Short Story- Battle of the Bosnian Highlands

Ivan, King Tomislav’s faithful knight, joined the King in the chapel. Tomislav sat in the confessional for some time before meeting his men outside for a large mass and communion. The reassurance of faith and the feeding of patriotism were their greatest assets and Tomislav knew it.

The King approached his favourite horse. A white stallion with light-grey specks on his flank, had a strong neck and agile legs. The steed, bred from Barb horses first brought by the Moors, was a combination of swiftness, agility and strength.

As Tomislav mounted, the stallion’s hooves cemented to the ground, helping to steady the sway of weight. A short snort from the stallion and horse and man were as one. Tomislav was ready. His knights, including Ivan, mounted by his side.

The Croatian army used their knowledge of their lands and the shield of night to discover the Bulgar’s campsite. Tsar Simeon’s Commander, the nobleman Alogobotur; Alog as he was sometimes known, was encamped in a valley deep in Tomislav’s territory at the foothills of the Bosnian highlands. Settled in for the night, it was clear Algo’s soldiers intended to rest before their attack.

Knowing the landscape, Tomislav’s army secretly moved in using the cloak of a moonless night. Even their horses were prepared; hooves covered in deer-hide socks smothered the clip-clop sound of a galloping horse. Seeing Alog’s main campsite, Tomislav was impressed. The Bulgar’s had chosen their position well, blocking all roads. If the Bulgar’s won, King Tomislav’s people would have to escape by sea to the Roman Empire. Tomislav sent his pageboy back to update his brother. Everything was now ready.

Alog’s army had every reason to for confidence. Superior in numbers and weaponry, and having won all battles to date, victory was expected. The Bulgarian plan was to advance into Europe through the sovereign nation of the Croats. Tsar Simeon’s strong, and at times reckless, Commander and his vast army outnumbered the Croats three to one

As early dawn arrived, a fog covered the area between valley and forest.

“The Gods are with us!” Alog’s men shouted. They were mistaken. The fog offered the Croats opportunity to approach closer than anticipated. Tomislav split his regiment into three brigades and a small platoon. The archers, foot, and mounted soldiers each forming a brigade while the Falconers fashioned their lethal platoon of silent ambush. With stealth and quiet, the foot soldiers circled from the river. The riders hid with the horses to the south, and the archers found high ground from which to aim making the Bulgar’s now surrounded on three sides. Falconers at the ready, the handlers prepared their birds. First the flock trained to attack horses and then the decoys was primed.

Carefully shielding their own horse’s eyes, Tomislav’s soldiers braced for stage one. As the fog began to lift, the first falcons were released. Silently and quietly taking to the skies. The falcons circled in the clearing air. Below them Alog’s army was mounting. The enemy looked up and was stunned at the cloud of birds circling above. Instead of preparing to ride into battle, they watched bewildered as hundreds of falcons swarmed above.

Then came the death dive.

The falcons zeroed in. Like feathered arrows, they found their targets, the Bulgar’s horses. Before Alog could react, hundreds of falcons lanced through the thinning fog, swooping down, aiming for the horses’ eyes. Alog and his soldier’s circled one and other, blank stares on their faces. Their horses moved from nervous to frantic as the birds drew closer and closer. Men pulled tight on reins. Horses held tight in their positions, ears pulled back, heads tossing right to left with fear and confusion, neighing, snorting, and the hot breath of fear streaming through flared nostrils. The soldiers panicked as the birds dove, see-sawing reins in a desperate attempt to back up their steeds.