279. The Trumpet of Jericho.
279. The Trumpet of Jericho.
"Tsu-! Tsu! Giddyup!"
[Dagadak- Dagadak- Dugudugu-]
The rough hoofbeats of his steed rose from beneath the saddle, mingling with the sound of the colossal mounted host enveloping every direction. Sagarya Khagan's warriors hurtled fiercely across the steppe, which was, by human reckoning, completely empty.
Anyone ignorant of Sagarya Khagan and his cavalry's full circumstances would have seen the mounted force driving their horses' hooves in unison toward a single heading and, before such gallant majesty, promptly bowed their heads and meekly surrendered.
But the reality was that Sagarya Khagan and the Khazar Khaganate warriors' situation was far from leisurely.
[Shwaaaak- Shwaaaak- Shweeek! Shwek! Dugudugu-]
"Hya! Hya!"
"Arrrrr-"
[Shwaaaak- Shwaaak- Pyung! Pyung!]
Sagarya Khagan's personal guard, who could loose their bows freely to the left and right of their galloping horses, did not bat an eyelash at the Magyar arrows flying over their heads. Shrieking eerie cries that mimicked the sounds of birds of prey, they zealously loosed return fire. Yet the matching speed of the two mounted masses running parallel and the great distance separating them made it nearly impossible for either side to land an effective hit.
"Put a little more strength into it! It's the Don River soon! There we'll be able to shake them off!"
"Yes! Khagan!"
"Increase speed!"
"Jiebel! Take your tribe and peel off those Magyar slaves!"
"Understood! Yi---hya!"
"Hwee-ik-! Hweee-ik-!"
One band of horsemen peeled away in unison, loosing bizarre sounds and whistles at Khagan Zachariah's command without an inch of hesitation. In the harsh life of the nomads, a Khagan's order was absolute. Once battle was joined, to disobey the Khagan's command was to ask to be killed on the spot. The warriors had no other choice.
The chieftain called Jiebel and his warriors soon traded arrows with the Magyar fighters who wheeled around in one body. Moving as if each bit at the other's tail, they gradually drew farther from Sagarya Khagan's main force.
With this, some time was bought.
He had not expected for a moment that the North Sea warriors from the Dnieper River region would docilely let his retreating army go, but their pursuit was far too swift. The shape of their attack, closing from all directions, was like nothing so much as a nomadic hunt.
Most infuriating of all were those insolent Magyar lowborn who had crossed the Dnieper, those slaves.
Rootless curs whom the prior Khagans of Khazaria had taken in and raised, and who now bared their fresh-grown teeth like wolves.
As soon as this war was somehow ended, he would push and crush those Magyars first.
But the real question, inevitably, was how to end this war. The answer to that question was the crux of it all.
[Shwaaaak- Shweeek!]
Eek!
The fletching of an arrow grazing past his head was familiar. It was not the blood-curdling great bows and arrows of those North Sea bastards whom he had experienced at Kiev, but the somehow warmly familiar arrows of fellow nomads. Strange. The Magyar pursuers on the right flank, under Örn's command, had clearly been shaken off. Hadn't this arrow come from the left?
'What's that now!?'
Sagarya Khagan and all his warriors had enjoyed the prosperous fortunes of Atil and were armed with sturdy armor and quality weapons. But this new mounted band that had appeared on the left was clad in moth-eaten cloth armor and fur caps, armed only with bows and arrows, and dared to launch an insolent assault upon the master of the steppe.
'How low has my prestige truly fallen!? Must I turn my back and flee from such ragged beggars?!'
Sagarya Khagan wanted to wheel his riders around at once, to trample their piteous destitution and take all their families as slaves and sell them to the Abbasid Empire south of the Caspian Sea. Yet he could not.
Because, at this very moment, behind Sagarya Khagan's back, the North Sea Empire's army that had held the defense of the Dnieper River was advancing in a single body.
If he fought those steel-clad barbarian masses, even with a generous estimate, his odds of winning were maybe five in ten. That was provided he could lure them deep into the steppe and overwhelm the exhausted and starved lot in one stroke. But the North Sea Empire was famed for its plenty. His own warriors were thus more likely to starve than the enemy.
So right now, he had no time to waste on the insolent beggars on the left.
[Shwaaaak- Shwaaak- Pak! Ihihihiing! Uwak! Kung!]
However crude, an arrow was still an arrow. One horse unlucky enough to injure its ankle slammed its head straight into the ground and sent its rider hurtling skyward.
But Sagarya Khagan and his crack elite warriors only gnashed their teeth and galloped onward.
Soon the Don River would appear, and after crossing the large bridge, they would surely destroy it, so that the infantry-centered North Sea army could not easily cross the Don. That would delay their army at the Don River, and in the meantime Sagarya Khagan and the warriors of Khazaria would be able to safely enter beyond Atil's warm city walls.
If by chance the enemy army that had descended the Volga River was already besieging the walls, that would be even better. For however many layers of steel a man wrapped around his body, an infantryman who exposed his back to cavalry could never, even if he died and rose again, withstand the impact of a charging horse.
At the head of his army, now numbering some twenty-three thousand after one tribe had detached, Sagarya Khagan nursed such hopes. Whatever the case, if he could hold out inside Atil, the enemy would eventually tire and turn back. Then he could quietly cede mastery of the Dnieper River basin and buy himself time to catch his breath!
The life of the steppe was forever bound up with crisis, and his forebears and the great nation of Khazaria had always survived. He too would survive. And become even greater!
Thinking thus, Zachariah spurred his steed on.
"Tsu-! Tsu!"
*****
"That place is Atil. Stórolf, I have longed to hear the sound of your horn. Inform them that the North Sea has arrived."
"Yes! Fylkir! I'll make it so even those without ears can hear this sound! Hooooo-"
The longships cleaved the waves, and the wind that lingered at our backs spread the great sails wide.
[Bwooooooong---!!!]
[Bwooong--- Bwoooong--- Bwong---!]
Beginning with Stórolf's horn, countless horn calls resounded in unison. The sound emitted by the ever-mightier longships was like the roar loosed by the many dragon heads adorning their bows.
"Fylkir Helgi! Fylkir Helgi Ragnarsson!"
"Sterk!! Sterk!!"
"Helgi Helason! Helgi Odinsson!"
The warriors of the North Sea, unable to contain their battle-blood at the imminent fight, soon bellowed the slogans they shouted every time they drilled. And as for me, standing at the very center of this emotional maelstrom—I found, for some reason, that I thought this sight beautiful.
War was a miserable thing with no real victors, and battle was like taking a red dot seen from afar and shoving it right under your nose, showing you the scattered fragments of entrails, bone shards, blood droplets, pain, and resentment as if under a microscope. But there was something undeniably stirring about the aura my warriors radiated.
'The Bulgar chief certainly didn't lie. Their city is divided in two.'
From where we looked, there was a grand, Roman-looking wall on the Örn side of the Volga River, while on the left, a much lower and shoddier stone wall—something that just barely tried to pass as a wall—surrounded the village.
The Khazar Khagan's relatives, ruling class—in short, the important people—lived under the high and beautiful wall.
Slaves and those who were marginally useful lived under the low, half-hearted wall.
Wasn't that a common story?
"Seutorolpeu! We're going in first! Bring the ships up to the Örn riverbank!"
"Yes! Fylkir! Row toward the Örn side!"
"Row!"
"Left side, stay still! Örn side! Row in time with my command! One— two— one— two—"
[Swaaa—! Splash! Swaaa—! Splash!]
"Furl the sail!"
"Furl the sail!"
My longship, proportionate to its great size, was an especially large one even among the longships of the North Sea that were constantly competing to see who could build a bigger one.
The prototype longship that Halfdan had taken a liking to on the island of Britain a few years ago was now only the size of a medium vessel. My ship had grown so tall and broad that I now hesitated just slightly before jumping from the prow, but she still moved in and out of the river as if it were her own home.
[Swaaa— Swaaa—]
The warriors on the left also rowed slowly, adjusting their direction, and the longships, gradually reducing speed, finally slid softly up onto the riverbank near Atil.
'Hut! Cha—'
[Fwip— Thud!]
The weight of the armor, helmet, shield, spear, and the axe and dagger at my waist alone must have been the weight of two small children, yet my body stepped down onto the land of Atil without any strain.
Behind me, the warriors who had descended by rope ladder waded unhesitatingly into the still-chilly river water with splashes, following after me.
Dragging my suitably muck-covered leather boots through the pleasant grass of the steppe to scrape off some mud, I took a deep breath, and the commotion rising from Atil registered on my senses.
[Barbarians! It's barbarians! Look at the number of those ships! How are those barbarians? To the walls! Everyone who can carry a weapon, to the walls! Don't panic! The wall is high and Yahweh will protect us! I must cross the river at once! My family is over there! Calm down! The Khagan will return soon! Just wait a little—]
These bastards. Perhaps because their main force had departed, they were quite panicked.
"Hrolf!"
"Yes, Fylkir!"
I halted at a distance where no enemy arrow could possibly reach, and called out to Hrolf with a vigorous voice. A warrior of sturdy build, with dear Hrolf's features visible here and there on his face, hurried to stand before me.
Rollo.
The boy who had run all over Árós training since childhood had already grown so much.
"Thousand-man units 1 through 3 will keep their walls in check with me. Units 12 through 15 will alternate between camp construction and Hugh's rest. Since we have no timber, you may haul the ships up and turn them over. If it's enough to keep horses from easily entering the camp, it will suffice."
"Understood, Fylkir!"
Wasn't that what would happen if you mixed half of Refil and half of Seutorolpeu? Hrolf had begun to catch the eyes of several commanders not long after joining the Garmr Brotherhood in Norrland. Then, when I personally granted him the title of Jarl (chiliarch) and showed my intention to nurture him in earnest, the proud little smile that crept onto Hrolf's face—though he pretended otherwise—was something I would not forget for a long time.
The great prospect who had appeared after a long time since Refil and Seutorolpeu, Hrolf, hurriedly used his feet and mouth to relay my orders, and the North Sea army moved busily in all directions to do their work.
Some hauled ships up to safe ground or tied them down securely against any sudden gust; others unloaded supplies and stacked them, or sketched out the general layout of the camp before beginning full-scale work. After a full day, a fairly plausible camp would likely take shape.
And as I stood still, facing the wind and examining the wall, I sensed three thousand-man units—three thousand warriors—forming up in crisp rectangular ranks beside me.
[Oh—Yahweh... Look at them! Those are not barbarians! Don't be afraid! We will defeat them with the power of Tengri! Hurry, move the arrows! Gather everyone who can fight! Send a man to the Khagan quickly! We already sent one! Then send another!]
Atil was still in chaos, while the North Sea warriors moved as comfortably as if they were at home, setting up defensive lines one after another. The village across the river also fell into disorder, locking their flimsy gate tightly and peering over their low wall with heads and eyes.
That place would soon be surrounded by the Bulgar warriors from the Volga basin who had followed us. Rurik, the Konungr of Novgorod (he had returned the title himself, but I had granted it again), was a commander not to be taken lightly, even though he was overshadowed by his younger brother (Jarl Oleg). When Sagarya Khagan turned his back, he would never let him go easily.
So I had roughly one to two weeks to take Atil.
"First, shall we exchange a greeting with them?"
Having sorted out the rough and imprecise calculations in my head, I strode forward, with the elite of the North Sea following behind me.
[Chk! Chk! Chk! Chk!]
A mechanical stride that felt no fear. All the noise of chaotic Atil died down before the terrifying sound of those footsteps.
☆☆☆☆☆References☆☆☆☆☆
Map created from DEMIS Mapserver, which are public domain. Koba-chan., CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons
Something like the vast sphere of influence of the North Sea. We can see how they've firmly secured the Scandinavia-Black Sea route...! The cute little Normandy on French land is visible! Actually, looking at it this way, it might seem like their influence is weak on the northern coasts of France and Germany, but since all the surrounding powers (Brace, Flanders, Frisia) are friendly to the North Sea, you could say the saltwater is essentially all the North Sea's... Of course, what happens next is another story...!
I'm gradually adding other factions based on this map...! Once again I'm amazed at my MS Paint talent... Is this really talent?