Dawn Delivery (2)
Enemies surged in from all directions. Though Bulgaria called itself an empire, it lacked the disciplined regular armies of Rome, so—as predicted—they opted for guerrilla warfare.
"Just as they taught us in the military academy."
Guerrilla warfare. A tactic favored by nations with comparatively inferior military strength. It was typically the desperate method of the weak and powerless, small ethnic groups or minor states forced to achieve maximum results with minimal forces as swiftly as possible.
But the foes we faced were of Bulgarian clan origin—irregulars who were regulars at the same time. Unlike Eastern Rome, the Bulgarian Empire operated on a tribal system. Unless the Tsar himself, their supreme commander, took the field, clans often waged independent military actions. In short, there was no unified chain of command.
Against such opponents, nothing beat guerrilla tactics in return.
"Krahahaha! Come at us, you blockheads!"
"How's the taste of my axe!"
The Vikings roamed the battlefield at will. Their prowess in guerrilla fighting stemmed not only from individual skill but also from differences in armament. Bulgarians typically fought with swords and shields. Vikings, by contrast, wielded axes—and hooked the lower blade-guard over the enemy's shield to neutralize their defense outright.
Coldly speaking, axes offered no hand protection, giving swordsmen the edge. But the seasoned Vikings would snatch the shield away, stripping the enemy of their guard. Panic inevitably followed, and in that gap, they cleaved heads from shoulders.
It was simply a perfect blend of personal prowess and weapons suited to their hands.
"Не се колебай! Целиш китката на врага!"
The enemy commander's shout. I summoned a soldier fluent in Bulgarian to translate.
"'Stay calm and target the wrist,' he says."
The commander had rallied his men while pinpointing our weakness with precision. Such calm responses could put us on the defensive.
"Time for me to step in."
I picked up a simple helmet combining an eyepatch and head covering—a Jormundbu helm. Then I issued orders toward the enemy commander.
"Brothers! The enemy commander is over there!"
At my words, the Vikings charged straight for him. Caught off-guard by the sudden assault, the commander fell back, sensing the threat.
A gap opened in that instant. I drew my sword and lunged.
"Raaargh!"
Crash!
The commander raised his shield to block. I immediately kicked it aside with my foot.
"Gah!"
The swift follow-up from sword strike to kick overwhelmed him; he retreated without countering. That separated him from his guarding soldiers.
His shield still intact. I sheathed my sword, drew the two-handed axe from my back, and roared.
"Hu-raaah!"
I swung with all my might. Each time, he somehow parried with his shield.
"Let's see how long you last!"
I hammered away as if to shred the shield itself. Cumulative damage took its toll—the wood began to crack.
Spotting the fissures, the enemy commander trembled and muttered something incomprehensible.
"Чу...чудовище..."
I didn't understand, but he was exposed. I hurled a throwing axe from my belt.
Clang!
Blocked by the shield again. But this strike differed from the last.
"Die!"
A full-power horizontal slash. The shield had veered right to catch the thrown axe, leaving the left flank wide open. Too late to defend against the two-handed axe slicing in.
Crunch-crunch.
"Gaaaargh!"
A gruesome sound as the axe bit halfway into his waist. His horrific scream drew every Bulgarian soldier's gaze my way.
The commander, his will shattered. To spare him further agony, I slit his throat with my dagger.
He crumpled. I yanked the axe free from his side and struck his neck again. Then I hoisted the head high for all to see.
"The enemy commander is dead."
Silence blanketed the field. Some Bulgarians were already dropping weapons, ready to flee.
"Waaah!"
"We've won!"
In normal circumstances, I'd demand surrender. But this was no normal situation. Having seen our supply lines and scale, we couldn't let any escape.
I turned to the Varangian soldiers and gave the follow-up order.
"Kill every last Bulgarian."
At my command, the Vikings raised their weapons anew. Sensing the undimmed bloodlust in their eyes, the Bulgarians chose flight over fight.
But against Vikings' absurd guerrilla prowess, escape was impossible. None slipped away.
"By His Majesty's granted authority, we accepted no surrenders and executed them all."
Rogerius reported with weary fatigue. Yet bloodlust still smoldered in his eyes.
"...Well done. No need to report to His Majesty."
Even during the civil war, the emperor had rejected surrender envoys, prioritizing efficiency in battle. Nikephoros knew why: primal rage against Bulgarians. The emperor intended to slaughter every one in the region.
"Thank you, sir. What of the commander's head?"
"Send it to His Majesty. He'll be pleased."
This could be seen as the empire's first clash with Bulgaria. A resounding victory by the upstart Varangian lately favored by the emperor—it was worth publicizing to gladden his heart.
Lately, the emperor had squeezed budgets harshly from the duces. Nikephoros understood it stemmed from the civil war's new systems. Field commanders thus touted their feats assiduously to avoid irking him.
"Understood. I'll submit it in your name, sir."
Normally, merits went under one's superior's name.
"You think me mad for glory? Ha! No matter. This was your battle—claim it."
An outsider leading Varangians and nomads to field victory proved his martial talent before Nikephoros's eyes. He viewed Rogerius positively and accepted only the gesture of yielding credit.
"No, sir. It must be in your name."
Rogerius's steady voice hinted at intent. Intrigued, Nikephoros probed.
"I wanted only your goodwill. Yet you insist—what's your reason?"
"Precisely, sir. With this merit, His Majesty can leverage it to crush the war-opposition factions in the empire."
Nikephoros inwardly whistled at the young outsider's explanation.
"Politically sound, indeed."
Rumors of him—a fresh arrival from the capital—severing the commander's head upon landing would silence the peaceniks. Nobles would know it dubious, but with veteran Nikephoros's name attached, they'd hesitate to challenge at political cost.
"But you forfeit a golden chance to make your name known. No regrets?"
"I'm a foreigner without skill or proper backing yet. Drawing all eyes now would spell danger."
Nikephoros marveled anew. This denizen of Rome's frontier Varangia spoke like a grizzled Roman politician.
"So you'll bide your time? Political ambitions, then?"
"If it aids the war, yes. But now, it helps nothing—I'll decline."
Focused on warfare, Nikephoros nodded.
"One more reason you must report it yourself, sir."
"What?"
"Once opposition is quelled, His Majesty will use your merit to ramp up requisitions. More supplies mean swifter victory."
Currently, partial levies respected noble backlash. But Nikephoros claiming the feat would corner them politically, letting the emperor press for full supplies.
"Not just a warrior, but politically astute. Impressive."
Nikephoros doffed his helmet in salute to the young foreigner. Rogerius bowed in thanks.
"More supplies hasten war's end."
"Aye. Only then can this old bones rest. Ha!"
Nikephoros Uranus, not one for jests, warmed to Rogerius's prowess in arms and statecraft. Dismounting, he extended a hand.
"Nikephoros Uranus. To a soldier like you, I'd prefer 'lord' over 'sir.'"
Rogerius clasped it, introducing himself.
"Rogerius Hauteville. Grateful, sir. But hierarchy matters in war—upon return to Rome, I'll oblige."
Nikephoros admired the rigid discipline.
"Agreed. Back in Rome, I'll send for you at my home."
Rogerius bowed in gratitude. As their bond deepened, his adjutant approached.
"Lord Rogerius, the horses are recovered—ready for combat."
"Bring them here. Help the Basilike Ethereia soldiers switch mounts."
As Rogerius moved off with his adjutant, Nikephoros could only marvel at the meticulousness.