"My Lord, congratulations on this victory."
On the Bulgar front, Arel offered his congratulations to Akad, who was surrounded by countless armored soldiers. However, his congratulations were stiff and formulaic, as if he were merely completing a task.
Akad's body was encased in steel armor, a banner with a fire-breathing dragon fluttered above his head, and the aura emanating from him was no less imposing than that of the Khan within Bulgar City, as if he were the supreme monarch of the Volga Kingdom.
In front of him, a unit of Bulgar heavy infantry was boarding the sandbar. These soldiers, wearing chainmail and scale armor, were wealthy citizens from the towns, as only they could afford such a set of armor.
On the other side of the river, the victorious Bulgars were either pursuing the enemy, cheering with weapons raised, or plundering the bodies of the fallen.
As time passed, this rather prosperous ferry village was engulfed in flames, accompanied by the screams of women and children. Post-war looting was an integral part of warfare, and all of this was considered natural.
This was how the Bulgar Army had operated all along their journey; they would "collect" resources again from villages that the Rus' had already thoroughly exacted tribute from. If one was willing to scrape, there was always something to be found, and slaughter could also restore the soldiers' morale.
The lucky survivors of the slaughter would be taken to Bulgar City, where merchants from across the Islamic world would purchase them—for slaves were also one of Bulgar's important outputs.
"It's just a minor victory, not worth mentioning. The real battle has yet to come."
Akad did not take this victory seriously. He knew very well that he had only defeated a makeshift army, a temporary combination of Norse mercenaries and Rus' farmers. If he couldn't even defeat such a combination, then he shouldn't be leading troops, and all those years of warfare would have been for naught.
However, inwardly, Akad was still excited by his victory. His journey had been incredibly smooth; the cities of Northeast Rus' had retreated one after another after engaging in ceremonial battles with his army, and there had been no surprise attacks along the way.
The plundering of Rus' villages had been even smoother, easily yielding large quantities of resources and slaves.
And now he had so easily breached the Volga River, which he had initially thought would be the most difficult to cross. How could this not excite him?
"So, the Bulgars have finally arrived, and their army has crossed the Volga River."
In the dense forest, Rostislav received the Norse mercenaries who had fled the battlefield and learned about the course of the battle from them.
"So those towns didn't even heed my harassment orders… Sigh, well, it was to be expected."
After receiving news of the Bulgar main force crossing the river, the Moscow Prince immediately dispatched messengers to withdraw the garrisons at various Volga River crossings, either to have them rendezvous or to have them conceal themselves and await an opportune moment.
The Moscow Army was stationed in the dense forest near Kashin. Such dense forests were common throughout Northeast Rus' and were ideal for concealing large armies.
The trees were so thick that they almost blotted out the sky, and only a few rays of sunlight penetrated the canopy, but it was enough to provide sufficient light. These rays illuminated the many tents.
At this moment, a large number of soldiers were resting there. Some gathered in small groups, heartily drinking kvass, while others gambled or boxed. Still other soldiers, led by officers, practiced their battlefield skills, hoping that a trick or two learned now would save their lives later.
Polish Knights and Rus' Bodyguard Unit members were there, bragging and joking, boasting about their battles and killings, and showing off their martial skills. Norse warriors competed in archery with Hungarian riders; the Norsemen, armed with longbows, did not believe they were inferior to the composite bowmen from the steppes.
Rostislav's tent was located beneath a giant tree. After dismissing the Norse mercenaries, the Prince now stood before a worn-out table, found from who knew where.
On the table lay a map that had surely seen countless years, reportedly found by Gvaran in an inconspicuous corner of the Rostov armory.
His fingers moved across the rough and simple map, and though it was exceedingly crude, it was sufficient for strategic reference. Upon this map, the Prince pondered how to confront the enemy.
"Heh, since the Bulgars have already tasted sweetness, it's time I made them taste bitterness."
After some thought, Rostislav made his decision. He now commanded many elite troops, and not giving the Bulgars a memorable surprise attack would be a disservice to all the elites sent by his relatives.
Polish cavalry, Hungarian heavy horse archers, and Norse warriors… This was his first time assembling such a large number of armored elites, and not making good use of them would truly be a waste.
This was also one of the outcomes of him spreading the news of the silver mine; if he hadn't spread the news and invited his relatives to participate, where else would he have found so many elites?
Unfortunately, the silver mine venture ultimately failed. Fortunately, the arrival of the Bulgars provided him with a way to settle the accounts, otherwise, it would have been too difficult to send such a large army away peacefully.
However, he first needed more information; information was the most important thing in warfare.
"Gvaran, you've fought for so many years, do you know this Akad?"
Instinctively, the Prince questioned his battle-hardened Captain of the Guard. When it came to war, this Captain could always provide the answers he sought.
"Akad, I've heard of him from merchants, and I know of his power. He is said to be an existence in Bulgar not inferior to the Khan, and his usual style is known for being ostentatious. But that's all I know; regarding his battle style, I truly don't understand it."
As always, Gvaran articulated everything he knew in his fast and concise manner, remaining as rigid and unsmiling as ever.
"If you don't understand, then let's just launch a surprise attack. War is inherently full of uncertainties."
Tapping the map, the Prince set the tone for the strategy. War was a grand gamble, and striving for everything to be under control was meaningless.
Stepping out of the tent, the Moscow Prince saw his army. His warriors were now assembled at this location.
The Prince saw local farmers explaining the nearby terrain to his adjutant, saw civilians carrying supplies under the whip, saw soldiers arrayed in neat formations…
Watching the activities of countless soldiers, Rostislav couldn't help but feel nervous. This was his first time independently leading an army to face an opponent stronger than himself.
Rostislav was very nervous, extremely nervous. The total strength of the Bulgars was more than double his own, and when had the Moscow Prince ever faced such a powerful opponent?
After all, although his mind was filled with complete plans that made him feel he had a strong chance of winning, he was still facing war, the unpredictable nature of war.
Perhaps he would fall on the battlefield tomorrow, and then what would be the meaning of all this? So the nervousness was like a dark cloud, lingering and refusing to disperse.