Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 406: Cavalry, Fire Arrows, and Wagon Forts

Hearing the news of the main Viking force, Borsho's spirits instantly lifted. He pressed his chiliarch for details, "How many are we facing?"

"The enemy has a massive cavalry force, so we couldn't get too close. We estimate their numbers to be around twenty thousand," the chiliarch replied.

Borsho commanded thirty-two thousand soldiers, comprising the armies of three major tribes and the vassal tribes they had coerced into joining them along the way.

Based purely on numbers, the Jute Khaganate held an absolute advantage. However, every single Viking soldier was fully armored and wielded wicked magical weapons. Borsho severely lacked the confidence to engage them in a decisive battle.

He scratched his bald scalp in deep thought for a long while before coming up with a plan.

"How about this: we abandon this wagon fort and the enemy's main force. Instead, we strike their rear, cut off their retreat, and trap these Viking barbarians until they starve," he proposed.

"Khagan," the chiliarch interjected, "our westward reconnaissance revealed that the Vikings have built fortified camps at regular intervals. These camps have palisades and moats, boasting defensive capabilities comparable to the towns in the Balkans. If we cannot breach this wagon fort, we certainly will not be able to capture those camps either!"

As Borsho hesitated, evening swiftly approached. He invited the numerous chieftains to his main tent to drink, but the atmosphere was painfully awkward. The guests wore solemn expressions, fraught with anxiety about the impending war.

"What are your thoughts?" Borsho asked, stroking his golden goblet as he tossed the question to his subordinates.

Borsho's true desire was to retreat, but his status as Khagan prevented him from stating it openly. Doing so would severely damage his prestige.The most ideal scenario would be for the chieftains to suggest withdrawing. Borsho would then feign anger, reprimand them for their cowardice, and eventually respect the will of the majority by reluctantly ordering a retreat.

Harboring this beautiful fantasy, Borsho waited with bated breath. Unfortunately, after a long period of silence, not a single person spoke up.

"Well? Are we to fight or retreat?" he repeated.

Still, no one answered.

Suppressing his rising anger, Borsho randomly called out the name of an elderly chieftain. "Bald Tooth, what is your opinion?"

Bald Tooth coughed twice and replied in a hoarse voice, "You are the Khagan chosen by the gods, possessing supreme wisdom and authority. I will follow your command."

'Damned old fox!' Borsho cursed inwardly. He then turned to the tall, lanky chieftain sitting to Bald Tooth's right. "What about you?"

The lanky chieftain picked up his goblet, pondered for half a minute, and then answered, "A decisive battle has its advantages, but so does a retreat. I feel that..."

After spouting a whole load of nonsense, the lanky man skillfully tossed the decision back to the Khagan. "Whatever your choice may be, I will obey absolutely."

Borsho questioned the seated chieftains one by one. Yet, looking across the entire tent, he could not find a single considerate soul willing to share the Khagan's burden.

Everyone wanted to retreat, but no one was willing to be the first to say it, terrified of being branded as cowardly and incompetent. Furthermore, they were all too familiar with Borsho's character. The man loved nothing more than shifting the blame onto his subordinates. With so many past precedents, no chieftain would ever volunteer for such dirty work again.

Finally, the banquet concluded in an incredibly awkward atmosphere.

The early morning of September 30th.

Borsho pushed away the Slavic woman resting against him and dressed himself with the help of his slaves. After forcing down some dried meat and fermented mare's milk, he summoned the chieftains for another meeting.

Before everyone had even fully taken their seats, a chiliarch rushed into the tent. "The main Viking force is approaching! They are about four hours away. Also, they said..."

The chiliarch hesitated, but under the Khagan's fierce interrogation, he finally spat it out. "The traitors recruited by the Vikings passed on a message to us. They said the Crown Prince is very much looking forward to fighting you. He believes you are a brave and fearless hero, not a coward who flees at the mere sight of the enemy."

At that moment, Borsho sadly recognized a stark truth: he had no way out. If he fled without a fight, his prestige would inevitably plummet, and his rule would sooner or later come to an end. He might as well make a desperate gamble with his thirty-thousand-strong army.

"Since none of you object to going to battle, pass down my orders! Mobilize the entire army and defeat this arrogant young barbarian!" he declared.

At seven in the morning, the nomadic army lifted their siege, leaving behind a few hundred cavalrymen to monitor the perimeter of the wagon fort. The main force marched northwest to meet the enemy.

Two hours later, the two sides clashed on an open plain.

Having received early warnings from his reconnaissance cavalry, Fridleif responded immediately. Drawing inspiration from the military manuals written by his father, he deployed his four most elite infantry regiments at the vanguard. To the left and right, he positioned two regiment-sized hollow square formations. In the rear, he set up multiple wagon forts, guarded by logistical personnel.

The Vikings assembled their formations with remarkable speed. By the time everything was ready, the nomadic army arrived at the eastern side of the battlefield.

Borsho had thirty-one thousand men, the vast majority of whom were light cavalry. Consequently, their formation was widely dispersed, stretching over three kilometers from north to south. The depth of their formation exceeded three hundred meters, resembling a massive, sprawling rectangle.

The Jute Khaganate lacked a systematic written language and had no flag signals. The only way to relay complex information was through verbal commands, resulting in incredibly low command efficiency.

After waiting for a few minutes, Fridleif noticed that the distant nomadic army was still in a state of disarray. He ordered a change in flag signals, directing the four frontline infantry regiments to advance while the flanking troops provided cover.

Additionally, Fridleif dispatched six ranger battalions to harass the enemy's left and right flanks.

"Understood!"

The six battalion commanders received their orders. Santan, the commander of the Fourth Ranger Battalion, was tasked with harassing the edge of the enemy's right flank on the northern side of the battlefield.

The howling cold wind brushed past his face as the endlessly sprawling military formation loomed ahead. Santan charged at the very front, holding his banner high, occasionally sending out small squads to dispatch the nomads in their path.

Within the cavalry ranks, one-third of the warriors did not carry bows and arrows. Instead, they had iron cylinders slung diagonally across their backs.

When they were merely a kilometer away from the enemy lines, Santan pulled tight on his reins, ordering his men to dismount. With practiced speed, they set up their stands, angling them at a forty-five-degree firing trajectory.

"Hurry, light them up! The enemy cavalry is almost upon us!" he shouted.

The soldiers scrambled to strike their flints, igniting the fuses at the tails of the iron cylinders.

Sizzle—

The fuses burned rapidly. The next moment, the iron cylinders spewed thick white smoke and scorching orange-red flames. They abruptly shot off their launch pads, dragging blinding trails of fire across the gloomy sky as they shrieked toward the distant nomadic formation.

The other ranger battalions were also lighting their fuses and firing. For a time, erratic fire arrows could be seen flying everywhere across the multi-kilometer-wide front. A few even swerved mid-air and flew backward.

Because the nomadic army occupied such a vast area, over seventy percent of the iron cylinders landed squarely in their ranks. The deafening noise and trailing flames terrified the horses, significantly worsening the enemy's chaotic state.

"Stop gawking! Fall back!" Once the fire arrows were launched, Santan had no time to pack up the stands on the ground. He ordered an immediate retreat to the wagon fort to restock a fresh batch of fire arrows.

"What is this?! Magic? Sorcery?!" The commanders of ten thousand gradually snapped out of their daze, urgently deploying large numbers of cavalry to intercept them.

Just like that, the open ground between the two armies devolved into a massive brawl involving numerous Magyar riders, mountain infantry, and rangers. In some areas, the nomads managed to hold off the Vikings. In others, the nomads were routed, allowing the Vikings to close into range and continue harassing the massive nomadic army with fire arrows.

Finally, without any official orders, two chiliarchies on the northern side of the battlefield launched a spontaneous assault, hollering wildly as they charged at the Viking light cavalry. "Charge! Slaughter these cowards!"

Unable to restrain themselves any longer, the nearby nomads joined the charge alongside their allies. Tens of thousands of hooves trampled the grassy plains, kicking up massive clouds of grayish-yellow dust. The dust intermingled with the white smoke from the burning gunpowder, gradually obscuring visibility on the northern battlefield.

In the center of the Jute Khaganate's army, Borsho stood atop a supply wagon, gazing out at the dust-choked northern battlefield. Unable to comprehend what was happening, he anxiously sent men to investigate.

Soon, large-scale skirmishes erupted on the southern side of the battlefield as well, further restricting visibility. Only the central area remained relatively clear, where the four Viking infantry regiments were still steadily advancing, shielded by formations on both flanks and trailed by a massive fleet of supply wagons.

Borsho deployed his slave infantry and elite cavalry, but they failed to delay the enemy for long. The slave infantry swiftly crumbled, and the Magyar cavalry found themselves bogged down by the Viking cavalry and mountain infantry, utterly incapable of impeding the advancing infantry regiments.

At a distance of one kilometer, the Viking infantry halted their march. They pushed forward hundreds of carts mounted with the iron cylinders.

'Not good!'

Reflected in Borsho's horrified eyes, an overwhelming barrage of flaming arrows screamed across the sky and rained down upon the cavalry clusters in the center. The steppe horses had never witnessed such a terrifying spectacle. Panicked beyond measure, they stampeded wildly in every direction, completely ignoring their riders' commands.

"Quickly, reform the ranks!"

Choking and coughing on the pervasive white smoke, Borsho still desperately tried to salvage the situation, until he heard frantic shouts ringing out from nearby.

"The Khagan is dead!"

"The Khagan was slain by fire magic! Run for your lives!"

News of the Khagan's death spread like wildfire. With the situation devolving to this point, it made little difference whether Borsho was actually alive or dead.

"Retreat!"

The battle was lost. Borsho led his direct subordinates in a hasty withdrawal, escaping the smoke-filled battlefield. He realized that the troops on both his left and right flanks were also fleeing for their lives, their retreating figures scattered across the vast, endless prairie.

'I have been doomed by these utter fools!'

He cursed them furiously in his heart, deciding he would no longer clash head-on with the Vikings. Instead, his new plan was to retreat into the Carpathian Mountains and hide there for the winter.

On the western side of the battlefield, Fridleif's vision was clouded by sprawling expanses of smoke and dust. Synthesizing the reports flooding in from his various units, it seemed the enemy was in full retreat.

He looked at Leif in bewilderment. "Did we win?"

Leif was equally perplexed. He could hardly believe the Jute Khaganate was so fragile. "Uh, it seems so." Fearing that the enemy might be feigning a retreat to lure them into a counterattack, he advised the Crown Prince to consolidate their forces, sending only a thousand-odd surrendered steppe cavalrymen in a symbolic pursuit.

That afternoon, the various units tallied their battle results. They had annihilated two thousand seven hundred enemies and captured over three thousand slave infantrymen. The Viking casualties were even lighter, with three hundred killed in action and eight hundred wounded.

Going through so much trouble only to achieve such meager results left Fridleif, Leif, Viper, and Douglas wholly dissatisfied. As the temperature continued to drop, Borsho would inevitably withdraw into the Carpathian Mountains for the winter. There was zero hope of ending the war this year.

As the commander-in-chief, Fridleif did not shirk his responsibilities. He truthfully documented the course of the decisive battle and requested the homeland to send more reinforcements and supplies, opting to wait until the spring of the following year to launch another offensive.

Five days later, an envoy from the Jute Khaganate sought out the main Viking force to sue for peace.

The Jute Khaganate had only lost a handful of vassal tribes and slaves; their core military strength remained completely intact. Fridleif distrusted the enemy's promises and flatly refused.

"The Empire has expended tremendous manpower and resources for this campaign, and Borsho thinks a single word from him will make us withdraw? Tell him to stop dreaming. Next year, the homeland will dispatch even more troops until we completely crush that delusional barbarian," Fridleif declared.

"Your Highness, Borsho is already dead." The envoy had his attendant present a wooden box, which contained a slightly pungent severed head.

Dead silence filled the tent. Fridleif stared blankly for a moment before summoning Luntu and six other chieftains to verify the head's identity.

Gazing at the head of his former Khagan, Luntu felt an instinctual surge of dread. He desperately took deep breaths, trying to suppress the lingering fear deep into his heart. After a long while, Luntu reported back to Fridleif. "Your Highness, this is indeed Borsho."

The envoy continued explaining, "Your Highness, the previous war was instigated by Borsho alone. We have also brought his wives, concubines, and children for you to dispose of as you see fit. We never intended to offend the Viking Empire; we merely wish to seek a piece of land to settle down."

Fridleif retorted, "If Borsho is dead, who do you represent now?"

"The new Khagan of the Khaganate, Ineu," the envoy answered.

Luntu thoughtfully explained to the Crown Prince, "Ineu is the chieftain of another large tribe. He had a harmonious relationship with Borsho, so he likely assassinated him when his guard was down."

"Understood. You are all dismissed for now," Fridleif said, waving off the majority of the people in the tent, leaving only Leif, Viper, and Douglas behind.

Leif's advice was to accept the negotiations, and Viper and Douglas shared the same sentiment.

The reason was simple: the plains east of the Visegrad Mountains were incredibly vast, making it exceedingly difficult to track down the enemy tribes.

Moreover, even if they mobilized more troops and utterly destroyed the Jute Khaganate, the Vikings would still be unable to control this territory. Give it some time, and other prairie tribes would inevitably migrate over and launch a fresh wave of plunder.

"Ineu replacing Borsho will lead to a series of internal conflicts," Leif pointed out. "We do not even need to lift a finger. Nomadic regimes rise and fall at an astonishing pace. Give it some time, and the Jute Khaganate will not pose a threat anymore."

After contemplating for a long while, Fridleif dispatched his and the others' opinions back to the homeland. Assuming the Emperor and the Cabinet did not object, he was willing to accept Ineu's request for a truce.

Over the following two months, the Great Viking Army halted their advance, constructing fortified camps on the eastern side of the Visegrad Mountains in preparation for the impending winter.

In early December, a letter from the homeland finally arrived. Following the Emperor's instructions, Fridleif began negotiating the truce with Ineu.

The first point of order was the border between the two nations. The Vikings claimed the plains west of the Visegrad Mountains, the mountains themselves, and the adjacent plains to the east of the mountain range, which would be used to settle the eight vassal tribes.

The remaining terms were extremely lenient. The Emperor did not demand Ineu's submission, holding absolutely no interest in supporting or governing these nomads.

As for the Khaganate's commercial requests, the Emperor was equally apathetic. He strictly capped the annual export quota for ironware, be it swords and armor, or civilian necessities like iron pots and hoes.

They were not even willing to sell iron pots? The envoy was thoroughly shocked by the Viking Emperor's stinginess. He hurriedly pleaded, "Your Highness, could you perhaps be a bit more lenient?"

Fridleif offered a warm, amiable smile. "Of course. Assuming a given tribe accepts our faith and attempts agricultural farming, we can appropriately increase their annual ironware export quota."

The natural conditions of the Carpathian Basin were highly suitable for farming. Once the Jute Khaganate transitioned into a semi-nomadic, semi-settled kingdom, its outward aggression would sharply decline, significantly easing the border defense pressure on the Vikings in Pannonia.