novelraw Chapter 321: Militia Training
Chapter 321: Militia Training
To recruit a sufficient number of mercenaries, Niels not only offered exorbitant pay but also made a promise: once the war concluded, tribes that performed exceptionally well would receive agricultural technical assistance from the Empire.
Higher crop yields meant the ability to support larger populations. For the Rus Tribes, this was an irresistible temptation. Some chieftains even decided to lead their troops into battle personally.
Over the following month, Niels successfully recruited over six thousand Rus mercenaries and three thousand nomadic cavalrymen.
Although the Rus and the nomads harbored old grudges, they temporarily set aside their hatred for the sake of mutual profit, taking advantage of this once-in-a-century opportunity to make a fortune.
In early October, at the break of dawn, a massive fleet arrived at the vital Bulgarian coastal town of Varna. Ignoring the scattered defensive fire from the garrison, the fleet charged straight into the harbor.
A bronze dragon head towered at the bow of the vanguard warship, a copper pipe protruding from its throat. Accompanied by the rumble of mechanical gears, a torrent of crimson fire spewed from the pipe.
In an instant, the harbor transformed into a churning sea of fire. Over thirty Bulgarian ships were engulfed in flames. Desperate soldiers, their bodies ablaze, screamed as they plunged into the water, but the flames continued to devour them. The air grew thick with agonizing wails and the foul stench of burning grease.
The next moment, dull whistles echoed across the water. The ballistae of the Eastern Roman fleet unleashed volley after volley. Dozens of heavy stone projectiles slammed viciously into Varna's eastern wall. The battlements shattered and collapsed amidst the heavy thuds, sending a downpour of rubble flying through the air.
Caught off guard by the fleet's sudden assault, the garrison of Varna was in disarray. The commander frantically urged his soldiers to man the wall's ballistae and return fire, but it was too late. These defensive weapons had drawn the concentrated attention of the Eastern Roman fleet and were completely obliterated within a mere five minutes.
"What ferocious firepower."Standing at the bow of a galley at the rear of the fleet, Niels watched a spectacle he had never witnessed before. Beside him, the financial officer, Tytus, began to boast of the Empire's might:
"No vessel can rival our Sea Fire," Tytus declared, referring to the Eastern Roman name for Greek Fire. "For the duration of the war, you will never need to worry about naval supremacy over the Black Sea."
Niels did not argue. After observing for a while, he noticed the flaw in this secret weapon—its range was too short. The flames could not reach beyond thirty paces, making it suitable only for close-to-medium-range combat.
"It seems Greek Fire has its limitations. It cannot solve every problem, otherwise the pirates in the Aegean Sea would have gone extinct long ago," Niels remarked.
About an hour later, the Eastern Roman fleet ceased firing. A resounding blare from a war horn echoed from the flagship, signaling the land forces to disembark and storm the city.
Amidst the rhythmic shouts of the oarsmen, twenty galleys rowed toward the docks. The Varangian Guards, clad in double-layered iron armor, hoisted their long ladders and swarmed toward the crumbling walls.
At the cost of several dozen casualties, Niels seized the eastern wall and the city gates. He then allowed a massive influx of soldiers to pour into Varna, successfully conquering the town.
Following that, the Eastern Roman fleet continuously ferried in Rus infantry and nomadic cavalry. Commanding over ten thousand mercenaries, Niels spearheaded a ruthless pillaging campaign across the coastal region.
Throughout the campaign, Niels deliberately favored the Rus Tribes that were estranged from Rurik. He allocated them larger shares of the spoils of war and taught their chieftains advanced tactics, stoking their ambitions and desires.
Rurik's core domain was centered in Novgorod, making it difficult for him to control the tribes along the Middle and Lower Dnieper River. Over them, he was merely a king in name.
Once the war concluded and these Rus chieftains returned home, their rapidly expanding military might would inevitably lead to conflict with Rurik.
'Rurik, when I helped you train your army and attack the Pechenegs, all I got in return was your suspicion. This is what you owe me,' Niels thought. He did not expect to gain anything material from this; he simply wanted revenge for the harsh treatment he had suffered.
Throughout the entirety of October, Niels's forces did not push deep into the interior. According to their strategy, his sole objective was to draw out the enemy's main army. Once the time was right, Basil would lead the field army from the south and strike directly at the heart of Bulgaria. 'Sigh, I wonder how long this war will drag on?' Niels mused. 'If the enemy holes up in the mountains and fights a war of attrition, we'll have our hands full.'
Meanwhile, in the town of Luton in Britain, Fridleif was observing the militia training.
Beneath a gloomy sky, six hundred peasants marched slowly across the withered yellow grass in a standard four-column formation. Their clothing was a mismatched mess, and their right hands gripped wooden sticks roughly eleven feet long. Their eyes were filled with confusion and a hint of unease, resembling a flock of sheep herded into an unfamiliar pasture.
Scattered at the front and along the flanks of the formation were over thirty retired military officers and soldiers from the town, tasked with training the militia. Every so often, the officers had to stop and reorganize the ranks, severely dragging down their marching speed.
Half an hour later, an officer blew a horn, signaling the militia to change formation. The men dawdled for a long time before finally fanning out into a broad line under the harsh reprimands of their instructors.
"Cavalry approaching from the front! Prepare to brace against the charge!"
At the command, the front row of peasants dropped to one knee, angling their wooden sticks upward, while the second row leveled theirs straight ahead.
Shortly after, a dozen dark specks appeared from behind a low hill. They were local gentry who had brought their own horses, closing the distance rapidly toward the militia's defensive line.
The ground trembled as the specks rapidly enlarged into galloping riders. Unable to withstand the mounting pressure, some of the more cowardly militiamen panicked, throwing down their wooden sticks and fleeing to the rear. This chain reaction caused their comrades on the left and right flanks to break and run as well.
"Haha, these idiots haven't improved at all!" the gentry mocked, roaring with laughter from atop their saddles as they watched the militia's disgraceful display.
A short distance away, Fridleif remained expressionless. After twenty grueling days, the town's militia was still an undisciplined mess. In another half-month, the sheriff would send an inspector for their evaluation, and it was practically guaranteed that this rabble would fail to meet the standard.
"Your Highness, why won't you let us assist with the training?" a Royal Guard officer suggested. He believed that if his hundred soldiers stepped in to help, the increase in instructors would naturally yield better results.
"There is no point. I need to see their actual training progress," Fridleif replied. Throughout the training period, he had strictly limited his involvement to providing grain, never once interfering with the instructors' work.
He remained seated on his horse, observing the next drill—the spear charge.
Facing wooden targets placed two hundred paces away, the militia gripped their wooden sticks tightly and advanced at a crawl.
When the distance closed to a hundred paces, the instructors blew their horns, ordering them to pick up the pace. Along the way, men continuously fell out of formation.
At thirty paces, the instructors blew their brass whistles, and the militia roared as they charged the wooden targets. Some completely ignored the instructors' commands and sprinted as fast as their legs could carry them, breaking rank entirely. Others clumsily tripped over their own feet, bringing down the comrades beside them in a tangled heap. The injured clutched their ankles, screaming in pain.
Soon, two townsfolk rushed over with a stretcher, carrying the wounded back to the hospital for treatment. The remaining militiamen painstakingly reformed their ranks and resumed the drill.
It wasn't until sunset, when cooking smoke began to rise from the direction of Luton, that the militia realized they had survived another day. Breathing a collective sigh of relief, they lined up and trudged back to their temporary camp outside the town.