Ivar slung an arm around Vig's shoulders. "Not bad, eh? All my hard work teaching you the sword wasn't wasted. How about a duel with me when we've time?"
Vig shook his head. "Forget it. No need."
Even after his sudden "awakening," he knew he was far from the peak. Flaunting himself now would only be foolish.
A quick headcount showed only twelve left of the caravan. One of Rurik's followers had fallen to arrows, and two shield-bearers had been cut down in the close fighting.
The Pechenegs had paid dearly—twenty-five bodies lay in the trees. But they'd had the last word: looting the furs and amber, then torching the merchant ship to ashes.
"Cowards!" Ivar snarled. "We should tail them, sneak in at night, and steal their horses."
Rurik shook his head. "Folly. Out in the open field, we're dead men." He sat down, brooding for a long while, until at last he sighed.
"Then we seek allies. Southwest lies a Rus tribe I know well. Two days' march. They'll shelter us."
Ivar raised a brow. "You hesitated long. Are you unsure of their loyalty?"
Rurik's face twisted wryly. "Two years ago I saved their chieftain's life. He offered me his daughter's hand. I refused. Now, with nothing to bargain but need… I doubt I can refuse again."
He spoke true. The moment he appeared at the gates, the settlement buzzed with excitement. The chieftain welcomed them warmly into his longhouse, laying out honey-glazed bread.
Honey. White bread. To common folk, rare luxuries. Yet here they were, laid out without limit. Vig shifted uneasily.
He nudged Rurik. "We're just passing Vikings. Isn't this overkill?"
Rurik downed his mead in one gulp, belched, and waved him off. "Eastern soil's rich, good for wheat, good for bees. Life's far sweeter here than back home. Why else do so many Norse settle these lands?"
That much was true.
History whispered in Vig's mind: the Rus tribes shaped by Norse settlers, the mingling of blood and custom, the birth of the Rus realm in the mid-ninth century. Its first ruler bore a familiar name.
Rurik.
This Rurik?
Vig forgot his food, staring at the broad-shouldered, red-haired youth beside him. His gaze grew so fixed that Rurik shifted uncomfortably. "What are you staring at?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
Soon, the chieftain learned of the ship's destruction. His fist struck the table in fury. "The Pechenegs! Bold as wolves these past two years—raiding caravans, stealing our wheat! I've suffered them long enough."
He swore to send men to aid Rurik—on one condition: he must wed the chieftain's daughter.
"So be it," Rurik answered at once.
Perhaps fearing he'd renege, the chieftain arranged the wedding that very afternoon.
Before a thousand tribesmen, he slaughtered cattle and sheep, offering sacrifice to the sun god Dazhbog and the thunderer Perun. Then came feasting, music, and dance—the marriage sealed in revelry.
Vig ignored the bride and groom, devouring meat and bread until he could barely move. The days of hauling ships had drained him dry; he meant to refill his strength. Later, when he lay on a straw-stuffed bed, its softness denied him sleep for hours.
Three days later, the promise was kept: one hundred and fifty fighting men joined them.
"Rurik, you and your companions are true warriors," the chieftain said. "Bring us back good news."
The odds were thin. Vig urged preparation.
"Forge caltrops," he said. "And have carpenters strengthen the wagons."
Two more days passed before the war-band marched.
Twelve iron-clad Vikings lent the Rus heavy infantry strength, morale soaring. Against unarmored nomads, they were near unstoppable—if the Pechenegs stood and fought.
"Hey, is it true?" Rus youths pestered Vig on the trail, mangling Norse words with hand-signs. "You slew ten riders alone?"
The questions never ceased. Finally Vig thrust the credit away. "Ask Ivar the Boneless. He taught me. Watch him fight, and you may learn a thing or two."
By next morning, Pecheneg scouts shadowed them. Riders gathered like stormclouds.
By mid-afternoon, two hundred horsemen blocked the path. At their head, a chief raised a blue banner bearing a white horse, golden-thread trim glinting in the sun.
The flag dipped thrice. The riders howled and charged.
But the Rus did not meet them head-on. Instead, they herded their eighteen wagons into a loose ring, then ducked inside, shields and bows at the ready.
The nomads circled, loosing volleys into the car-circle. At Rurik's command, Rus archers fired back, braced on wagon-beds.
From horseback, their arrows flew weak and wild. The Rus foot-bows shot straighter, harder. Within minutes, twenty nomads lay slain, for only three Rus dead.
The chief's heart chilled. Such a tactic—he had never seen. Then his sharp eyes found weakness: the northeast gap, wide enough for ten horses abreast. There, the archers were boys, unblooded, every shot gone astray.
A weak point.
He raised the flag and led the charge himself.
But inside, the Rus did not scatter. Instead, spear lines bristled, steady as stone.
"Trap! Pull back!"
Too late. From the wagons, caltrops showered down, crippling hooves and sowing chaos. Vikings in lamellar surged forth, spears stabbing mercilessly into trapped riders.
The chief watched his men cut down, one after another, until he tasted ice in his veins. He ordered retreat—abandon the horses, flee on foot! But panic ruled. Men stumbled into caltrops, fell shrieking, and arrows pinned them where they lay.
In less than ten minutes, it was done. Seventy nomads dead, for seven defenders.
And within the wagon-ring, twenty-five captured horses stamped and snorted—the spoils alone more than worth the campaign.