novelraw Chapter 402: New Land
Chapter 402: New Land
After a brief panic, the nomads recovered their morale and began building more long ladders.
They had migrated here from the distant northern shores of the Black Sea. Their former pastures had already been divided up by their neighbors, cutting off any path of retreat. Now, their only option was to fight to the death in Wallachia.
Early morning, September 20th.
The sky was overcast, and cold winds howled. Under the cover of archers, two thousand nomads charged toward the city walls, carrying long ladders on their shoulders.
The stone city walls stood roughly six meters high, flanked by a moat about three meters deep. Enduring the rain of crossbow bolts from above, the nomads quickly erected their long ladders.
"Charge up there and hack down these cowards!"
Raising their scimitars and round shields, they roared as they scaled the long ladders. Most were shot down by the militia crossbowmen, but a lucky few managed to scramble to the top of the wall, only to face the siege of elite armored soldiers. They were swiftly hacked to pieces by a flurry of swords.
Atop the watchtower, Alfred's expression remained calm, as if he were watching a drama that had nothing to do with him. Suddenly, a knight beside him spoke up to remind him,
"My lord, the brothers are expending too much stamina. Should we deploy our special measures?"
Alfred shook his head slowly. "There is no rush. Nomadic tribes practice slavery. A large tribe like this usually keeps two or three thousand slaves. They toil endlessly during times of peace, and in wartime, they are shoved to the very front to absorb the enemy's arrows."No matter how many slaves are lost, the chieftain won't feel a pang of heartache. Wait a little longer. Once the ordinary tribesmen and elites join the fray, I will unleash our special measures and teach them a lesson they will never forget."
The battle raged on for over half an hour before the nomads finally retreated. A few of the fastest runners were cut down, while the survivors were herded together under strict guard, designated to serve as the vanguard for the next wave of attacks.
At eight o'clock in the morning, the second wave of the assault began. This time, alongside the surviving slave soldiers, regular nomadic tribesmen and elite warriors clad in iron armor joined the battle.
This attack was far more effective. Within minutes, an agile young nomad vaulted over the battlements, swinging his blade to cut down the nearest crossbowman and scaring off two other militiamen. Nearby elite armored troops rushed over upon hearing the commotion and pierced the young man's body with their spears, but even more nomads were already surging up from that breach.
The garrison formed a spear wall, attempting to push the boarding enemies back down. The nomadic warriors fought in groups of three or five, standing back-to-back, fighting desperately to buy time for more of their comrades to scale the wall.
Atop the watchtower, Alfred remained silent, his gaze fixed on the situation along the eastern and southern walls. By now, the reserves had been thrown into the meat grinder, but they could only hold the line for so long. An endless stream of nomads was still climbing the walls.
Finally, he issued a low command. "It is time."
The knight to his right raised a black flag and waved it frantically, relaying the message to their allied forces at the north of the city.
A small river flowed along the northern side of Buzău. Someone had previously suggested diverting the river into the moat, but Alfred, struck by a sudden whim at the time, rejected the idea. Instead, he ordered the construction of two sluice gates.
Now, upon seeing the black flag, the garrison in the northwest corner of the city sprang into action. Over a dozen burly men strained together to push the winch, slowly cranking open the sluice gates.
The next moment, river water roared into the moat. Churning with mud, it formed an irresistible, surging torrent.
The nomadic warriors currently scaling the long ladders were the first to suffer. The violent current slammed into the base of the ladders, instantly throwing over a hundred of them off balance. Men and ladders alike plunged into the churning water.
Not long after, the sluice gates in the northeast were also opened. The rushing river water flowed in from the northwest, circled the city walls counterclockwise, swept up a massive number of panicked nomads, and poured out through the northeastern gates, ultimately rejoining the downstream riverbed.
"Water! There's water in the moat!"
Panicked shouts spread outside the city. Countless nomads were forced to halt at the edge of the moat, staring helplessly at the expanse of water, which was roughly five meters wide.
The garrison's morale surged, and they launched a fierce counterattack. "Push them into the river!"
The nomadic warriors on the city walls suddenly found themselves completely isolated and without support. Looking back, the dry moat had transformed into a raging river in an instant, rendering it impassable for their reinforcements.
They were gradually divided and surrounded. Some fought to the death, while others leapt off the wall and tried to swim to the opposite bank, only to be riddled with a volley of crossbow bolts. In the end, a mere fifty men survived.
Following two consecutive failures, the besiegers had lost one thousand four hundred slave soldiers, five hundred regular tribesmen, and five hundred iron-armored elites. Morale plummeted to rock bottom, forcing the chieftain to halt the offensive.
Atop the watchtower, a rare smile graced Alfred's lips.
"Have the interpreter shout a message to the enemy. Tell them that if they still have the guts, they can come at us again. I have plenty more methods to deal with them!"
Ever since the remnants of the Frankish Army retreated to Italy, Charles the Bald and his nobles had devoured a massive number of books. They started with military treatises, then moved on to engineering and alchemical texts. Some even secretly studied pagan literature banned by the church, hoping to learn legendary dark magic.
During this long period of intense reading, Alfred had accumulated a vast wealth of knowledge. While he might not be able to defeat the Great Viking Army, he had more than enough tricks to deal with these nomads.
The chieftain abandoned the assault on Buzău and dispatched scouts to the south. They soon discovered that the local residents had all sought refuge within ten walled settlements. The villages in the wilderness were completely deserted, leaving not a single grain of food to be plundered.
What should they do next?
The chieftain felt a bitter despair. If they couldn't wipe out these towns and the stalemate dragged on until next spring, the garrison could send out light cavalry to harass them. His people wouldn't be able to graze their livestock in peace, and the entire tribe would be driven to a dead end.
Five days later, reconnaissance riders returning from their scouting mission brought good news. To the southwest of the Carpathian Mountains lay an incredibly vast plain, large enough to easily accommodate the entire Magyar population.
"Are you certain?"
The chieftain dispatched over a hundred more riders to verify the claim, soon receiving more detailed intelligence. The area had originally been the pastureland of the Avar Khaganate. Decades ago, this mighty khaganate had been destroyed by an even stronger enemy. The pastures had since become ownerless land, entirely devoid of these infuriating stone city walls.
(In the sixth century AD, the Avars were defeated by the Turks and forced to migrate to the steppes on the northern shores of the Black Sea. Later, capitalizing on internal conflicts within the Carpathian Basin, the Avars rapidly flooded into the region. This vast, flat pastureland perfectly suited their nomadic customs. The Avar Khaganate lasted for over two hundred years until it was jointly destroyed by Charlemagne and Bulgaria.)
Furthermore, the Carpathian Mountains were not a steep, impassable range. There were multiple low-altitude passes and river valleys that were easy to traverse.
Since there was a better territory available, the chieftain had no interest in staying in Wallachia to fight a life-and-death struggle with the locals. He dispatched an envoy to negotiate with Charles the Bald, promising to leave immediately on the condition that they were paid a sum of grain and hay.
"On what grounds?" Charles the Bald was furious. "If you take the grain and continue attacking our towns, what am I supposed to do? Unless you hand over hostages!"
Unexpectedly, the chieftain, named Borsho, agreed. He allowed the Franks to visit his camp and select two hundred hostages. Even when the chosen hostages included two of his own daughters, he did not go back on his word.
What was going on?
Charles the Bald instinctively suspected a trap. He questioned the five scribes responsible for selecting the hostages, "Were you played for fools? Did you just bring back a bunch of irrelevant slaves?"
"Absolutely not!" a scribe said, pointing at the group of hostages. "Look closely, Your Majesty. It's impossible for lower-class nomads to have this kind of complexion and physique."
Half-believing and half-doubting, Charles the Bald agreed to send out five hundred carts of hay, promising to deliver the remaining hay and grain only after the nomads had fully departed his borders.
Two days later, news arrived that Borsho had lifted the siege on Buzău and ordered his people to dismantle their tents, initiating the next phase of their long migration.
The Franks sent out another batch of hay and dispatched numerous riders to scout the area. They discovered that the Magyars had not lied; they were indeed crossing the Carpathian Mountains. The mountain winds of October carried a chilling bite as tens of thousands of nomads trudged slowly along the ancient road. The clatter of horses' hooves striking the gravel paths rang out sharply.
The higher they climbed, the sparser the woods became. Cold winds howled down from the peaks, sweeping up bits of withered grass and whipping them against the people's faces.
"How much further?" Borsho asked, looking with worry at the elderly, the weak, the women, and the children. He scolded the reconnaissance riders in dissatisfaction.
"Just ahead. Once we cross this pass, we'll be there."
Borsho continued walking, leaning heavily on his walking stick. By the time he reached the highest point of the pass, panting heavily, his field of vision suddenly opened up. Nestled amidst the rolling mountains lay a broad, flat valley.
It was mid-afternoon, and the sunlight had broken free from the constraints of the gloomy clouds, pouring down generously to coat the valley in a soft, golden luster.
A small river meandered through the center of the valley, flanked by lush meadows that still retained a hint of green. Further away, large expanses of beech and birch forests grew along the gentle slopes, effectively blocking the biting winds from the outside world.
"What a wonderful place. You all did well!"
Borsho praised the reconnaissance riders for their contributions, rewarding each of them with a slave, a barrel of wine, and four sheep.
The grueling journey finally came to an end here. Borsho left the majority of his tribesmen and livestock in the valley to survive the winter, while he led over two thousand riders, traveling light, to advance into the Carpathian Basin and plunder to their hearts' content.
This area was originally within Moravia's sphere of influence. Being on the fringes of their rule, it was sparsely populated. Only a small number of Slavs and Avars lived here, maintaining an agro-pastoral way of life.
Faced with the plunder of the Magyar light cavalry, the surrounding settlements fell one after another. As Borsho gathered more intelligence, he was overjoyed.
"This land is far too vast. My Gyula Tribe only has a population of fifty thousand. Why don't we find other tribes to come and help us?"
Borsho returned to the valley and discussed the matter with the elders at length. Ultimately, they decided to dispatch messengers to invite two allied, albeit weaker, Magyar tribes to help them seize control of this new land and establish a new khaganate!
November, Londinium. Wigg was processing official documents from various regions.
Four years had passed since the conquest of West Francia. The Cabinet had continuously transported immigrants from Northern Europe to places like Calais and Paris. A total of two hundred thousand immigrants had been relocated, averaging ten thousand immigrants per county.
Flipping through the reports from the sheriffs, all twenty Imperial Counties were currently running a financial deficit. The reasons were as follows: each county had to bear the expenses of its garrison and anti-bandit operations; new immigrants were exempt from agricultural taxes for two years; and the Frankish farmers complied only in appearance but opposed in secret, leading to an abysmally low tax collection efficiency.
In the foreseeable future, the directly administered territories on the Southern Channel Coast would still require massive funding allocations from the Cabinet.
Following the end of the war in 873 AD, the total population of the Viking Empire stood at roughly fifteen million. Britain held a population of three million, while the directly administered territories on the Southern Channel Coast had two million. The remaining ten million were scattered across Continental Europe in a state of laissez-faire, providing almost no direct taxes.
The empire's finance relied heavily on commercial taxes. Last year's fiscal revenue reached two hundred and sixty thousand pounds, which was enough to maintain this colossal territory, with surplus funds left over for new large-scale projects.
The first of these was a high-standard arterial road located in West Francia. Goods from Britain would travel upstream along the River Seine, cover a stretch overland, and then be loaded onto ships at the upper reaches of the Saône River to be transported to the Mediterranean Sea. The Cabinet had spent a fortune building this road, which not only promoted commerce but also facilitated the deployment of troops during wartime.
Additionally, the Cabinet planned to construct sewers and aqueducts in large towns to improve sanitary conditions.
The primary labor force for these construction projects consisted of prisoners of war and rebel farmers. After serving a designated term, they would be thrown out to the New World, or to Livonia, or Pannonia (the name Greger had chosen for his kingdom).
Wigg reviewed the subsequent documents. The empire's financial situation was sound, grain reserves were abundant, rebellions across Continental Europe were gradually subsiding, and the Eastern Roman Empire was too busy dealing with matters in Asia Minor...
Overall, this was a year of steady development.
He finished the last half cup of his warm cocoa and pulled out the final report. It detailed the exploration results from the Department of Overseas Affairs across various islands.
The report indicated that the Azores Islands, the Canary Islands, the Faroe Islands, and others lacked guano deposits suitable for large-scale mining. Additionally, eight sailing ships were currently exploring the Caribbean Sea and the South Atlantic, searching for a reliable source of saltpeter for the empire. News was expected by next year.
Last year's war had depleted the empire's gunpowder reserves. To replenish the gunpowder, the Cabinet had assigned quotas to the sheriffs and town mayors of the Imperial Counties, requiring them to organize manpower to scrape saltpeter earth from the walls of livestock pens. Unfortunately, the yield was incredibly low, and the practice was met with strong resistance from the populace.
In Wigg's memory, the saltpeter of eighteenth and nineteenth-century Europe primarily came from India and Chile. Since those shipping routes had not yet been opened, they could only rely on sailing ships exploring far and wide to find islands rich in guano.
The Caribbean Sea.
After three weeks of continuous sailing, the crew of the Kestrel were utterly listless, lacking even the energy to chat. Corn-cob pipes clenched in their mouths, they leaned against the ship's railing and stared blankly into the distance.
"Island ahead!"
Following the lookout's shout, the crew members raised their heads one after another. Before them was simply a grayish-brown rock jutting abruptly from the azure sea—steep, desolate, looking as if a giant had casually tossed a boulder into the water.
The captain maneuvered the sailing ship closer to the island, dropped the anchor to moor the vessel, and led a small boat over to observe.
There were no woods on the island, only some low-lying shrubs. Large flocks of birds circled and squawked overhead, and the rock walls were thickly caked with a layer of guano.
"Bring the tools over!"
Using a pickaxe, the captain chipped off a piece of pale yellow stone, smashed it into powder, and then dissolved it in clean water. After filtering out the impurities, he was left with a bucket of murky, dark liquid.
Afterward, referencing the work manual issued by the Department of Overseas Affairs, the captain mixed plant ash into the dark liquid and poured it into an iron pot, boiling it continuously. Once it cooled, he scraped some crystals from the pot and tossed them into the fire, producing a small burst of bright flame.
"Haha, we finally found it! The bitter days for our brothers are over!"
The Kestrel had been in service for a long time, so it had been removed from the warship roster and repurposed as a vessel under the jurisdiction of the Department of Overseas Affairs.
The Vikings monopolized the shipping routes to the New World. There were no pirates in the Caribbean Sea, nor were there navies from any other nations. The Kestrel's missions were solely to explore islands and transport goods, completely lacking in combat opportunities.
Finally, the captain's luck had turned. By being the first to discover a guano island, he could be knighted as a pioneer knight, or perhaps even a baron, allowing him to select a piece of land in the New World to be passed down through generations. While it couldn't compare to some of his peers in the Old World, he would at least officially be a member of the nobles.
"Hurry, don't dawdle! The bounty in Puerto Rico is waiting for us."
The captain had the sailors stack rocks at the highest point as a marker, recorded the island's coordinates, and eagerly hurried back to Puerto Rico to deliver the news.