Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 404: Pannonia

In early May, the river galley carrying Fridleif arrived in Dresden. Further east lay the territory of the Duke of Bohemia.

Fridleif ordered the main force to continue their advance while he led a squad of the Royal Guard to the nearby Erzgebirge Mountains to inspect the newly developed silver mines.

After conquering the Frankish Empire, Wigg had always suspected the existence of silver mines on the eastern border, so he dispatched prospecting teams to conduct long-term explorations in the Erzgebirge Mountains.

Last spring, the prospecting team finally discovered a silver vein in the Model River valley. Large-scale mining operations began shortly after, with an estimated annual output of five thousand pounds of silver, along with copper, lead, zinc, and other minerals, making it second only to the silver mines in the Harz Mountains.

After half a day of hard riding, Fridleif arrived at a river valley. Five vertical shafts had been excavated here, plunging deep into the mineral veins, where miners dug horizontal tunnels underground to extract the ore.

Massive wooden wheels dotted both sides of the riverbank. Driven by water power, some of these wheels operated ropes and winches, slowly hauling up large baskets of ore from the depths of the shafts, or bringing up several mud-covered miners who had just finished their shift.

The ore was transported to the riverbank via tracked mine carts, smashed into small pieces by water-powered ore crushers, and then smelted into silver, copper, and lead ingots.

The supervisor explained to the Crown Prince that the main difficulty facing the mining area was not a lack of labor or bandit raids, but rather the accumulation of water in the underground tunnels.

Twice a day, morning and evening, miners had to scoop up the underground water with wooden buckets, which were then hoisted to the surface by elevators. This drainage method was highly inefficient and consumed valuable working hours.

Fridleif, not being adept at mechanics, could only toss the problem to the professionals. "I will write to Londinium University and Teyne University, instructing them to invest more resources into researching a solution."The following day, Fridleif entered Bohemia and received a warm welcome from Duke Kotsel.

"Your Highness, the situation is somewhat dire. Rumors say that two more Magyar tribes have migrated from Eastern Europe. Their total population has surpassed one hundred thousand, and it is estimated they can field twenty-five thousand light cavalry.

Since the beginning of spring, their activities have spanned Bohemia, Northern Italy, and the Balkans to the south. They have been mercilessly plundering poorly defended rural areas, leaving many farmers too terrified to go out and work their fields."

"Understood. I will deal with them."

Bidding farewell to the Duke, Fridleif led his army to Brno, the old core area of Moravia. A tributary flowed into the Danube River here, making it an ideal location for a logistics base.

Over the next two weeks or so, Fridleif organized his soldiers to construct river vessels while simultaneously assigning tasks to nearby noble territories, such as Bohemia, Bavaria, Tyrol, Carinthia, and Northern Italy, ordering the dukes and earls to provide conscripts and grain.

By the first of June, all preparations were complete. The expeditionary army had expanded to forty thousand men, comprising two field infantry divisions, fourteen garrison regiments, four thousand light cavalry, and one hundred and twenty cannons.

By now, the Magyars had caught wind of the military buildup and arranged for their nomadic herders to retreat eastward. Fridleif was in no rush to pursue; he marched his army south along the river at a normal pace until they entered the Danube River.

The water in this stretch of the river was turbulent. The towering cliffs on either side were covered in green vines, crowned with exposed grayish-white rock. Devin Castle stood imposing upon the northern cliff, garrisoned by two hundred Viking soldiers.

Leaving the gorge, the Danube River widened once more. Ahead lay a town named Pressburg, enclosed by an outer wooden palisade.

Further east stretched vast expanses of flat, open land. Following the aggressive incursions of the Magyar cavalry, the Viking garrison had lost control of the surrounding area and was hunkered down in Pressburg, awaiting reinforcements.

A lieutenant colonel of the garrison regiment reported truthfully, "Aside from Pressburg, there is a battalion stationed at Nitra Castle to the northeast. We lost contact with Nitra Castle half a month ago. They might still be holding out, or they may have already been breached by the enemy."

Leif asked, "How far is it between the two locations?"

The lieutenant colonel replied, "About forty miles. A two-day journey."

Locating Nitra on the map, Leif quietly suggested to his cousin, "Should we send a unit to scout the way?"

The Crown Prince shared the same thought. Knowing he lacked his father's military talent, he decided to play it safe. He would first test the enemy's combat strength before formulating the next phase of the plan.

The weather was clear, the sun generously bathing the earth in light as an army of a thousand men marched out of Pressburg. The Viking main force remained concealed within the town and the western mountains, silently biding their time.

This unit was personally led by Håvarun, the deputy commander of the First Division. It consisted of a field infantry regiment, two ranger companies, eight three-pound bronze cannons, and one hundred and eighty supply wagons loaded with food, military equipment, and drinking water.

The outskirts of the town were dotted with vast wheat fields. Due to the frenzied plundering by the Magyars, the farmers had retreated to the town for shelter, leaving the fields overgrown with weeds. Occasionally, wild boars and deer could be seen grazing on the wheat seedlings.

The further they moved from the town, the more desolate the landscape became. The wheat fields vanished entirely, replaced by an endless expanse of prairie. The lush green grass grew knee-high, interspersed with vibrant wildflowers. Between heaven and earth, it seemed as though only this winding army and the vast sky existed.

In the afternoon, a small stream appeared ahead, gleaming like a silver ribbon under the sun. Håvarun rode closer, only to discover dozens of villagers' corpses soaking in the water. They had been dead for more than two days, emitting an indescribable stench that attracted large swarms of irritating flies buzzing in circles.

The military officers loudly ordered any soldiers attempting to fetch water to stop. The experienced veterans wore grim expressions, while the recruits looked on in horror and disgust, unable to stop themselves from turning their heads away.

The column adjusted its course, selecting a shallow ford upstream with a firmer riverbed and a gentler current. The rangers galloped across the river, spreading out on the opposite bank to form a defensive perimeter, their eyes nervously sweeping the distant tall grass.

The main force then began to cross. Horses' hooves plunged into the water, splashing muddy droplets into the air, while the soldiers strained to push the heavy supply wagons to the northern bank.

When the final soldier dragged his soaked boots onto the soil of the northern bank, the most dangerous phase had passed, yet the underlying tension gripping the entire unit remained.

Håvarun gazed at a massive flock of birds taking flight in the distance and rejoiced inwardly. 'His Highness and the Chief of Staff guessed correctly. Equipping us with more water wagons allowed us to bypass the enemy's scheme.'

At dusk, the Vikings arranged their supply wagons into a square to serve as a makeshift wagon fort. A few dark silhouettes faintly appeared on the distant horizon, most likely Magyar light cavalry.

Early the next morning, the infantry regiment resumed their march. The number of Magyars roaming in the distance continued to multiply, swelling from a handful of scattered figures into an endless, raging tide.

"Form ranks!"

At Håvarun's command, the Vikings expertly maneuvered the supply wagons into a square formation. The pikemen plugged the gaps between the vehicles, planting the butts of their spears deep into the soil with the tips angled menacingly outward. The drivers led the draft horses into the center of the square, while the artillerymen loaded grapeshot and silently awaited the order to fire.

At that moment, the handful of rangers who had been scouting outside gradually retreated. Behind them charged thousands of nomadic light cavalry, their horses kicking up a massive cloud of dust that nearly blotted out half the sky.

"Longbowmen and crossbowmen, fire at will! Artillerymen, hold for orders!"

The maximum lethal range of the grapeshot was about one hundred meters. Håvarun maintained his composure, his eyes locked on the rapidly approaching enemy figures.

The prairie riders halted their charge at a distance of sixty meters, instead galloping at high speeds around the wagon fort and unleashing a volley of high-angle fire with light arrows. In the very next moment, several deafening roars drowned out the collective war cries of the cavalry. The bronze cannons positioned at the edges of the formation spewed brilliant orange-red flames. Boom! Boom!

Searing iron pellets rained down mercilessly on the nearby nomads. In a fraction of a second, riders were thrown from their steeds, and blood and flesh sprayed across the plains.

"Cannons, fire at will!"

Encumbered by their bulky brigandine armor, the artillerymen swiftly swabbed the cannon barrels with water-soaked brushes, rammed in the powder charges and grapeshot, and fired once more into the slightly panicked nomad ranks.

After enduring five consecutive barrages of grapeshot, the centurion leading the assault finally regained his senses. The enemy was using some bizarre new weapon he had never seen before; each blast killed over a dozen warriors and sent the horses into a terrified frenzy.

Awed by this terrifying weaponry, the nomads' offensive began to falter. Their howls lost their wild edge, and their formation scattered into disarray. Realizing that the Vikings' defenses were ironclad and that dragging the fight out would only result in senseless casualties, the centurion blew his brass horn and sounded the retreat.

Soon, the surviving riders yanked their reins to fall back, suffering yet another round of grapeshot before they could escape.

Once the enemy retreated beyond the maximum range of the longbowmen, nine duck-and-drake formation squads ventured out to sweep the battlefield. They scavenged water skins and dry rations, bringing any enemy wounded who could not retreat back into the wagon fort.

The Magyars had long resided on the northern shores of the Black Sea. The Vikings did not speak their tongue, so they had translators interrogate the prisoners using Slavic and the language of the Pecheneg tribe. After a prolonged effort, Håvarun obtained a rough figure: five thousand nomadic herders.

"A cavalry force five times our size laying siege to infantry. They certainly think highly of me," Håvarun remarked with a chuckle, showing little sign of worry.

Every day at noon and dusk, ten rangers would ride back to Pressburg to deliver updates. If communication were ever cut off, the main Viking force would mobilize in full, as prearranged.

Now that Håvarun had gauged the enemy's combat strength, he only needed to hold out for two more days for the mission to be considered a complete success.

In his estimation, the wagon fort measured a mere one hundred and fifty meters on each side. The battlefield simply wasn't wide enough for the nomads to deploy more than a thousand cavalrymen at a time in any single assault. The defensive pressure was not overwhelming, and with ample supplies of grain and drinking water, the wagon fort could weather a protracted war of attrition.

For the next hour, the nomads launched no further attacks, and a temporary peace settled over the prairie.

By evening, soldiers from various platoons gathered together. Using captured wooden shields and a small amount of coal for fuel, they lit fires to boil large pots of stew containing oats, smoked meat, onions, beans, and fish sauce. In addition to their main rations, every man received a cup of sugarcane rum or hot cocoa, along with a small pouch of tobacco.

After supper, Håvarun divided his twelve hundred men into four shifts to keep watch, and they passed the night without incident.

Early morning of the third day.

The massive nomad army in the distance had yet to disperse. As Håvarun gnawed on his hardtack, he suddenly spotted a small group of heavily armored cavalry over two hundred meters away. They were studying the wagon fort, a blue banner planted firmly beside them.

"The enemy commander?"

A thought struck him, and he called over the artillery company captain. "Quickly, give them a surprise."

The artillery captain wiped the biscuit crumbs from the corner of his mouth and promptly assembled his men. They loaded all eight cannons with solid round shot and took careful aim at the enemy's position.

"On my command, fire!"

The eight field guns roared almost simultaneously. Not even pausing to observe the enemy's reaction, the captain ordered his men to load a second volley of solid shot and fire once more.

Eager to see the results, the captain scrambled atop a wagon. Peering through the faint white smoke, he saw that the group of iron-clad cavalry had already scattered. Only the banner remained standing, surrounded by a few corpses strewn across the ground.

Not long after, a slight commotion rippled through the distant nomad army. Håvarun furrowed his brow; had the artillery barrage just eliminated the enemy commander?

Throughout the entire day, the nomads never initiated an attack. The Viking soldiers grew relaxed, but Håvarun remained highly vigilant.

If the enemy commander was wounded or killed, his subordinate centurions would undoubtedly seek revenge. He summoned his unit commanders for a meeting and brought up the Third Viking-Frankish War of 868 AD.

"Seven years ago, on the eve of the decisive battle when our forces were about to clash with the Frankish army in the Rickfield, His Majesty ordered me to lead the rangers ahead to seize the nearby knolls. After a grueling forced march, we captured the hills and engaged in a night battle with the Frankish heavy cavalry.

That was the most grueling battle of my life. You haven't experienced it, so you don't understand the sheer brutality. Everywhere you looked, flickering shadows darted about. Sometimes you couldn't even tell if the man across from you was a friend or an enemy."

After dwelling on this for a long time, Håvarun elevated the security protocols for the night. He divided the soldiers into three watches. He would rather sacrifice their sleep to bolster the defenses against a potential night raid.

As it turned out, his decision was exceptionally prudent.

In the latter half of the night, when the sentries were at their drowsiest, the nomad army made its move. Abandoning their warhorses, they advanced entirely on foot, silently creeping toward the wagon fort.

When the enemy was only dozens of paces away, the Viking soldiers caught sight of multiple metallic gleams in the darkness. They immediately shook their comrades awake and loosed crossbow bolts into the shifting shadows.

After a few screams pierced the night, the nomads launched a ferocious assault. Half of their men stayed back to rain down high-angle fire with feathered arrows, while the other half charged toward the wagon fort, brandishing round shields and scimitars as they shrieked wildly.

In an instant, a torrential downpour of arrows descended into the wagon fort. Startled horses whinnied frantically, thrashing to break free from their tethers. Some soldiers were shot dead in their sleep, while the survivors looked around in sheer bewilderment, plunging into brief chaos.

Boom!

The artillerymen lit the fuses and fired grapeshot into the swarming mass of figures. Because the nomads were employing dense infantry charges, the destructive power of the grapeshot was magnified tenfold. Every volley mowed down a large swath of soldiers, much like a scythe harvesting wheat in autumn.

Thanks to the cannons, some sections successfully repelled the enemy at the front, but other sectors descended into bitter, close-quarters combat. The pikemen thrust their spears at the sword-and-shield wielders from behind the safety of the supply wagons. Håvarun ordered the longbowmen and crossbowmen to abandon ranged attacks, arming themselves with melee weapons to serve as reserves and plug any gaps in the defensive line.

The chaotic melee dragged on for some time. The nomads' armored elites suffered devastating losses. Even if ordinary tribesmen managed to breach the wagon fort, they still stood no chance of defeating the fully armored Viking infantry.

Finally, the horn signaling a retreat blared out, and throngs of silhouettes melted back into the darkness. The artillery company, refusing to cease fire, unleashed another round of grapeshot followed by two more volleys of solid round shot.

Their night raid a failure, the nomads abandoned the siege on the wagon fort and gradually withdrew.

On the morning of the fourth day, after confirming the enemy had completely retreated, Håvarun relocated the wagon fort several hundred paces away to escape the rapidly decaying corpses. The infantry regiment then held their ground, waiting steadfastly until allied reinforcements arrived.