until all that could be heard was the occasional cough from the ranks or whinnied protests from the rear as cavalrymen fought to keep their mounts in check.

There was a restless tension in the air, as men, many
of whom had seen their fill of slaughter, talked nervously amongst one another as they waited for the moment they would hurl themselves forward.

The sun was now forcing the deep shadows of the city walls to retreat and the moat started to glitter as the first rays found their way on to its flat surface. The silence on the field was now absolute as knuckles paled and eyes were cast down to the ground.

It was finally broken by a disturbance at the rear of one of the armies.

A rider and two escorts were slowly making their way through the rank and file. The soldiers made way for the new arrivals with a readiness borne out of renewed hope. A low murmur drifted over the massed ranks as those in front realised what was happening, informed by those behind who had started a chorus of ‘make way' and ‘watch out in front'. By the time the riders had got to the pikemen who made up the vanguard of the force, no one was paying any attention to the forces arrayed against them. All eyes were on the three horsemen, in particular the one who was now peeling away from the other two and making his way to the front of the massed ranks.

The rider cleared the front line and took off his helmet, revealing a cascade of sooty black hair that fell to his shoulders. It became apparent that
he
was in fact a
she
. The woman's hair served as a sharp contrast to the dapple-grey mare she rode. Her armour, dented but polished to a high shine, shielded a tall, willowy frame.

The woman pulled the horse's reigns in tight and turned it round to face the soldiers now waiting to hear what she would say. She looked up and down the extended line of conflict-worn faces before straightening up in her saddle and taking a deep breath.

“Today we fight for what we hope will be the last time.
Today we finally grind in to the dust those who would claim dominion over this land and all who breathe its air. Over these last few years, we have bled and died so that we may see this day, a day when we can finally banish to the shadows the evil spectre of Robillard tyranny and claim this soil as ours and ours alone.

“For too many seasons you have been pulled away from your homes and families. For that I am truly sorry but after today you will be able to tell your children that in a time of desperation and great need, you took a stand and fought for all that was decent and good in this world.”

The woman spurred her horse in to a gentle canter along the line so that all could see and hear her. It was also a signal to the two riders who had escorted her through the ranks. Each leant forward and pulled a long wooden pole from the side of their saddles. They unfurled two black and white flags, each bearing the same emblem, in gold, of a she-wolf stooped low on her haunches, preparing for the kill, and proceeded to head to opposite ends of the formation. The response to this was instant and the ground trembled as five hundred cavalrymen split in to two columns and raced off towards the flags.

“I am Isabella Calabria. My father, Guglielmo Calabria, has served the people for these many years as do I now.”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, thousands of feet started to stamp in unison. As they picked up speed a low cadence could be heard on what little wind crossed the battlefield. It was one word, a name, and it was spoken in a low, almost deferential, timbre.

“Is-a-bel-la, Is-a-bel-la, Is-a-bel-la.”

The cavalry were now on the flanks of the pikemen and Isabella looked over the heads of the men in front of her. Behind them, five hundred yards to the west, lay the
tents of General Romano and his staff. They had gathered on a hill,
all the better to see the oncoming carnage,
thought Isabella, but one man stood alone in the encampment. He was tall with grey hair and was pacing to and fro in front of his tent. Even from that distance Isabella felt like his stare could cut straight through her. “Soon, Rodolfo”, she whispered, “Soon we will go home”.

Isabella drew a slender sword out of its scabbard and made sure it could be seen by all who watched. “I have fought with you, bled with you, and drunk with you. Now I ask one more thing, I ask you to follow me one final time and inflict a mortal wound on our enemy such as he will never recover!” She raised her sword over her head and the low chorus that had slowly spread though the men became a raucous battle cry.

“IS-A-BEL-LA! IS-A-BEL-LA! IS-A-BEL-LA!”

Isabella looked at the breath misting up in front of her and a shiver ran down her spine as she wiped away the condensation forming on her breastplate. She tightened her legs around her mounts ribs. “Today we finish this! Today we say no more to your terror and intimidation! Today we take back what is rightfully ours!”

She turned her horse and looked across the field at the opposing row of flags now rippling in the gentle breeze. From beneath the waves of red and black cotton thousands of eyes stared back. Isabella replaced her helmet and set off at a low trot, joined by the cavalrymen who formed up in to three long rows. Behind them came the pikemen and infantry in their tunics and armour, keeping up a slow jog as they advanced to battle.

Both sides chose now to send their opening artillery salvos across the field. A quick succession of low booms was followed by a whistle and crump as twenty-pound cast
iron balls were hurled in to the oncoming foe. Men and horses fell as flesh and blood proved no match for flying metal. It was clear to Isabella that this day would be even bloodier than she had feared.

The horses picked up speed until they were frothing at the mouth and the ground trembled as the two sides thundered towards each other. Isabella had learnt not to flinch at the moment of impact and instead chose to lean in to the nape of her mounts neck, ensuring she made as small a target of herself as possible. Her skin tingled and her senses took on a keen edge as contact became imminent.

The hot breath of Isabella's mount mixed with the onrushing air and Isabella struggled to keep her position in the saddle. She set her gaze on one man directly ahead and prepared for what was to come next. Isabella slashed down hard with her blade. The man's eyes fixed in a mortal stare as her sword first entered then exited under his rib cage leaving a thin red slash which became a gaping hole as he fell off his horse.

Chaos ensued as men from both sides struggled for supremacy in their own personal engagements. The screams of the dying competed with the battle cries of those now looking to push forward. Soon the advantage was to those on foot as the horses fought for space that was no longer there. Gloved hands reached up and halberd spikes were hooked in to the armour of the horsemen before they were dragged to the ground and put to the sword. Isabella dismounted and let her horse run free, content to face her fate standing on her own two feet.

What she lacked in stature and strength, Isabella more than made up for in her agility and guile. Over the hours that came she managed to make her slender frame work to her advantage by sidestepping clumsy lunges from men
determined to claim her as a scalp, only to get under their guard and dispatch them with a sharp thrust or slash from her sword.

At mid-day, as the sun reached its bloody zenith, a thunderous deluge saw both sides struggle to stay on their feet. It became a desperate affair for all involved as they sank deeper in to the field with every step taken. But the rain had liberated Isabella, as she was now able to use her natural speed to its maximum advantage. She darted in and out, stabbing and slashing, causing a small pile of bodies to cover the field. Seeing this, the men around her fought with added passion.

But Isabella's forces were fighting uphill, a disadvantage that did not make itself clear until now. The slope itself was not steep and would not have caused either side much pause for thought when they were preparing for this day. Now a combination of its length, the wet ground and tired legs meant that Isabella's men could not push their advantage. Instead, after their initial disarray, the Robillard men they had forced in to retreat came back at them with a counter attack, encouraged by the cavalrymen at their back that threatened to trample anybody who ran.

Now the slope gave them the advantage and they came crashing into the massed ranks around Isabella. It wasn't long before all the gains of the previous hour were lost and it was Isabella's turn to see her men start to lose heart. Alone, cold and desperate, Isabella took one final decision. She threw her armour to the floor, raised her sword as high as she could and screamed. “This is it, one last push! If they break us now, it will be your families next! Your children will be slaves and they have already shown what they do to women that fall under their blade!

“Do you really want your wives to end up like that? Slaves to their lust!”

The rain came down harder than ever until it was impossible for anybody to grip their weapons or their opponent. Swords were dropped and knuckle-dusters and daggers appeared. When these failed, they resorted to gouging and biting, tearing off any piece of flesh that they could reach. The battle had turned into a bloodbath and if there had been any nod to chivalry at the start it was long since forgotten.

Isabella was so caught up in her own small slice of the bloody whole that she could not see what would have been clear for those generals looking on from the hill.

There could be no winner.

Sodden earth and physical exhaustion meant that neither side would be able to carry the day but they were so determined to kill their foe that neither would give up. It meant only one thing. Total carnage. This would not end until the last man or woman was dead and there was no one left to kill.

General Romano looked to the floor as he watched the decimation taking place before him. He had no wish to see so many fall, regardless of their cause, but this day had long been coming and it was now inevitable that the scene in front of him would play itself out to its grisly conclusion. Somewhere in there was Isabella, a woman he had grown to view as his own daughter, even if he was only her guardian. His pride in her was that of a doting father who only had one child in which to invest all his dreams. Now he was watching those dreams get crushed under foot on a rain soaked Golgotha. He turned his horse away, offering up a silent prayer, and looked to the ground, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“God forgive me for bringing this on my men.”

As he spoke, he became aware of a trembling at his feet that caused his horse to step backwards. The other officers with him felt it as well and they too had to fight to control their steeds. The trembling was joined by a low rumbling sound that got slowly louder until the ground below them shook with such ferocity that it was all they could do to stay upright.

General Romano reeled first left then right, as if tossed about in a boat by a violent storm. A blinding flash of light knocked him to the ground. The light was joined by a scream that sucked the air from his lungs and threatened to suffocate all those that heard it. He forced his hands over his head begging for it to be over as, for a second, he lost all sense of time and space. It seemed to him that he was in an all-encompassing darkness, in to which a light was slowly diminishing. He reached out a hand. He had a feeling something terrible had just taken place. A sense of loss swept over him and he wept for something that he knew had just happened but had no idea why. It felt like he had, in that moment, part of his heart ripped away.

General Romano found himself being lifted by a pair of hands. They were those of his adjutant and his eyes were fixed on a spot in the distance. General Romano followed his gaze to see that the armies were now no longer at each other's throats but was in fact separated by a wide crevice in the earth. It split the field of battle in two and even from this distance; the general could see where the earth was smouldering at its edges. Those soldiers that could stand were helping the wounded back, away from the gash that now scarred the landscape. But there was something else. A moan. The general couldn't be sure but it appeared to be coming from both sides.