It clearly hadn't rained for some time, or the massive clouds of dust that had been kicked up wouldn't have obscured most of what was going on on the right. Cries of horse and man and the clashing of swords and lances were all that would come from that section of the front.

As the footmen on both sides began slugging it out, it had become clearer that your infantry was cut from quite the different cloth than your enemies. You had also brought more archers, who whittled away at the numbers where the melee troop couldn't reach them.

It went on and on, and though they had come in numbers, the enemy clearly couldn't put a chink into the armour of your own footmen, who were hacking away against what by now appeared more and more a poorly armoured mob.

The impossible then happened: from somewhere in the enemy ranks, someone was shouting and shouting; more shouting came and came; they seemed to be more and more disorganised as your own infantry pressed hard. And what had begun as a mere shout turned into a panic, and then finally a rout.

"Now is the time; send in the cavalry!" You enthusiastically ordered.

"If we chase them now, they'll run blindly into their own; let's be off!" And you prodded Wittekind into moving.

What followed was a great, glorious mess as the rebels began to crash into each other en masse. A good chunk got trampled to death by their own. So much so that you had to order a general halt to prevent your own men from going in between that place of hooves and lances.

By the time the melee was over, whatever remained of a fighting force had been broken. You found Wladislaw, bloodied and with a black eye, looking both triumphant and deranged. He yelled something in Mozolavian, though you didn't know what. Though he made it clear just what he was looking for.

''Ah...Ah...Ahdlershorst, have you seen my uncle? It would do me great pleasure to find Uncle Leszek. Or if you can, bring me his corpse.'' His speech was slurred and mangled, and soon devolved into Mozolavian as he began to pay more attention to his own men.

You went over the battlefield alone for a while, overlooking all the dead that were strewn across the fields here and there. Prisoners and regular men were already being piled up to be burnt so that no necromancer could turn them; ordinarily there would have been a burial, but not here.

Leszek was eventually found, under his horse, a broken lance in his hand and a smile upon his face. With multiple slashes in his neck, several punctures in his abdomen, and a variety of other injuries,
it was clear that he was dead.
This news put Wladislaw into a jubilant and jovial mood, in spite of his own injuries. The rebellion had been crushed. He now had an excuse to confiscate their estates and fiefs. You had wished he had got a concussion; then he might have got some common sense into his head.