CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Tugra sped through the pass and onto the plain of the Mohacs Valley. Suleyman sat high in the saddle, brandishing his saber, his yell already hoarse from anger. Behind him, a hundred-thousand horsemen followed his charge. Another hundred-thousand infantry lined the ridges of the valley to march down its sides. The thunderous roar and unmistakable stench of battle plumed from the Mohacs. The boom of the Mehter war drums reverberated and heavy cannonade fired into Louis’ pavilions, all but obliterating them to flapping shreds of canvas.
Davud beheld the spectacle incredulously from the crest of the hill. Louis’ men mounted their horses for the charge. Each took his own course, erratic and evasive. The young King’s golden armor shone as he rode amongst the confusion of
