Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 274: Winter Camp

Rurik's prediction proved accurate. Rather than abandoning their winter camp and fleeing, the chieftain had rallied the warriors of his vassal tribes, silently holding their ground on the East Bank of the Dnieper River.

With the bitter winter fast approaching, Rurik wasted no time. As soon as his forces swelled to six thousand men, he ordered the troops to board the ships and cross the river, marching directly toward the Pecheneg Tribe's camp.

On the East Bank, the once-vibrant grasslands had withered to a sickly yellow, the brittle blades rustling and weeping in the biting, frigid wind. It was as if the earth itself could sense the impending slaughter. Thick, heavy clouds blotted out the sun, casting a desolate, iron-gray pall that pressed down oppressively upon the boundless wasteland.

Half a day passed before Rurik spotted a massive host of figures in the distance. The enemy numbered roughly three thousand. About sixty percent were nomads, while the remaining thousand or so were slaves outfitted with round shields and wooden spears.

"Look. Right beneath that banner stands the Pecheneg chieftain," he declared.

Rurik pointed toward the distant standard, where approximately two hundred cavalrymen clad in lamellar armor were arrayed.

"Understood. I shall launch the assault at once," Niels replied. Following their pre-battle strategy, Niels commanded a vanguard regiment of eight hundred warriors, marching them slowly and deliberately toward the enemy's central banner.

The front line consisted of spearmen clad in heavy iron armor. On the left and right flanks, soldiers pushed light, two-wheeled carts to form a makeshift barricade against cavalry charges, while a scattering of elite archers took up positions on the outermost edges.

The moment the battle erupted, the nomads resorted to their traditional hit-and-run tactics. Hordes of horse archers let out bloodcurdling shrieks as they charged the phalanx, unleashing a volley of high-angle fire with their feathered arrows from dozens of paces away.

A chaotic storm of arrows descended upon the vanguard, clattering fiercely against the spearmen's iron armor with dull, heavy thuds. Only a handful of unlucky souls caught arrows to the face, collapsing to the dirt with agonized wails.Simultaneously, the elite archers on the outer perimeter returned fire. Protected by their own iron armor, they drew their bows and let their arrows fly at the nomads dressed in tattered sheepskin jackets, effortlessly bringing down more than a dozen targets in the blink of an eye.

It did not take long for these loosely arrayed archers to draw the ire of the enemy cavalry. After a brief, deadly exchange of arrows, the horse archers realized they were losing the ranged duel. Unable to contain their fury, some drew their curved blades and spurred their mounts into a reckless charge.

As the charging horses closed within twenty paces, the archers smoothly melted back into the safety of the main formation. The spearmen halted their advance. The first two ranks dropped to a low crouch, angling their spears upward in a flawless, bristling wall of deadly points.

Allowing the archers to pick off the rash and impulsive nomads, Niels ordered his men to resume their steady advance. Moments later, the chieftain sounded the war horn. Instantly, an overwhelming tide of horses surged forward. The very earth trembled beneath their hooves as the riders unleashed piercing, nightmarish shrieks, draining the color from the faces of the younger, less experienced Viking warriors.

"Hold your ground! Anyone who takes a single step back will be executed on the spot!" Niels roared.

Niels stood undaunted. Through his veteran eyes, the vast majority of the riders were nothing more than untrained herdsmen. Their charge was a chaotic mess—some riders bunched too tightly, stifling their own momentum, while others were spread so far apart that the assault lost all cohesive force.

A fraction of the cavalry, mounted on superior steeds, naturally pulled ahead of the pack. However, their numbers were far too few. Though they fought fiercely enough to tear a fleeting gap in the shield wall, only a handful managed to breach the line, where they were swiftly and mercilessly skewered to death by the spears of the Viking infantry.

Meanwhile, the bulk of the cavalry, burdened by inferior mounts, lagged behind. Watching their most fearless comrades fall one after another, the herdsmen instinctively reined in their speed. They veered off toward the flanks, hastily firing a scattered volley of feathered arrows before peeling away.

The moment their arrows left the bowstrings, they considered their duty fulfilled—enough to earn the cheap ale promised by Chieftain Hurus. They wheeled their horses around and fled, bringing an anticlimactic end to what had initially seemed like a devastating charge.

With the Viking army drawing ever closer, the chieftain abruptly shifted his tactics. He dispatched his personal guards to rally the routing nomadic riders, redirecting their assault toward the Rus forces positioned at the rear.

Slammed by a heavy cavalry charge, the Rus lines completely collapsed—an outcome that surprised no one. Yet, neither Rurik nor Niels paid it any mind. They had anticipated this exact scenario during their pre-battle war council. They were fully prepared to sacrifice those expendable troops if it meant pressing their relentless assault on the nomads' central banner.

At a mere hundred paces from the chieftain's standard, Niels glanced over his shoulder. The dying grasslands were swarming with fleeing Rus soldiers being chased down by the nomadic cavalry. Drunk on bloodlust, the nomads had completely forgotten about protecting their own leader.

Niels's expression remained colder than ice. Having survived countless wars, such trivial chaos could never shake his tactical focus. "Loose arrows!" he commanded. Only the chieftain, a score of bodyguards, and a little over a thousand poorly armed slaves remained to defend the banner. Caught in a merciless, overlapping volley of arrows, the slaves broke completely. While many scattered in sheer panic, a surprising number banded together, turning their weapons upon the greatest source of torment in their wretched lives—the chieftain himself.

After personally hacking down two of the rebelling slaves, the chieftain tucked tail and fled with his remaining guards. Witnessing this, the nomadic riders scattered across the plains promptly abandoned the field as well.

With the battle won, over six hundred surviving slaves fell to their knees, begging to pledge their allegiance. Rurik accepted their submission. He allowed them to elect their own military officers to command their respective platoons and companies, integrating them as an auxiliary force.

Ironically, Rurik's forces suffered higher casualties in the engagement. The vast majority of the Rus troops had been routed, leaving only eight hundred men standing. However, since this contingent had always been considered highly expendable, their loss did absolutely nothing to diminish the army's true combat effectiveness.

After a brief rest of about half an hour, the army resumed its march. Guided by the newly recruited slaves, they discovered a well-sheltered patch of woodland just as dusk began to fall.

By early the next morning, a lone nomadic rider approached their encampment to negotiate terms. He suggested a truce, relaying Hurus's promise to cease all future harassment of Rurik's merchant caravans.

"Get out of my sight!" Rurik snarled.

After downing a hearty bowl of oat and horse-meat porridge, Rurik ordered the march to continue. At ten in the morning, Hurus dispatched yet another envoy, this time offering substantial financial compensation and even proposing to marry off his own sister to seal the peace.

"Your wealth means nothing to me, and Hurus's sister means even less," Rurik declared coldly to the envoy. "The only thing I care about is securing this trade route. I will use your complete and utter destruction as a bloody warning to the rest of the Pecheneg Tribe!"

By two in the afternoon, the army finally arrived at the enemy's winter camp. Sweeping his gaze across the settlement, Rurik noted a hastily constructed low wall made of overturned wagons and scattered debris ringing the perimeter. Beyond the barricade sat hundreds of thick, sturdy felt tents.

Rurik clapped a heavy hand on Niels's shoulder. "Finish them off, old friend!"

Niels immediately rallied all the archers. Advancing under the protective cover of the spearmen, they closed the distance to a mere hundred paces before unleashing a relentless barrage upon the enemies cowering behind the low wall.

Time seemed to blur as Niels watched volley after volley of feathered arrows rain down mercilessly upon the nomad encampment. His eyes remained cold and apathetic, his posture unyielding until the archers finally ceased their fire.

"My lord, we are completely out of arrows," a subordinate reported.

"You used all twenty thousand arrows?" Niels stared at their empty quivers, momentarily stunned by the sheer volume of ammunition they had burned through. Recovering swiftly, he signaled for the infantry to launch their assault.

The ensuing bloodbath lasted barely half an hour. Watching helplessly as heavily armed Viking warriors flooded his camp, a despairing Hurus made the mad decision to set the entire settlement ablaze. The rapidly spreading inferno threatened to consume friend and foe alike, forcing Niels to order a temporary tactical retreat until the roaring flames finally burned themselves out.

"What a ruthless barbarian!"

Rurik spat the words through gritted teeth. When the ash finally settled, the vast stockpiles of precious furs and livestock that had populated the camp were reduced to nothing but cinders. Only a pitiful handful of melted gold and silver trinkets could be salvaged from the blackened ruins. From a purely financial standpoint, this entire expedition had been a monumental loss.

"Withdraw!" he commanded sharply.

Rurik paid no mind to the handful of nomadic riders fleeing into the horizon. He deliberately allowed them to escape, knowing these terrified survivors would spread the tale of his brutal might, casting a long, bloody shadow of fear over the rest of the Pecheneg Tribe.