Emeric Zápolya

The Imperial Baron opened the iron mask of his helmet looking around after stopping his horse to check on how many men he still has. And it is indeed a grave sight for him, only approximately half of his men are left, with wounds all over them and looking like they have just gone through a shower of blood. And of the half surviving a portion of them even lost a part of their body making them maimed, losing the capabilities to fight, but still trying to stay balanced on their horse backs simply supported by nothing but their perseverance. 

With a smirk on his face, the imperial baron looked up at the slightly slanting sun.

They have dragged these Ottomans for a lot of time here. 

"How is the fight! Soldiers!" He shouted out asking his remaining soldiers. 

"Outstanding! Sir!" The soldiers replied. 

"Great! Charge! Magyar cavalries!" 

"Deus Vult!"