Bulgaria (3)
“What?”
Nestoric’s face twisted in surprise at the scout’s report.
“The fires to the southeast are dying down, growing fainter by the moment.”
A heavy silence fell over them.
His adjutant glanced warily at Nestoric’s expression before speaking cautiously. “What are your orders, Excellency?”
Nestoric snapped back to attention. “Change of plans. Prepare for a night assault.”
The sudden reversal left confusion flickering across the adjutant’s face.
Nestoric explained at once. “The blaze spread wildly at first, then died out after just a short while. That means the enemy commander rushed his troops into a tight formation to extinguish it.”
“Ah…!”
The reason they hadn’t pressed the night raid earlier was twofold: they couldn’t tell which supply depot was the real one, and the enemy’s scattered positions forced them to divide their own forces.
Splitting troops in broad daylight posed little risk. But in a night assault, dispersing because the foe was spread thin could shatter their chain of command, leading to devastating losses.
“Now the troops are massed together, and we’ve pinpointed their location. All that’s left is to strike hard.”
The fire attack had failed, but it fell squarely within Nestoric’s calculations. This night assault was the prepared follow-up.
And so the Bulgarian army marched southeast for the raid. As Nestoric advanced alongside his soldiers, he ground his teeth at the sight of the fading flames.
“I don’t know what stroke of luck they had, but suppressing those fires so quickly…”
The enemy commander had anticipated a night raid, scattering decoy supply depots to buy time. Nestoric had seen through it, launching the arson to sow chaos and lure them toward his main force in the northwest.
He’d rated the odds of them quelling the blaze as low. Even if they managed it, he figured it would take considerable time.
But his prediction had gone spectacularly awry.
The flames guttered out before his eyes. Nestoric sensed at once that this foe was no amateur.
“Still, their tactics lack polish. This must mean the commander’s a young officer, green in the field.”
A truly elite leader would have guarded against fire from the start. Supply depots were prime targets—vulnerable to assault and all too prone to burning.
Organization played a role too. Senior officers rarely commanded logistics; both Bulgarian and Roman armies relegated supply trains to auxiliaries, typically under junior lieutenants.
Thus, Nestoric deduced the enemy was talented but battle-untested.
The trouble lay precisely there. A mere junior had unraveled every tactic Nestoric had honed over decades of war with Rome. It was a blow to his pride.
“Casualties be damned—we must take that commander’s head.”
To show such prowess without experience… If he gained seasoning, it would spell disaster for Bulgaria. Better to crush him now, before he bloomed.
Such thoughts filled Nestoric’s mind as they marched, but every forest they passed brought eerie noises.
“Excellency, strange sounds from the trees.”
Nestoric waved it off, ordering them onward. “No cause for alarm. It’s a cheap trick—branches woven into ropes strung between trunks to mimic foes nearby. We won’t waste time on it. Advance.”
Reassured by his words, the soldiers pressed on.
“Brilliant, Excellency. How did you spot it without even looking?”
Nestoric merely nodded, saying nothing.
In truth, he couldn’t tell if real enemies lurked or it was mere deception. His confident tone stemmed from their overwhelming numbers—even an ambush could be crushed in a counterattack.
“And if they’re gambling, they’d wait for a better moment, not now.”
This was an able commander. No frantic moth-to-flame charge; they’d bide their time for the perfect strike.
With that certainty, they reached the battlefield.
Varangians had taken cover behind longships, their soldiers hunkered in the shadows. Darkness obscured details, but the enemy was clearly outnumbered.
“Far fewer than expected.”
Had they split their forces? Nestoric shook his head.
“Dividing troops at evening, with visibility blocked? Suicide. And besides…”
Splitting an already meager force defied reason—no clever ploy or masterstroke. With the river at their backs, Bulgarian might would simply overrun them.
“No enemy cavalry in sight, Excellency.”
“They’ll hit our rear while we tangle with the infantry.”
“Then we’ll bolster the rear guard.”
Nestoric raised a hand. “Their numbers are inferior. Second, that cavalry’s from the supply train—poor fighters. Third, nightfall blinds us both equally; our tight formation gives us the edge.”
This wasn’t hubris. A dispassionate assessment of facts and logic. Crushing them now would dismantle the hammer-and-anvil ploy they clearly intended.
“No—full assault. Proud sons of Bulgaria! Smite these invaders who dare trespass our soil!”
Nestoric’s charge rang out. The Bulgarians surged forward like a tide.
“Kαὶ εἶδον οὐρανὸν καινὸν καὶ γῆν καινήν. (The enemy’s coming!)”
“Παῦε, μὴ αὐτῷ. (Hold them off!)”
The Varangians seized their weapons, battling fiercely to repel the onslaught.
Vikings shone in ground fighting. Their savage resistance gave the Bulgarians pause for a heartbeat.
“Fear not! The foe’s few! Only five Vikings skulking behind those ships—two decuries, swarm them!”
Lacking quality? Overwhelm with quantity. Two decuries encircled the longships’ defenders, hammering away.
“Καλῶς! (Gah!)”
“Ἡ γυνὴ πονεῖ. Καὶ σὺ τέκνον. (Flank’s breached! Help!)”
“Ἀἱ φίλοι. (We’re surrounded too!)”
The Varangian line began to crumble. As the front ranks fell, an unearthly whinny heralded cavalry bursting from the rear.
“Cavalry at the rear!”
“Early birds. Spearmen, meet them—but no pursuit. Eyes on the enemy before us!”
Nestoric focused on annihilating the Viking foot.
Just as the infantry teetered on collapse, screams erupted from behind.
“How many are there?”
“We drive them off, but more keep swarming!”
The rear dissolved into chaos. Inches from infantry victory, the disruption vaporized Bulgarian momentum.
Nestoric yielded the vanguard to his adjutant and rushed rearward.
He stared in shock at the carnage upon arrival.
“Enemy horse were few—how such heavy losses?”
The rear commander bowed and began. “They kept surging from the dark. We chased, but they were so swift…”
Shiiiiek. An axe whistled through the air. The adjutant’s explanation ended as his head flew.
“…”
Blood-soaked, Nestoric stood firm. A senior boyar hurried up.
“A-are you all right, sir?”
“Fine. That headband marks you senior boyar. Adjutant’s dead—you have rear command.”
“Y-yes? …Understood, Excellency!”
Nestoric sized up the situation. Small cavalry bands hammered one rear point relentlessly, nomad-style.
He knew it well—plagued by Magyars, no one countered steppe riders better.
“Centuries—shields up, follow me.”
They assembled with shields. Night hid the tally, but precision mattered less now.
“Lay shields flat on the ground.”
One by one, shields carpeted the earth. Feeble shelter compared to longships.
The senior boyar frowned. “This won’t stop a cavalry charge.”
Silent, Nestoric peered into the shadowed woods. Something lunged—and he bellowed.
“Weapons ready! Enemy from the left!”
His shout rang deliberately loud. Infantry shifted from the shielded right to the left.
Predictably, enemy horse plunged rightward for the exposed rear.
Backs turned in peril—yet horse and rider screams filled the air.
“Arrrgh!”
“Gurk.”
Nomads tumbled, snagged by shields.
The boyar gaped. “How…?”
“Night blinds horses—no full gallop. They trot, and shields make perfect snares.”
Nestoric gripped his weapon, eyes on the trap. In a chill whisper:
“At last, we meet.”
As if in answer, darkness parted. A man strode forth—blood-caked Varangian helm, brutish sword. A killer radiating menace.
Spotting Nestoric, the Varangian drew steel.
Nestoric leveled his own weapon, unyielding, at the enemy leader.