Sparks flew upward, struck from iron; splinters of lances, pennons, ostrich and peacock feathers. The hooves of chargers slid over bloody armor and horse carcasses lying on the ground. Whoever fell wounded was crushed by horseshoes.
But none of the foremost Polish knights had fallen yet, and they pressed forward in the din and crush, shouting the names of their patrons or their clan war cries, like fire racing through dry steppe, devouring brush and grass. First, Lis of Targowisko seized the brave Komtur of Osterode, Gamroth, who, having lost his shield, had wrapped his white cloak around his shoulder and used it to ward off blows. Lis cut through the cloak and pauldron with his sword's edge, hewed off the arm at the shoulder, and with a second thrust toppled him from his horse. The men of Osterode cried out in terror at the sight of their commander's death, but Lis plunged among them like an eagle among cranes, and when Staszko of Charbimowice and Domarat of Kobylany rushed to his aid, the three of them began threshing dreadfully, like bears stripping pods when they get into a field sown with young peas.
There too, Paszko of Biskupice slew the famous Brother Kuno Adelsbach. When Kuno saw before him a giant with a bloody axe in his hand, human hair stuck to the blade along with the blood, his heart quailed and he wished to surrender. But Paszko, not hearing him in the uproar, rose in his stirrups and split his head together with the steel helmet, as one might split an apple in two. Straight after, he extinguished Loch of Mecklenburg, and Klingenstein, and the Swabian Helmsdorf of a mighty countly house, and Limpach from near Mainz, until at last the terrified Germans began to fall back before him, left and right, while he struck them like a collapsing wall, and every moment a flash of the axe was seen and a German helmet sinking down among the horses.
There too, mighty Jędrzej of Brochocice, having broken his sword on the head of a knight who bore an owl on his shield and a visor forged in the shape of an owl's head, seized him by the arm, tore the blade from him, and at once deprived him of life with it. He also took the young knight Dynheim prisoner, and seeing him without a helmet, spared his life, for the lad was still almost a child and looked at him with childish eyes. So Andrzej handed him over to his squires, not guessing that he was taking a son-in-law, for the young knight later married his daughter and remained in Poland forever.
But now the Germans attacked with fury, trying to rescue young Dynheim, who came from a mighty line of Rhine counts, but the foremost knights—Sumik of Nadbroże, the two brothers of Płomyków, Dobko Okwia, and Zych Pikna—held them in place like a lion holds a bull and drove them back toward the banner of Saint George, spreading ruin and destruction among them.
As for the knightly guests, the royal household banner, led by Ciołek of Zelichów, clashed with them. There, Powała of Taczew, who possessed superhuman strength, felled men and horses, crushed iron helmets like eggshells, fought single-handed against whole crowds, and beside him went Leszko of Goraj, the second Powała of Wychucz, Mścisław Skrzynowa, and two Czechs: Sokoł and Zbisławek. The struggle lasted long, for three German banners struck that one banner, but when the twenty-seventh banner of Jaśko of Tarnów came to its aid, the forces were roughly equal, and the Germans were driven back almost a crossbow-shot from the place of the first encounter. Yet the fight was driven even further back when the Krakow banner struck, led by Zyndram himself, and at its head among the foremost knights went the most terrible of all Poles: Zawisza Czarny, of the Sulima coat of arms. Beside him fought his brother Farurej, Floryan Jelitczyk of Korytnica, Skarbek of Góra, the famous Lis of Targowisko, Paszko of Biskupice, Jan Nałęcz, and Stach of Charbinowice. Under Zawisza's dreadful hand, valiant men perished as if death itself came toward them in that black armor, and he fought with furrowed brow and clenched nostrils, calm and attentive, as if performing his usual work; sometimes he moved his face evenly, parried a blow, but every flash of his sword was answered by the terrible cry of a stricken man, and he did not even look back, but went forward, laboring, like a black cloud from which a thunderbolt leaps out every moment.
The Poznań banner, bearing the sign of an eagle without a crown, fought to the death as well, and the archbishop's banner and three Masovian banners vied with it. But all the others, too, outdid one another in ferocity and aggressive valor. In the Sieradz banner, young Zbyszko of Bogdaniec threw himself like a wild boar into the thickest throngs, while at his side went old, terrible Macko, fighting prudently, like a wolf that bites only to kill. He sought Kuno Lichtenstein everywhere, but unable to spot him in the press, he meanwhile looked for others who wore the most splendid garments, and wretched was every knight who met him. Not far from the two knights of Bogdaniec, the immensely grim Cztan z Rogowa flailed about. His helmet had been smashed in the first clash, so he now fought bareheaded, terrifying the Germans with his bloodied, hairy face, so that they thought they faced not a man but some forest monster.
Yet hundreds, then thousands of knights from both sides covered the ground, until at last under the blows of the relentless Poles the German onslaught began to waver—when something happened that could in an instant tip the scales of the entire battle.
Returning from the pursuit of the Lithuanians, the German banners, inflamed and drunk with victory, struck the flank of the Polish wing. Thinking that all the king's forces were already broken and the battle decisively won, they came back in great disorderly masses with shouts and songs, when suddenly they saw before them the savage slaughter and the Poles already nearly victorious, enveloping the German ranks.
So the Teutonic Knights, lowering their heads, gazed in amazement through the bars of their visors at what was happening, and then each, as he stood, dug spurs into his horse's sides and plunged into the battle melee. And so crowd struck after crowd, until soon thousands of them crashed upon the Polish banners, weary from fighting. The Germans shouted joyfully, seeing the arriving aid, and with renewed fervor began striking at the Poles. A terrible battle raged along the whole line; the earth flowed with streams of blood; the sky darkened and hollow thunder sounded, as if God Himself wished to mingle among the combatants.
But victory began to lean toward the Germans... Already, already confusion was starting in the Polish ranks; already the raging Teutonic hosts began to sing their triumph song with one voice: "Christ ist erstanden!..."
And then something even more terrible happened.
One Krzyżak lying on the ground slit the belly of the horse ridden by Marcin z Wrocimowic, who bore the great Krakow banner with the crowned eagle, sacred to all the armies. The horse and rider toppled suddenly, and with them the banner swayed and fell.
In an instant, hundreds of iron arms reached for it, and from every German chest burst a roar of joy. They thought it was the end, that fear and panic would now seize the Poles, that the time of defeat, murder, and slaughter had come, that they would only have to chase and cut down the fleeing.
But a bloody disappointment awaited them.
The Polish armies cried out in despair as one man at the sight of the falling banner, yet in that cry and that despair there was not fear but fury. One would have said that living fire had fallen on the armor. The most terrible men from both armies rushed like enraged lions toward the spot, and one would have said a storm had broken loose around the banner. Men and horses churned into a monstrous vortex, and in that vortex arms flashed, swords clashed, axes roared, steel grated on iron; the crash, groans, wild screams of men being massacred blended into one horrifying sound, as if the damned had suddenly cried out from the depths of hell. A dust cloud rose, and from it bolted horses blind with terror, without riders, with bloodshot eyes and manes wildly streaming.
But it lasted only a short time. Not a single German came out of that storm alive, and after a moment the recaptured banner waved again over the Polish ranks. The wind stirred it, unfurled it, and it bloomed magnificently like a giant flower, as a sign of hope and as a sign of God's wrath for the Germans, and of victory for the Polish knights.
The entire army greeted it with a cry of triumph and struck at the Germans with such frenzy that every banner seemed to have doubled in strength and numbers.
And the Germans, beaten without mercy, without respite, without even the pause that lungs need for breath, pressed from all sides, pushed, struck relentlessly by sword, ax, halberd, and mace blows, began again to waver and give way. Here and there voices called for mercy. Here and there a foreign knight would burst from the crush, his face blanched with fear and amazement, and flee in desperation wherever his even more terrified horse carried him. Most of the white cloaks worn by the monastic brothers on their armor already lay on the ground.
So heavy anxiety seized the hearts of the Teutonic commanders, for they understood that their only salvation lay in the Master, who had stood in readiness at the head of sixteen reserve banners until now.
He, watching the battle from above, also understood that the moment had come, and he moved his iron ranks as the wind moves a heavy, calamitous, hail-bearing cloud.
But even earlier, before the third Polish line, which had not yet taken part in the fighting, Zyndram of Maszkowice appeared on a rearing horse, overseeing everything and attentive to the battle's course.
Among the Polish infantry stood several companies of hired Czechs. One of them had wavered even before the encounter, but was shamed into staying in place in time, and having thrown out its commander, now burned with battle lust, eager to make up for its momentary weakness with valor. But the main forces consisted of Polish regiments, made up of mounted but not armored lesser nobles, town infantry, and numerous peasant troops, armed with pikes, heavy javelins, and scythes set upright on poles.
"Ready! Ready!" Zyndram of Maszkowice shouted in a tremendous voice, flying like lightning along the ranks.
"Ready!" repeated the lesser commanders.
So the peasants, understanding that their time had come, propped the shafts of spears, flails, and scythes against the ground, crossed themselves with the holy cross, and began to spit into their huge, work-hardened palms.
And that ominous spitting was heard along the entire line, then each grabbed his weapon and drew a breath. At that moment, a servant rode up to Zyndram with an order from the king and whispered something breathlessly into his ear, and he, turning to the infantry, waved his sword and shouted:
"Forward!"
"Forward! In a wide line! Steady!" rang out the leaders' cries.
"Go! At the scoundrels! Into them!"
They moved. To keep a steady step and not break the ranks, they all began to repeat together:
"Hai—l Ma—ry, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee!!!"
And they advanced like a flood. The hired regiments and town servants went; peasants from Little Poland and Greater Poland, and Silesians who had taken refuge in the Kingdom before the war; and Masurians from near Ełk who had fled from the Teutonic Knights. The whole field gleamed and flashed from the points of javelins and from scythes.
Until they reached.
"Strike!" the commanders shouted.
"Ugh!"
And each grunted like a sturdy woodcutter swinging his ax for the first time, then began to fell with all the strength and breath his chest could muster.
Screams and shouts rose up to heaven.
The king, who from an elevated spot directed the entire battle, sent out servants and had grown hoarse from giving orders, but when he saw at last that all the armies were working, he himself began to strain for battle.
His courtiers would not let him go, fearing for the lord's sacred person. Żóława seized the reins of the horse, and though the king struck him on the hand with his lance, he did not let go. Others also blocked the way, pleading, begging, and arguing that he would not tip the battle's fate anyway.
And meanwhile, the greatest danger suddenly hung over the king and his entire retinue.
The Master, following the example of those who had returned after the rout of the Lithuanians and also wishing to outflank the Poles, wheeled around, with the result that his sixteen elite banners had to pass not far from the hill where Władysław Jagiello stood.
The danger was spotted at once, but there was no time to retreat. They only furled the royal standard, and at the same time the king's secretary, Zbigniew z Oleśnicy, spurred his horse at full speed to the nearest banner, which was just preparing to meet the enemy, and which was led by the knight Mikołaj Kiełbasa.
"The king is encircled! To the rescue!" called Zbigniew.
But Kiełbasa, having lost his helmet earlier, tore his whole cap, wet with sweat and blood, from his head and, showing it to the messenger, shouted with terrible anger:
"Look—do you think we're idle here? Madman! Don't you see that cloud is coming at us, and that we would lead it right onto the king? So go away, or I'll run you through with my sword!"
And forgetting whom he was speaking to, breathless, carried away by anger, he actually aimed at the messenger, who, seeing whom he was dealing with, and more importantly that the old warrior was right, spurred back to the king and repeated what he had heard.