A rain of arrows bathed the battlefield, arrows biting into flesh and piercing steel, treating friend and foe alike, delivering equal death.
Sviatoslav's body was as if it had been soaked in blood, the blood of enemies and his own men splattered all over him; his once gleaming chainmail no longer shone brightly, and the noble Prince was now merely a warrior rolling in blood.
Prince Rostislav's paternal uncle led his cavalry directly to the fiercest part of the battlefield, desperately trying to block the Polovtsy's advance. As a Prince, he led from the front, greatly boosting the morale of the soldiers on the field. However, his mount was unfortunately struck by a spear, throwing him off his horse, forcing his uncle to fight on foot.
Sviatoslav understood that everything that could be done had been done. Now, he only needed to fight with all his might, severing the heads of the invaders. He charged back and forth through the ranks, slaying countless Polovtsian Gray Wolves, making the Polovtsy flee before them.
But by now, he was numb and weary from the fight; his limbs felt like lead, unable to lift, overwhelmed by exhaustion. The blade of his sword was chipped from countless hacks, and his chainmail had endured who knew how many heavy blows. It was a miracle he had lasted this long.
His uncle understood that if this continued, he would inevitably face the end reserved for those on the battlefield. He began to ponder whether it was time to retreat. Retreating to Kiev now would allow him to retain control of the city and respond to any potential situation.
And if luck was on his side, he might even seize what he had long coveted, something Sviatoslav had never dared to speak of…
But just as his uncle was pondering, a clamor reached his ears. He saw the soldiers around him, also covered in blood, excitedly pointing at something in the distance.
Sviatoslav looked over as well and saw that the Polovtsian commander's banner had vanished without a trace at some point. In its place, the banner of Saint George now fluttered, and beside the banner of Saint George was a magnificent helmet held aloft. He knew this helmet; it belonged to the Polovtsian Khan.
"That boy Rostislav actually dealt with the enemy's commander. I truly underestimated him."
Subconsciously, his uncle muttered, his face filled with shock. In his subconscious, although this junior had performed well, he never imagined he would achieve such a great feat. If only he had known…
However, he quickly cast his thoughts aside. They were on a battlefield! Whatever happened, it had to wait until the fighting was over! He realized this was an excellent opportunity, a chance to turn the tide.
The Polovtsy were thrown into disarray by this sight. The disappearance of their commander's banner and the display of their commander's helmet as a trophy dealt a massive blow to them. The once high-spirited Nomads withered, and deserters appeared continuously, with no one able to stop them, as the commanders themselves were also fleeing.
His uncle raised his sword and shouted with all his might:
"Advance! Rus! Their Khan is dead! Victory is at hand!"
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"Advance! Rus! Their Khan is dead! Victory is at hand!"
Just as Sviatoslav shouted loudly, the same cry echoed from the central army. The wise men had, of course, noticed the immense changes in the Polovtsian formation and seized this opportunity.
The Rus soldiers' morale exploded as their own banner flew behind the enemy lines. Their former hesitation and cowardice vanished after seeing that sight.
In contrast, the Nomads were in complete disarray. Those attacking the right flank were mostly chieftains and warriors; honor kept many of them fighting, but ordinary herdsmen didn't care as much. With the Khan dead, what was there to fight for? Fleeing for their lives was the right path; they didn't want to lose their lives for this.
Thus, the herdsmen abandoned the enemies they were fighting, turned their horses, and fled. No matter how much the chieftains and warriors tried to stop them, no one obeyed their orders. Instead, some were even knocked off their horses and then trampled to death.
The Polovtsian retreat was extremely chaotic. Some even deliberately wounded comrades or their warhorses to delay the pursuers, and some panicked Nomad cavalry even fought among themselves for passage.
Waves of Rus arrows rained down into this chaotic mass. Countless Polovtsy died under the flesh-biting arrows. Piles of human and horse corpses stacked up, layer upon layer, with more bodies falling on top, forming an immense mountain of corpses.
All the Polovtsy who witnessed that sight lost their courage, fear permeated their hearts, and no one held on any longer. Honor and victory, like bubbles, vanished in the flight.
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"Look at these Polovtsy, their flight is truly laughable."
Rostislav saw a volley of arrows rain down on a group of cavalry who foolishly fled towards them. Watching those men and horses riddled with arrows, and the survivors scattering, he felt immense pleasure.
Centered around the banner of Saint George, the Rus formed a circular shield wall to prevent possible attacks from Nomad cavalry from all directions. Archers and crossbowmen stood behind the shields, firing arrows at all enemies within range.
After enjoying the Polovtsy's discomfiture, Rostislav looked up at the proudly displayed helmet and couldn't help but feel a pang of regret. The Khan's body had been completely trampled, and they had only found this helmet in the end. There was nothing for it but to hang it. Fortunately, the effect was much the same.
"Congratulations on your victory, Prince Rostislav."
The Captain of the Guard, his head wrapped in bandages, offered his usual cautious congratulations. Gvaran had unfortunately been struck on the helmet by a battle-axe during the fight; he only suffered a minor scalp injury, but his helmet cracked, and the large ruby fell onto the battlefield, picked up by who knows whom.
Although he spoke calmly, the Captain of the Guard secretly sighed. For a Prince so young to achieve such a military feat, his future was surely incomparably bright. He had truly made the right choice back then.
"This is not my personal victory, but the result of the soldiers' sacrifice, Gvaran. Without your help, I would not have achieved this victory. Every one of you should receive the glory of this triumph. I will distribute the spoils I receive to everyone after the battle."
The Prince's reply somewhat surprised Gvaran. Rostislav, so young and having achieved such a great victory, he had expected him to be proud, but his display of humility was truly… unexpected.
The act of distributing the spoils was heartwarming. The soldiers' sacrifice was earned with gold, silver, and genuine care. Only through continuous bestowal of favors and sincere treatment in daily life could there be today's warriors who fought to the death. Fighting to the death was already a repayment for daily favors, and now Prince Rostislav was even going to distribute the spoils to everyone. How could the Captain of the Guard not feel touched?
"Prince Rostislav! Prince Rostislav!"
At this moment, Rostislav's standard-bearer, Yang, arrived with his cavalry unit. Yang had been sent by him to lead a raid on the Polovtsy camp, and most importantly, to ensure the enemy had not reassembled.
Rostislav himself did not join the charge because he needed to remain here, overseeing the army to block the surging tide of deserters and hold this crucial strategic point. The cavalry unit returned earlier than he expected, which made Prince Rostislav realize that Yang had probably found something important, so he quickly went to meet him.
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