them.
The drums of the two sides were still beating. Gjorg finally made out the Albanian banners, but their black and white eagles seemed harried, as if chased by a thunderstorm.
âProtect us, Mary Mother of God!â he silently prayed.
He started retreating like the others, without knowing where to. Someone shouted: âThe Turks are attacking from this side!â Others shouted words that might have been taken for orders but quickly changed into laments. Again he lost sight of the banners with the Albanian eagles, but still he continued moving. âWhat a calamity!â someone shouted. âTurn back!â another yelled, but no one knew anymore which way was forward and which was back. King Tvrtkoâs banner veered to the left of the battlefield. Then for an instant Prince Lazarâs banner appeared in a dust cloud right next to the menacing crescents.
Everyone ran. Unknown men, short swords in hand, glared with wild eyes. Gjorg had lost all hope of finding his Albanians.
His mind a blank, he turned back to where he had just come from, to the abandoned tent of the commander in chief. He came face to face with Vladan. Vladan was sobbing, tearing at his hair: âPrince Lazar has been captured! Serbia is dead!â
âJesus Christ protect us!â Gjorg said, and held out his hand to Vladan to steady him. They made their way through the total confusion, Vladan ranting deliriously. âIâve lost my gusla! Perhaps I threw it away myself! I thought, what do I need it for! If Prince Lazar has been taken prisoner, weâre all finished! Where are your Albanians?â
âI have no idea,â Gjorg answered. âI canât even see our banners anymore!â
âThereâs no point looking for them! Theyâve all fallen! Throw away your lahuta, brother! You wonât want to be singing with the Turks!â
âHoly Mary!â Gjorg said. âI have never seen such a calamity in my life!â
Soldiers ran in all directions, gasping, stumbling over dead bodies. Men who had thrown away their weapons crouched down by corpses to snatch up their swords, only to throw them away again a few steps later. From all around men shouted: âStop!â â âWhere are you going?â â âWhich side are you on?â
Through all the mayhem, shreds of violent news were heard. Mirçea of Rumania was heading for the Danube with his Walachians. King Tvrtko, having by now lost his crown, was hurrying back to Bosnia. The Catholic Albanians were following Count Balsha to the foggy mountains of western Albania, while the Orthodox Albanians were following Jonima down to the Macedonian flatlands. Everyone but the dead was trying to escape from the cursed plain,
âI had a premonition in my heart!â Vladan murmured. âFor days now, I have had a premonition in my heart of this great disaster!â
âThen why,â Gjorg wanted to ask him, âwhy did you bring bad luck upon us, you wretch!â But he was too exhausted even to move his lips.
Hoarse voices came from far away: âCome back everyone! Good news! The Turkish sultan has been killed!â
Strangely enough, everyone kept running. They heard the news but had forgotten it in an instant. The day was coming to an end. It was too late to do anything. For a moment the fugitives glanced back at the wide plain, as if to sense where the sultan might have died, then right away, exhausted, they realized that his death, like everything else, had come too late.
Darkness fell quickly. There was a feeling that this day, with its harsh, morbid brightness, could engender only an all-engulfing darkness. Through this darkness trudged officers who had torn off their insignia, now doubly hidden, and soldiers, cooks, carriers of secrets that no longer served a purpose, keepers of the official seal, assassins who had not been able to ply their trade, army clerics whose terror had driven them insane, and
Brauna E. Pouns, Donald Wrye