In a flash, just as Rostislav spoke, a javelin "clanged" as it struck his raised shield.
The next moment, a harsh, chaotic roar erupted from the bushes on the right, and countless Chud tribesmen, their eyes filled with murderous intent, surged out from what had seemed to be empty undergrowth.
"It's the Chud! Prepare to fight!"
Rostislav was not at all surprised by the enemy before him; in this land, only the Chud would attack them, and the Chud tribe had never been peaceful.
Moreover, with his father's death, negotiations with the Chud tribes had collapsed, and tribes in various regions became even more restless, so an attack on the main road was not unusual.
Rostislav's personal guards reacted incredibly swiftly; almost the moment he cried out, they had formed their ranks, ready for the attackers, while the Prince himself stood on the flank, sword in hand. A few others hastily mounted their warhorses, grabbed their saddle-mounted bows, and began shooting arrows at the charging enemies.
As they ran, the attackers hurled javelins at the Rus' formation, but most landed on open ground, and a small number struck the Rus' shields, causing them no harm.
Most of the tribesmen were clad in dirty fur clothing, with equally dirty fur hats on their heads, carrying a chaotic assortment of weapons, from ancient spears to sharpened sickles, all typical attire for forest dwellers, and a sight he was accustomed to.
But to Rostislav's surprise, among the Chud before him were about a dozen individuals wearing chainmail, the gleaming iron rings far too conspicuous; this was not something impoverished tribesmen should possess.
However, now was not the time to dwell on details, for the enemy was already charging!
This battle had no heralds' shouts, no banners waving, no horns blowing, but this was the most common form of warfare in this land; even Rostislav's father, the Prince of Novgorod, heir to Kiev, had died in such a conflict.
Rostislav returned the javelin he had pulled from his shield to the enemy, then slashed his sword at the half-covered helmet of an enemy who had charged him; the leather helmet could not withstand the blow, and its owner's head shattered along with it.
On the other side, the shield wall collided with the Chud.
Although Rostislav's troops were mostly youths no older than eighteen, how could a battle line of warriors, forged by wealth and training, be broken by a few dozen tribesmen?
The Chud, with the momentum of their charge, slammed into the Rus' shield wall, but apart from causing the Rus' line to shift back slightly, it had no effect; the Chud felt as if they had crashed into a wall of steel. Some of the smarter ones already sensed something was wrong, but those whose minds were consumed by bloodlust and desire for plunder couldn't think that far.
For the Rus, after blocking the enemy's most powerful attack, it was time for a counter-attack.
With a few commands, the two-handed axe warriors standing behind the shield wall, relying on their thick armor, burst out through gaps left by their comrades, knocking down the unsuspecting enemies, then swung their great axes, instantly slaying several tribesmen. Blood instantly filled the small space, causing the attackers to fall into disarray; they had not expected the intensity to be so great from the outset.
Rostislav seized the opportunity; after striking down an iron-helmeted attacker, he led his subordinates forward, taking advantage of the Chud's disordered formation. He could not give the enemy a chance to breathe!
While the Chud's ambush was commendable, as soon as they encountered setbacks, their lack of order on the battlefield was immediately exposed. Some wanted to retreat, while others wanted to push forward aggressively, and arrows shot by the cavalry sweeping from the rear killed several unlucky individuals, further intensifying the chaos.
As Rostislav decisively pressed forward, the battle devolved into a melee, which was precisely the effect Rostislav desired; under pressure and confusion, the Chud continuously left behind corpses, while not a single Rus had fallen yet!
The sixth!
Rostislav thought this, and his sword sliced through the chest of a Chud warrior; the chainmail rings broke along with the blood.
When this warrior fell, the fear on the faces of the tribesmen behind him intensified; Rostislav, who had continuously slain six men, seemed like Death itself to them.
This Chud he had killed seemed to be someone important, because after he fell, the courage of the tribesmen present seemed to drain away, and they soon fled without looking back.
Behind the fleeing men, several Rus riders were shooting at their backs, chatting and laughing among themselves, as if they were hunting rabbits on a normal day.
"Don't chase them anymore, let's rest first."
When his subordinates intended to join the pursuit, Rostislav called a halt to the action; the wilderness was, after all, the Chud's territory, and chasing too far might lead to disaster.
Although those who received the order were reluctant, they ultimately reined in their desire for pursuit and began to rest or scavenge for spoils. Years of training had instilled good discipline in them.
And then, as the adrenaline-fueled frenzy of battle faded, fatigue washed over them like a wave. Many simply sat on the ground, panting heavily, while the better ones stood leaning on their weapons.
Rostislav himself was not much better off; he felt as if the arm holding his sword was about to break.
However, although everyone was very tired, fortunately no one had died; the greatest loss in this battle was merely equipment damage.
This made Rostislav very happy; his personal guards were the foundation of his future security, and he would be heartbroken if even one of them died.
This result was largely thanks to their average of chainmail per person. As the Prince's son of Novgorod, the most developed city in the north, it was easy for Rostislav to equip his personal guards with chainmail.
Although his arm ached and his mind was weary, Rostislav knew he could not rest immediately. He supported his sword arm with his other hand and, with the cooperation of a few still-energetic personal guards, began to examine the attackers' bodies—primarily checking their armor.
The chainmail greatly concerned Rostislav. In present-day Europe, chainmail was not a common commodity; fifty years prior, it was a gift from Princes to recruit warriors and still considered prestigious. Yet, this Chud tribe that attacked him actually had about a dozen pieces, which was by no means normal.
Currently, Rostislav was kneeling before a corpse. There was a hole in the corpse's chainmail, indicating it was an unlucky individual pierced by a spear, but Rostislav's focus was not on that.
"This is… a southern weaving style, and from Kiev at that!"
After careful examination, Rostislav finally discovered its distinguishing feature: the chainmail's weaving style was from Kiev!
His father's armory contained many pieces of equipment from Kiev, and Rostislav had used them often, allowing him to recognize it at a glance.
This set off alarm bells for Rostislav: his father's death, the Chud attackers, Kiev chainmail… all of this surfaced in his mind. Although these events seemed unrelated, once strung together…
All along, Rostislav had in fact harbored suspicions about the death of the Wise's eldest son—his father—because he died too coincidentally, meeting an untimely end two years before the Wise passed away. And now, everything before him could explain some things.
A terrible thought emerged in Rostislav's mind; he felt malice originating from Kiev, and the source of this malice, he believed, must be his uncles—they profited the most from his father's death, and only they could have done this.
Once he understood this, Rostislav instinctively wanted to confront his uncles, to demand what exactly was going on, and whether his father's death was truly connected to them.
But reason, at the last moment, curbed his impulse. The reason was simple: the attack on him and his father, the Chud ambush, the Kiev chainmail… none of it actually proved anything.
He had no concrete evidence; his suspicions were insufficient to be presented as proof to accuse someone. If outsiders were to see Rostislav's suspicions, they would only think he was grasping at straws.
Finally, Rostislav could only sigh silently, simply instructing his personal guards to collect all usable spoils and evidence.
"Let's go. We're returning to Novgorod."
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