Even from a distance, Grandfather was still so formidable; his large cloak, woven from countless silver threads, showcased the Rurik Dynasty's wealth and power.
The Prince's spired helmet was inlaid with gold, silver, and precious stones along its rim, a style from the Imperial Capital, and at the very top of the spire was a small golden cross, glinting in the somewhat faint sunlight.
Double-ringed chainmail, crafted by master artisans in Kiev, enveloped the Prince's body, with a layer of fabric attached to the inside of the chainmail to prevent heat loss as much as possible.
Rostislav commanded the left wing; he was now nervously riding back and forth at the front of the formation, surrounded by his fully armed retainers—this was his first battle.
Behind him were 1,000 warriors from various parts of Novgorod; citizen militias and peasant soldiers stood side by side, while Chud tribe javelin throwers were ready at the back of the line to hurl their spears, and nobles walked back and forth within the ranks, maintaining the order of the army.
The Prince's gaze swept across the center army commanded by his grandfather: archers were arrayed in three lines, positioned on the east and west sides of the battle line, calmly adjusting their bowstrings, followed by row after row of infantry armed with spears, swords, and axes, mostly Novgorod citizens, most of whom wore iron helmets and armed jackets, or even chainmail; 3,000 soldiers maintained the army's formation in an orderly manner under his grandfather's command.
Vishata's right wing was undoubtedly the iron fist of the entire Ross Army, consisting of 300 personal guards led by nobles, most of whom wore iron armor; Novgorod's elites were gathered here.
Grandfather was stationed on a hill, overseeing the entire situation, surrounded by a reserve of fully armored personal guards, ready to be deployed into battle at any moment.
Meanwhile, the Chud were advancing towards them; the moment the main force arrived, the Ross Army's presence could no longer be concealed from the Chud; the barbarians assembled their army amidst chaos and various horn calls, then met the Ross Army.
"Yang, calm down, don't be too nervous."
Rostislav placed his hand on the shoulder of Vishata's son, Yang; the child's face still bore a hint of childishness, with hardly any beard, and he was so nervous he looked like he might drip water.
In this campaign, Yang was his standard-bearer, an honorable position that only the Prince's most trusted individuals could hold, as the fluttering of the battle flag concerned the morale of the entire army.
"Yes, no, I mean, understood, Prince Rostislav."
Yang blushed deeply, finally managing to finish his sentence before lowering his head, his face red.
Rostislav shook his head, but he had no better solution; the fear before battle could only be overcome by oneself, and perhaps he would be much better after this battle was over.
Turning his head, Rostislav heard the rumbling war drums from the enemy line, and he saw various savage totems and tattered old banners among the Chud ranks.
Upon seeing this, his thoughts uncontrollably drifted to the sacrificial scene he had witnessed in that burned village; if he were to be defeated and captured, would these barbarians treat him the same way?
Once his thoughts began to spiral, they simply wouldn't stop; Rostislav wondered where Alar, who was leading this army, would be? Would he stand at the front like a Gallic champion, or command from a distance like his grandfather?
Fortunately, the enemy's horns broke his train of thought; as the lingering sound of the ox horn echoed, the Chud began their charge, and the Prince, realizing what was happening, quickly retreated with his retainers behind the battle line.
Rostislav saw that the Chud were using the classic boar's head tactic, with a large number of elites concentrated in the center, intending to directly break through the middle and tear apart the Ross line.
This was also a tactic frequently used by uncivilized barbarians, and Grandfather had long since prepared for it—the strongest point in this army was indeed the center.
And both wings still advanced with shield walls; truly a classic boar's head tactic, with the center breaking through the line with full force, while the wings only served to tie down the enemy.
Archers unleashed volleys of arrows, and a rain of arrows fell, causing many to fall wounded, their shouts turning into wails, while the second wave of arrows was already on its way.
Rostislav was glad not to have to face such an arrow rain and to have killed so many enemies, but war, after all, still had to be tested with swords and blades. The soldiers stood ready, prepared to meet the Chud's impact.
The barbaric forces of Estonia crashed against the Ross shield wall; the Ross blocked this brutal charge with their shields and bodies, signaling the formal commencement of the battle.
Rostislav saw the faces of the Chud in front of the shield wall, filled with battle frenzy, bloodlust, and the passion brought by hormones, but that face was immediately smashed by an incoming battle-axe, like torn paper.
For a time, swords and spears clashed, shields met shields, war cries, screams, and the metallic clang of weapons and shields combined to form this barbaric symphony called war.
To an observer, the battle between shield walls was the most tedious, as from a distance it simply looked like a group of people using shields to protect themselves as much as possible while hacking at others in the same situation; both sides engaged in this prolonged back-and-forth.
But for those involved, it was also the most brutal; soldiers on both sides were doing their utmost to kill the enemy opposite them, and in the space surrounded by comrades and enemies, various intense emotions filled their minds, but there was only one thought—slaughter.
Cries and prayers to various gods rang out, some to Jesus, others to Slavic or Ugric deities; everyone hoped the gods would grant them strength to defeat the enemy at this moment, but the gods ultimately just watched silently from above, as if enjoying a play.
Rostislav saw his personal guards use Danish long axes to hook soldiers out of the enemy line, and the unfortunate victims dragged out were mercilessly cut down.
These warriors lived up to their status; whether tribal champions or ordinary tribesmen, they appeared so weak and powerless before the efficient killing machines.
Seeing that his own line was stable and gaining the upper hand, Rostislav also decided to execute his long-prepared strategy; the Chud attacking his position were clearly few in number, making it the perfect opportunity.
Leaving the main banner in place, Rostislav led his retainers and conscripted cavalry, forming a cavalry unit of about 70 men; they maneuvered towards the enemy's flank along a pre-planned route.
Under the cover of trees and bushes, the cavalry easily outflanked the enemy without any preparation from the Chud; they didn't even encounter a single scout.
Now Rostislav was looking at the Chud's undefended flank, taking out the cross from his chest and gripping it tightly.
The Prince understood that doing this now was very risky and unnecessary; he could win simply by fighting according to the standard shield wall clash, so there was no need to take such a risk.
Grandfather had only asked him to hold the line and had given no other orders.
But he couldn't do that; this was an opportunity, a chance to prove himself to his grandfather, and to do that, he had to take a risk—to win a victory his grandfather hadn't anticipated, to make the enemy fall faster; nothing could showcase himself better than this.
"Yang, raise my banner."
At Rostislav's command, young Yang took out the rolled-up Rurik Trident and nervously hung it on the spear shaft.
"Follow me! God protects the brave!"
Rostislav put down the cross, drew his long sword, held it before his nose, then raised it high; with his master's movement, his warhorse also stepped forward.
Behind him, the cavalry galloped forth; this Catholic cavalry charged with fierce momentum towards the utterly undefended pagan army.