285. The Distant Eyes of the Grassland (3).
[Pwing!]
A familiar sound. A familiar sound reached Sagarya Khagan's ears.
[Pwing! Pypwing! Pwing!]
Hundreds, thousands of arrows flew in unison, following the first shot loosed by the chieftain.
[Swaaaaa- shwaaaaaak-]
Arrows launched from powerful bows met arrows loosed from the high palisade far away in the empty air, fiercely greeting one another and exchanging tidings of the frozen earth and the steppe.
[Thwack! Thud-thud! Crack! Thud! Thwack-thwack!]
Save for the wooden shafts that met midair and warped against each other, the arrows that flew safely to their destination bit into the ground and the grain of the palisade, or bit into the steel surrounding men and the flesh within.
"Aargh!"
"Keurgh— cough!"
[Ihihihi—! Prrrt! Prrrt!]
"Whoa—! Whoa!"
"Keok!"
The death rattles, the terror-filled screams of horses, the cries of warriors full of agony—these were sounds to which Sagarya Khagan was not truly accustomed.
Raised from birth as the destined Khagan of the great Khazar Khaganate, seated to trample others and gathering the fruits of promised glory from a prepared throne alongside those prepared for him, this entire situation struck Sagarya Khagan as utterly unfamiliar and enraging.
However, while such a thing might be unfamiliar to this noble ruler of the steppe, an ordinary man, no matter how angry he snarled and shouted, could never alter the circumstances surrounding him. All Sagarya Khagan could do was shoot arrow after arrow laced with fury.
As long as a force called gravity existed in the world, the fact that a stone thrown from a height was stronger than a stone thrown from below could never change. And the North Sea army's palisade, built with a shooting battle very much in mind, inflicted one-sided losses as time passed.
There was no way for Sagarya Khagan to know this, but the Fylkir, hailing from South Korea—the nation that held the "the smallest pepper is the spiciest!" position in the 21st-century Yongdam Hohyeol—Northeast Asia—had raised the elite troops of the North Sea with a mindset fundamentally set upon maximizing gains.
Ranged damage dealer, tank, and healer all in one.
The North Sea's Garmr Brotherhood, forged under this mad, extreme unit design, became an unprecedented warrior collective in all of history, bound tightly by lofty combat strength heedless of season or terrain and fanatical loyalty to the Fylkir.
[Shwaaak! Thwack-thwack! Thwack!]
"Ugh! I'm hit!"
"Thorfin! Raise your shield! Send Thorfin down!"
"Hurry and lower the wounded! The rest of you, keep your bows aimed! Who told you to lower your hands at will! Was there ever a place here for a coward!"
"There was not—arghh!"
"Shoot! Shoot them dead!"
[Pwing! Pypwing! Shwaaak- shwaaak-!]
"Damnation! How did this end up stuck in my arse?"
[Thud-thud! Thud-thud!]
"Save some arrows for me, I'll be back soon!"
"Nonsense from a man who can't even walk! Just get down already, Thorfin! We'll avenge your arse!"
"An eye for an eye! An arse for an arse!! Don't forget—one hit repaid with two! Forget not the words of Jarl Stórolf!"
[Pwing! Pypwing!]
Even with bows in their hands instead of spear and shield, the Northmen's way of fighting changed little. They blocked incoming enemy iron with shields and returned their own iron faster and more accurately than the foe.
On top of that, with the added power of mechanical engines (ballistae) that shot far stronger and more precisely than any man's arm, the momentum of the Khazar army—which had gallantly split to both flanks and maneuvered swiftly at the battle's outset—began to waver.
[Dugudugudugu- shwaaak- thud-thud! Ihihihi! Argh! Pwing! Pypwing! Swaaa-]
No matter how swift and deadly mounted warriors were on an open plain, their bows were by nature smaller, and however excellent composite bows might be, the longbows the North Sea army wielded were no less formidable.
In the end, Sagarya Khagan's cavalry, maneuvering this way and that, could draw no closer to the palisade. They circled and loosed arrows, pulled far away and then closed again, displaying all manner of dazzling horsemanship, but the North Sea army on the palisade never budged and sustained no significant harm.
Ordinarily, a massed volley would have silenced those archers, and ax-wielding warriors would have been sent in to hack through the low points of the wooden gate and the palisade. But they could not even get close, so precious lives were dropping here and there, one after another.
Gnashing his teeth and holding on with sheer guts as he drew his bowstring, Sagarya Khagan, hemmed in by fallen horses and men around him, milled about with nowhere to go and then beheld a warrior and horse pierced together and toppled by a great ballista bolt flying from the palisade.
[Prrrt!]
"Keok!"
[Thud!]
Badl-badl—
The sight of horse and master spitting out blood and shuddering together was not a pleasant one, and Sagarya Khagan glared with both eyes bloodshot to bursting and shouted.
"Fylkir of the North Sea! And Bulgar Khan! I shall surely kill you! Retreat! Retreat! Fall back! Fall back!"
"Hwi-ik— hwi-ik—!!"
[Pwing! Hwiiii-! Pwing! Pwing! Hwiiiiii-!]
Hearing the Khagan's command, his guards whistled in unison, spreading his will, and at once loosed whistling arrows high into the sky.
Hearing that clamorous sound, all the warriors of the Khazar Khaganate turned as one within the North Sea army's shooting range, fired their bows with waists twisted even in flight, and began to quit the field.
[Dugudugudugu- Pwing! Pypwing! Shwaaak-!]
"Haha! Those bastards are running!"
"Let them go! I've got bowwork to do!"
"What 'let them go'! Stop the nonsense and kill them to the last! Send our regards to the backs of their heads!"
"Shoot!"
[Taaaang-! Taang-! Pwing! Pypwing!]
"Enemy arrows!"
"Shields! Shields!"
[Thud-thud- thud-]
"Shoot again!"
"Reload!"
[Pwing! Pypwing! Dreureuk- dreureuk-]
Of course, since the battlefield was not a place one could come and go as one pleased, the Khazars who turned their backs first were forced to accept the North Sea army's warm send-off party.
[Ihihihi! Prrrt! Argh! O Tengri—! O Yahweh!]
The Khazars fell crying out with cries little different from those that the old Angles and Saxons, Picts and Scots, and Franks in the west of the Empire had uttered as they fell.
The North Sea men, who had fought valiantly in the face of the brutal shooting battle, finally became certain of victory, but their commander Refil watched the retreating enemy's rear with cold eyes.
'They took quite a beating, yet their discipline remains strict. There is order in their retreat.'
I'd better beat them a little more. How best to kill them.
"Adjutant, we must hasten preparations to sortie from the camp. The 15th Thousand-Man Unit, the Engineer Corps, and the Medical Unit shall remain here. All other forces are to sortie."
"Aye! Jarl!"
"And convey to Jarl Stórolf and the Bulgar Khan to pursue them. Tell them these are men who may reverse and seek to annihilate our pursuit force at any moment, so caution is required."
"Understood, my lord!"
The adjutant who heard Refil's command hurriedly vacated the spot, and Refil rose from his seat in the command post at the center of the encampment.
The plan was simple. If possible, block their north and bite into the flanks of the wounded colt, hanging on with all our might. Then we thrust our strongest spear at them.
The Fylkir was already moving.
*****
[Dugudugudugu-]
I sat not on Camembert's familiar back, but on the back of an unfamiliar horse. Something felt like I had done wrong. Was it right to feel this way? I'm sorry! Camembert...!
[Puruk! Puruk! Puruk!]
I had spoken in jest, but in truth, Camembert could no longer run alongside me on the battlefield. His temperament was still the same, but the active life of a warhorse was already short. He had roamed too many rough battlefields with me, and now needed Hugh's care. Seeing him sprawled in my palace's front yard, chewing cabbage with the reindeer, made my worries seem meaningless, but still.
Still, the image of that stallion snorting with a look of accepting reality was unforgettable. The weight of time, something I wanted to avoid but couldn't, seemed to draw ever closer to me.
Frost had begun to settle on the hair of my mother, my stepmother, and my two older brothers.
'Ah, Ivar has no hair for frost to settle on.'
I corrected myself. Frost had begun to settle on Ivar's thick beard.
Life, aging, sickness, and death—birth, life, death, aging, and sickness were inevitable things, but watching that inevitability creep closer to those around me was far from pleasant.
I smacked my lips, somehow tasting bitterness, and gave a stroke to the nape of my horse, which was breathing roughly and working its legs frenziedly.
[Dugudugudugu-!]
My horsemanship had already reached a level where I could control a warhorse using only the strength of my calves without using my hands, but my natural weight, which not even horsemanship could conceal, always demanded that these faithful animals pay with their lifespans.
So what I could do for these fellows was let them run to their heart's content while they could, and let them meet a comfortable old age when they could no longer run as before.
Right now, I had to finish this war in this faraway land together with the steppe warriors who followed me.
[Hwiiiiii-!]
A sharp signal sound came from afar. It was the whistling arrow shot by my scout. That sound meant only one thing: something had been sighted on our advance route, whether enemy or ally.
"Brothers of the steppe! All speed up! Run like the wind! Today we will kill the Sagarya Khagan or capture him!"
"Eeyot-! Eeyot!"
"Arrrrrr-!"
"Hwiiik! Hwiiiiik! Hwiiik!"
Dugudugudugu!
The cadence of the horse hooves, already raised in speed, quickened a little more, and the nomads of the Bukhae Empire, who had been moving like ravens spreading their wings wide over the vast steppe, each responded to the Fylkir-Khagan's thunderous cry with all kinds of bizarre howls.
Rather than the sounds of gentle animals like deer, they were the cries uttered when hunting powerful beasts that roamed in packs or alone, like wolves and bears. The steppe horses and men, dashing forward spiritedly at those sounds that threatened the enemy and awakened the spirit of allies, revealed the aggression inherent in their instincts.
Fifty fine horses from Atil, and another fifty fine horses brought by the Alan and Pecheneg chieftains.
Alongside the Fylkir Guard of about a hundred men, the left wing was formed by the Alan tribe led by Shelki Khan, the lucky raiders of the Alans. The right wing was composed of the Pecheneg warriors who had entreated their submission from across the Volga River.
Truly a ragged army of diverse ethnic composition, but was this not the very essence of the steppe? They were filled with a hungry spirit and were good fighters.
And what did it matter if they were torn and full of holes here and there? The name of the one wielding them was Helgi Ragnarsson.
[Hwiiiiii- Dugudugudugu- Hwiiiii- Dugudugu-]
Those who had shot whistling arrows here and there hurriedly rejoined, and to Helgi's ears came the sound of the clash between Refil's Bukhae army and the Sagarya Khagan's forces, who had been repeating pursuits and battles for days already in the distance.
A place where cavalry tangled with cavalry, arrows flew through the sky, and war cries and screams intermingled.
Refil, Seutorolpeu, and the Bulgar Khan Shelki had already done their share 200%.
All that remained was the charge.
"Hrolafr! Sound the horn! All of you, seize your spears! Today, there is no more green on this land! We will paint it all red and break it to pieces!"
[Buuuuuuuuung---!]
"Hel!"
"Helgi Helason!"
"Fylkir! Fylkir!"
Unlike Seutorolpeu's, Hrolafr's horn blast, drawn out long, began softly and ended strongly. Into the horn sound echoing across the steppe, the battle cries of my warriors surged forth.
Cutting through the wind and crossing a low ridge, I soon saw the Garmr Brotherhood, who had formed a firm battle array.
[Dugudugudugu-!]
"The Fylkir has come!"
"Fylkir! Fylkir-!!"
"The Dragon of Bukhae! Death has come!"
The pure white horsehair ornament gifted by Shelki Khan fluttered atop my helmet, and the points of our spears, thrust straight forward, pierced the air filled with resounding cheers and the enemy's shouts.
'Huu-'
[Dagdak! Dagdak! Dagdak! Puruk! Puruk! Puruk!}
Matching breath with the horse that was charging madly, I naturally loaded the spear point with the horse's momentum and my own weight—
[Dugudugudugu- Kwajik!]
"Keok!"
The Khazar warrior who, while frantically attacking Refil's army, had bravely wheeled his horse and charged at me with his spear aimed— I pierced that brave one in a single stroke.
"Keoheok! Kulleok-"
So hard had I thrust that the shaft of the spear entered up to my right hand, and the enemy gushed forth blood. Without even time to confirm the sight with my eyes, I reversed my right hand grip and hurled the spear, skewered with a man like a spit, to the opposite side with all my might.
"Kuk-"
[Huuung! Jureureuk- Kwang! Aaak! Ihihing! Kukung-!]
The spear, flying away leaving a trail of crimson blood, pierced the enemy cavalry charging at my warrior, and where the spear had passed, two human bodies collided and tumbled headlong to the ground, and enemy horsemen could be seen collapsing all at once as they trampled over them.
My warriors, as if they had anticipated that scene, skillfully leaped over the chaos or swiftly jabbed their horses' flanks to twist their bodies away.
No matter how gruesome the carnage I had caused behind me, I was already drawing my great sword from the horse saddle and bringing it down upon the one who challenged me.
"Yaaaah-!!"
[Uung- Kwajik!]
Without even a chance to utter a death scream, the enemy was crushed along the trajectory where the great sword had passed.
[Hwiing- Hwiing- Chwahak! Chwareureuk! Seogeok! Denggang-]
[Dagdak- Dagdak- Dagdak- Puruk! Puruk! Pureureuk!}
My horse, advancing only forward like mad, and my sword on it, savagely tearing apart all surrounding space.
At last, when the emotion of fear settled in the eyes of the once brave enemies, I shouted.
"Sa-ga-rya-!"
Here, your death had come.