The Thrice-Damned Hussar

Disclaimer: Violence and ethically difficult choices in a historical fantasy setting.

The beast’s clawed hand twisted upward, gnarled fingers reaching for him. Kazimir Czarny’s lance slammed into its shoulder, splintering as the creature clawed at the tip. He laughed—dark, cruel—and released the broken shaft, riding on. The profane thing, twisted by the Ashkaran Alchemists’ sorcery, shrieked, a sound between starving man and dying ox, reeking of rot and hunger.

The hussars behind him drove their lances home, and the beast gave a final gurgling howl. From the infantry came laughter, cries of joy, and desperate prayers, as the winged riders broke the Janissary lines and their monstrous pets. Kazimir drew his szabla husarska—heavy, nicked, worn from years of slaughter. The blade still wept from old sins as he plunged back into the melee.

Violence blurred time. Seconds stretched into hours; hours collapsed into heartbeats. When at last the Janissaries dropped their muskets and fled over the ridge, Kazimir saw what remained: men broken by hooves, beasts spasming as they died. Sweat stung his eyes, blood slicked his reins—still, he laughed.

Above him, his banner whipped in the wind: a Black Knight on a white field, crowned in gold. Saint Odrzykoń the Black. Then the laughter died. The cheers faded. Heads bowed, whispering prayers for protection.

They did not cheer their deliverer. They prayed to be spared from him.

Kazimir’s chest heaved with bitter laughter—but the sound caught as he noticed the peasants. Their eyes were not on the Janissary corpses, but on him. Their prayers were not thanks, but pleas for mercy.

The hussars gathered, their wings rattling in the wind. Fewer now, but Kazimir had no time to mourn. The Hetman was dead. The Grand Marshal had fallen. Though the Janissaries had broken, they would return—and Korvazja’s heart could not survive another rout.

He spurred his horse toward the command camp. The road was marked with his own work—stakes driven deep, poles splintered and black. Carrion birds picked at what was left. Not only Ashkarans, but traitors and cowards too; terror was the only resource he has in abundance.

The stench clung to his black armor more faithfully than any hound. Sweat and blood burned in the wound on his thigh. A Janissary's musket ball had found him. Every step his horse took jarred it deeper, but he forced himself upright. Weakness bred fear.

He had chosen this damnation, he reminded himself. Better one soul lost than Korvazja. But the voices of the dead did not let him forget—each stake another accusation, every hundred paces another scream in memory.

The grand tent stood at the center of camp, everything else caught in its orbit. Banners of red with a white eagle flapped in the wind—a sharp contrast to his own. Kazimir dismounted with a heavy thud. His right leg buckled. Blood seeped from a hole. He’d bandage it later.

The command tent was unnaturally dark. The only light came from a circle of candles in the center. Hooded figures stood just beyond the glow.

“What is this?” Kazimir barked.

One woman stepped forward, lowering her hood. “Saving us, husband.” Her voice—sharp as prayer and betrayal—pierced deeper than any musket ball or monstrous claw.

“Saving us?!” he snarled. “You would make a deal with the Night Witches of Łysa Góra?” He turned and spat. “You would damn us all. Where is Hetman Polny? Where is the rest of the command?”

She stepped closer. “Dead. Captured. The west flank is broken.” Her words, once warm, now cold as the grave. The others moved forward, their faces still hidden. The Night Witches always kept their faces hidden.

“No.” His voice was iron. “There has to be another way.”

“There is no other way.” Her tone was calm. Steady.

“We can rally what’s left. Fall back to the Wisła.” His mind raced. There had to be another way—a way where others wouldn’t have their souls damned.

“And you would rally Korvazja, Kazimir? Kazimir the Black. Kazimir the Cursed. Kazimir the Thrice-Damned?” Her gaze didn’t waver. His name, once spoken as hope, now was whispered by mothers to silence their children.

“Those atrocities were for Korvazja. For them.” He swept his arm behind him, then pointed with an armored finger. “For you. I can bear the sins so Korvazja lives on.”

“You would damn yourself further for Korvazja?” she asked.

“Someone has to. And I won’t let others carry that burden.” He stepped forward, towering—but the witches didn’t move. He had set fire to more witches tied to stakes than he cared to count, watching women scream as judgment turned to ash. In any other circumstance, the Night Witches would already have been cinders. Yet here they stood, cloaked and whispering, beyond the reach of the pyres he once commanded.

She raised her voice. “You don’t get to make that choice.” Then softened, almost tender. “We’ve already made it.”

“We?!” His voice cracked. His hand drifted to his szabla. “What do you mean, we?”

Each one with child. The peasantry whispered that the Witches always demanded the first unborn child, for they had no sins to resist the bargain. Just like his wife, Roksana

“You know we have to do this,” she said. “You think the Ashkaran Janissaries will treat us better? You didn’t spare theirs.”

“I had to!” His roar shook the candles, then broke into a whisper. “Fear was all I had. You know that.”

She pointed to the circle behind her. “And this is all we have now.”

Kazimir’s jaw trembled. For a heartbeat, rage rippled through him—then broke. The szabla slipped from his hand, clattering against the scabbard.

“You’re the highest-ranking Rotmistrz left,” she said softly. “You’re the last thread holding us together.”

He knew what that meant. He was all that remained. It was worse than he’d feared.

He hated that Roksana was right. He hated that he had to let the Night Witches have his child. But there was no other choice. No salvation left but surrender.

He opened his arms. She hesitated, then stepped into them. He held her tight, feeling her tremble. He had no words. He pressed his hand to her belly— warm with the promise he’d never see. This would be the last time he would feel his child. He allowed himself that one moment. The only moment he could afford.

“My God save our souls,” he whispered.

He released her and turned toward the entrance. Behind him, the Night Witches began to chant. The air thickened with the scent of ash and blood. Shadows bent toward the circle. The unborn belonged to the witches now. The living would be spared.

Kazimir walked out into the cold air. The hussars stood waiting, silent. Their wings hung heavy with frost and memory.

“Bring me riders,” he said. “And fresh horses.”

He climbed into the saddle. The wings on the hussars’ backs rattled in the wind as they rode.

The sound echoed across the silent field—the remnants of the grand army, not even whispering prayers, as a thousand damned souls took flight.