286. The Distant Eyes of the Grassland (4).
It was a little different from a warrior's courage. What was a soldier's discipline, then?
It was a laughable exercise to distinguish between them so strictly, but if I had to separate them, the former was personal ability, while the latter was a compound of training, the social climate, individual circumstances, and similar elements.
However it was made, the presence of discipline meant one thing: the ability to move even in fear.
"Yaaaa!"
[Fwoong- Slicing!]
In that sense, the warriors of Sagarya Khagan possessed a collective discipline that transcended individual courage.
"Iyaaaa!"
[Bwoong- Thunk!]
"Kek!"
I cut toward Örn, immediately raised the sword, and brought it down on the correct beat. The blade, falling like an axe, crushed the meager resistance of the well-made iron helmet and finished off the hard skull within.
Before I could even confirm the enemies I had slashed and chopped down were spouting blood, the gray horse I rode surged forward, and my voice once more devoured all the chaos of the battlefield.
"Sa-ga-rya-! Reveal yourself! Face me! I am your death!"
"Kill that cur-!"
"Shoot-!"
"Yaaaa!"
[Dugudugudugu- Shwack- Shwaaack-]
'Hup!'
[Bung- Bung- Bwoong- Tadak! Tatatang! Tatang!]
I brought my blade into the path of the incoming arrows in advance and deflected every last one.
[Hwiing- Slicing! Dengkang-]
Letting the greatsword's momentum dance back and forth between my hands as it cut this way and that, I slashed long from left to right. Along with the optical illusion of an eerie green line drawn in the void, heads rose into the air all at once. Though vivid emotions—grudges and desperation, madness, rage and terror—lived and moved within them, the light in their eyes lost life as swiftly as the heads soon fell to the ground.
[Shwaaaack-!]
Amid my vigorous sword-work, a sharp arrow crept into my blind spot.
[Chwaruk! Thunk!]
I swiftly opened and closed my left armpit, catching the arrow against my flank. The red ornament on its shaft made it seem unlikely to be from an ordinary bowman.
I turned my head toward the arrow's origin and spotted a Khazar man in the distance, his eyes wide open as far as they could go.
Was it you?
[Dugudugudugu-]
"Follow the Fylkir!"
"Helgi Styrkr! Helgi Styrkr!"
"Kill them all-!"
"Hel-aaah---!!"
[Kwang! Kwakwang! Kwajik! Hwirikhwirik- Puk! Keok! Aaak!]
My bodyguard, charging in behind me, brutally gnawed into the enemy's fracture. Hand axes and javelins flew through the air, and great axes and spear-blades were brought down upon the enemy without mercy. All battle was ultimately a contest of momentum, but in a clash between cavalry in particular, the side that was pushed back could not avoid annihilation. So now, this battle was no longer a matter of courage or discipline.
From this moment on, it was a matter of living or dying.
The owner of the red-ornamented arrow, who had confirmed this fact just as I had, nailed his two round eyes' gaze onto my body, and I saw the movement of him urging his horse on to break away from the battlefield.
[Ujikkeun!]
I tightened my armpit to snap the arrow and took the falling arrowhead in my left hand. I couldn't just leave behind such a precious gift. I was off to return it now.
"Let's go! Roche!"
[Ihihihihing-!]
The horse, whose near-white coat had earned him the name of a mount ridden by a white wolf in a game from my past life, let out a long cry and obediently followed the command of my calves, which were tightening against his flanks. The fact that there was no froth at his mouth yet meant he could run well enough.
"Hrolafr-! Settle the battlefield and reorganize the army with Refil! Shilki Khan! Men of the Alan and the Pechenegs-! Those of you whose horses still have strength to run, follow me! Before the red sun sets! I shall strike the serpent's head!"
"Yes! Fylkir!"
"Follow the Fylkir Khagan!"
"Kiiiiii-yot!"
"Get a hold of yourselves- Damn it all! Leave the ones whose eyes have rolled back, and the rest of you, follow me! We are with the Fylkir Khagan!"
"Kiii-it! Kiyooooot!"
[Dugudugudugu- Dagr-tak! Dagr-tak! Dagr-tak!]
My voice, thundering out loud enough for all on the battlefield to hear as if through a Kashvet loudspeaker. Excluding the few—in truth, the majority—of Alan and Pecheneg warriors whose eyes had already rolled back in pursuit of the enemy, to a degree that not even that thunderous sound could reach them, the seasoned veterans who kept their earholes open even in this chaotic battlefield turned their horses' heads in unison and followed behind me.
The sound of a lone horse's hooves advancing soon became the sound of hundreds of mounted riders kicking the ground in unison.
And my eyes, which could see far more distantly than these far-seeing warriors of the steppe, were fixed upon the pack of enemies fleeing like mad up ahead.
*****
"Chu! Chu! Chu!"
"Rya! Rya! Rya!"
[Pureureuk! Pureuk! Pureureu- Dagak! Dagr-tak! Dagak! Dugudugu-]
How had it come to this?
The complexion of Sagarya Khagan, whose snow-white skin he had inherited from his Iranian-Jewish mother, was pale beyond white, turning ashen. As if his soul had drained from his body.
On top of the familiar jolts that shook him up and down, Sagarya Khagan's mind chased only one single question, and it was, astonishingly, the exact same question that had occurred to the likes of that Charles in the west, or Ludwig the Emperor, Basil of Macedonia, Edmund, Burgred Cyning, and the others.
What in the world is that bastard?
The Khazars' most elite warriors, whom Sagarya Khagan cherished and kept closer than his own brothers. The invincible warriors who, together, had nothing to fear on this steppe—they had all died before that bastard.
The warrior famed for his mastery of the spear. The warrior who rode so well that he could wield a curved blade in each hand atop a galloping horse. Even Sagarya Khagan's own arrow, which he was confident could hit a leaf at a hundred paces.
Every last one was cut down, slashed apart, caught against a flank (!!), and utterly crushed by that brute, that Shaytan, that beast who was more bear than man.
Had he really smashed Attila's gates with his bare hands? It was a strength so unbelievable that such a delusive thought entered the Khagan's mind. The swiftness of the enemy cavalry that had come charging like an arrow was astonishing, but one could somewhat accept it since their ranks were filled with those treacherous, bandit Alan and those treacherous, beggarly Pechenegs...
Unlike the typical nomadic way of war, where they chased and were chased across the steppe for days, shooting bows and riding on repeat, the cavalry led by that massive, ignorant brute had crashed straight into them instead of shooting arrows, and Sagarya Khagan's forces, who had been in the middle of attacking the enemy infantry, failed to offer a proper response.
However, it would have been too harsh to see this solely as the fault of Sagarya Khagan or the Khazar host. For now, what more could Sagarya Khagan and the Khazar army do?
The accursed Árpád of the Magyars and Haskuldr of Kiev, rather than chasing Sagarya Khagan's tail, had blocked the road leading from Attila to the Bulgar city of Bolghar, and when Refil's forces soon joined them as well, Sagarya Khagan found himself forced not to head north and burn Bolghar, but to flee south.
Meanwhile, Attila's forces, which had moved far faster than expected, had closed in, and what was worse, their ranks were made up of the Alan and Pecheneg tribes who had once been Sagarya Khagan's own subordinates.
Sagarya Khagan and the Khazar Khaganate's army had no choice but to be herded like a flock of sheep, a drove of goats hunted in a slaughter.
Had it been a mistake to strike Kiyiu in the first place? No, had Sagarya Khagan not moved, all the tribes under him would have fled across the river, or in the worst case, he would have faced rebellion.
Had he not spent the last five years hastily reorganizing the Khazar Khaganate under the banner of striking the Muslim Abbasid Empire together with the Eastern Roman Empire? The tribes nursing grudges would surely have risen against him.
Then what if he had struck east instead of Kiyiu—against the Oghuz bastards or the Kimak bastards near the Aral Sea? No, the steppe was already touched by frost. His own situation, being able to bring in supplies from the Abbasid Empire, was as good as it got; the situation of those eastern steppe bastards was far harsher. There would be nothing worth plundering.
If neither of these held the answer, should he have surrendered in the end?
The answer held no meaning anymore, yet Sagarya Khagan looked up at the sky and let out a deep sigh.
Heo-eoh—
He had known the right answer, but Sagarya Khagan had chosen the wrong one. And regardless of the will of Yahweh and Tengri, this steppe showed no mercy to those who gave the wrong answer.
"Woah—woah—"
[Dugudugu— Dagr-dak— Dagr-dak— Duguk— Duguk— purureung! pureung!]
Sagarya Khagan pulled on his horse's reins to slow its speed, his body still fixed in the posture of sighing at the heavens. Watching their Khagan, the few loyal guards who remained all pulled their reins at once and cried out in urgent voices.
O Khagan. You must not stop. You must go further. The enemy is drawing near. Just a little further and it is Derbent. Seize your chance again. Voices such as these.
'I am grateful that you still hold loyalty to this Zachariah, but I fear there will be no more chances for me.'
He felt no confidence he could easily shake off their pursuit, which was growing closer, and above all, he had nowhere left to go.
If he crossed Derbent and bowed his head to the Caliph of the Abbasid Empire, becoming his vassal—would the Abbasid Caliph sincerely receive him, a servant of Yahweh, and wholeheartedly set out to reclaim Attila and the Khazar Khaganate?
Even if, by some grace of Yahweh and Tengri, things somehow worked out, could he possibly win against that great warrior whose hideous face-covering mask was drenched in fresh bloodstains?
It was not that I lacked strength and was thus defeated. They were simply stronger. That is all.
"Hear me, sons of the Khazars. I, a man lacking in ability, have led this nation watched over by Yahweh and Tengri to the very brink of destruction. Therefore, I shall now cease my flight and challenge that man yonder."
He checked the curved blade at his waist, the distinct sword of the nomads. He examined closely the three arrows remaining in his quiver. Feeling the sweat flowing from his horse's neck, it seemed the beast could still run once more.
The composed manner, expression, and posture with which Zachariah prepared for battle were so calm and natural that the loyal guards gathered around him felt as though they had returned to the spring hunt of the year before, at this very same time.
That only a single year should bring such wholly opposite circumstances.
[Seukeuk— tak!]
He pulled the helmet tight onto his head—he did not remember when he had taken it off—and bound the chin strap as tightly as possible. So that it would never loosen again.
Sagarya Khagan left no more words, nor regrets, nor any command or instruction. He simply kicked his horse's flank.
Roughly half of the guards followed behind him.
Those who departed and those who stayed behind asked nothing of each other's circumstances, nor did they leave any words. Those left behind merely watched the retreating figures of those who pressed forward in silence, while those who followed their Khagan hastened their mounts toward his side, increasing their speed.
And at last, the enemy revealed themselves before them.
[Dugudugudugu—]
The enemy cavalry appeared to outnumber the guards following Sagarya Khagan by only a hundred or so—they had rushed in pursuit, it seemed. At a glance, they were mostly southern mountain brigands, beggars from beyond the Volga River, and Pecheneg bastards.
Naturally, the Khagan's guards were better armed, their horses of superior quality, and their skill at shooting arrows, thrusting spears, and swinging blades was so superior that no comparison could be dared—the Khagan's guards were at least two heads above.
But all of that confidence utterly lost its light before a single warrior.
"I am the Khagan of the Khazars! He who is watched over by Yahweh and Tengri! Zachariah! Who are you!"
Everyone, including Sagarya Khagan, had already perceived it. Who that vast warrior was, who had slowed his speed for a moment to confirm this direction and then came on like one insane. By what title he was called.
And the warrior who had loudly shouted Zachariah's own name throughout the fierce combat now proudly declared his own.
"I am the Fylkir of the North Sea! Helgi Ragnarsson!"
Unlike Sagarya Khagan himself, whose voice could barely be heard amid the din of hundreds of galloping horses even when wrenched from his whole body, the enemy's voice rang out as vividly as if shouted right beside him.
This man yonder was surely the strongest in all the world.
"Die—!"
[Pyung! Shwaaack—]
Recalling the day he had hunted his first great bear, Sagarya Khagan loosed arrows in quick succession, and soon the Khazar warriors, following their Khagan, adorned the sky with their precise mounted archery.
[Shwaaack shwaaack— pabak! pababak! pyung! pyupyung! shwaaack—]
With the sound of arrows grazing the empty air and striking the ground, and the screams that followed, Alan and Pecheneg warriors sent their own gifts in reply, but the Khazar cavalry, armed with quality armor and small shields, did not flinch and formed a charge formation centered on Sagarya Khagan.
[Dugudugudugu—]
Was it perhaps possible?
Could victory be achieved?
"Iyaaaaaah—!"
Bearing such hope, Sagarya Khagan drew the curved blade from his waist and, pouring all his strength into it, swung at the great target.
[Huwoong—! Seogeok!]
And for a moment, with a sensation like swimming in the deep sea, the whole world floated up, and Sagarya Khagan's pure white horse charged forward vigorously into a world that seemed to have stopped in an instant.
[Ihihing—! Pureuk! Pureureuk! Dagr-dak! Dagr-dak—]
Upon its back it bore the body of its headless master. As if it would never stop, for all eternity.
Sagarya Khagan, who had accepted all of this with composure, closed his eyes within the pouring crimson twilight, and soon sought a deep sleep with the sensation of endless falling.