Bulgaria (4) – Duel with the Mastermind
“Hah… hah…”
Pain from the fall crashed over him like a wave. The cavalry couldn't pick up speed in the pitch darkness, and what should have been a devastating charge through those flimsy wooden shields had ended with him tumbling from his horse. If he'd landed headfirst, his neck would have snapped instantly. By some miracle, he'd twisted his body just before the horse collapsed, rolling sideways to a relatively safe landing. Still, the impact jarred his side, sending sharp stabs of pain that set his nerves alight.
In this dire moment, the man before him leveled a weapon right at his chest.
That must be him…
The elderly warrior glaring at him exuded calm precision in his eyes. Words were useless between them—they simply stared. Yet Robert's body instinctively recoiled in a fear beyond description.
He'd realized Robert's cavalry was splitting into wedges for a breakthrough tactic and laid down shields to neutralize them in one stroke. Utterly impossible from Robert's perspective. Every time his elite academy training crumbled before this man's instincts, it felt like slamming into an impenetrable wall.
If he's this brilliant… it has to be Bulgaria's famed general, Nestoric.
Hearing the mutter, the enemy commander shot him a surprised look. Dawn's faint light made it hard to see, but his eyes clearly asked how Robert knew him.
“You're impossible to ignore.”
A hero of countless Bulgarian battles. Robert had studied him in military history. The Battle of Thessalonica. To divert the Roman forces, the Bulgarian emperor had given Nestoric his guard and ordered an assault on the city. Thessalonica's governor, Theophylact, and his son Michael led the defense. Nestoric feigned a siege, then deliberately retreated to lure them out—Theophylact fell right into the trap and died by his hand. A Roman crisis. Michael's counterattack couldn't kill Nestoric but routed him, saving the key outpost. A man who'd slain a Roman governor in one clash. Despite that, the emperor valued his genius so highly he appointed him to vital posts.
To face a legend from the textbooks in the flesh…
Now Robert would duel this figure for the battle's fate.
I can't be afraid. Everything rides on this fight.
He steeled himself with a whisper, leveled his sword at Nestoric, and advanced slowly. Nestoric mirrored him, aiming for Robert's throat. They closed until their blades nearly touched. Then Nestoric struck—using the flat of his sword to shove Robert's aside and thrust for his neck. Incredibly swift for an old general. Robert ducked, shielding his throat, and countered with a helmeted headbutt, shoving Nestoric back as he lunged in.
It worked; Nestoric retreated. Robert held the edge in raw strength. He drew a deep breath and slashed diagonally downward.
Clang! Nestoric parried with a deflection. Robert swung wide for the waist, like when he'd felled the last Bulgarian commander. But his body folded against his will. Pain exploded in his gut.
“Tch… a kick? No refined noble, then.”
Nestoric smirked, one corner of his mouth curling, and spat unfamiliar words. Robert couldn't understand, but the mocking expression said enough: Thought I was some gentleman scholar? You headbutted first.
“I wanted to overpower you with strength and end this quick by severing your head…”
Unlike the leisurely Nestoric, Robert was desperate. While they dueled, the Bulgarians hammered Tagma Ton Barangia. Outnumbered, his men teetered on annihilation. Tied down here, he couldn't help them. Defeat loomed.
No… not defeat yet. While the Vikings hold, I keep Nestoric pinned.
If the Varangians endured, victory remained possible. Hold them off. Keep Nestoric here. That was all Robert could do. He gritted his teeth and charged.
“Raaah!”
Horizontal slash. Diagonal. Downward strike. Each time, Nestoric dodged with insulting ease, exposing the gaps in Robert's attacks, then riposted.
“Guhhh!”
Pain flared in his side again. Blood sprayed, blurring his vision. Indescribable agony, but Robert mustered a counterstrike.
“Ngh!”
Nestoric took a deep gash to the thigh from the sudden riposte. Both gravely wounded, they knew the next move would decide it. Swallowing pain, they reset their stances.
Nestoric aimed his sword, eyes locked. Thrust? Slash? Kick? One mistake meant death. No errors. No errors. As Robert psyched himself, dawn broke, revealing the enemy's vast numbers—over twice theirs—amid the Bulgarian ranks.
The overwhelming scale made him swallow dryly. Nestoric's gaze mocked: Afraid?
Afraid? No.
“I've won, Nestoric.”
He sheathed his sword. Nestoric looked puzzled. Robert removed his helmet and pointed behind him.
“You shall come like thunder.”
Hoofbeats thundered. Nestoric's face drained of color. Nikephoros charged under the eagle banner, Dawn Knights slamming into the Bulgarians.
The Vikings gathered by the water's edge, honoring their fallen comrades from the battle.
“They've gone to Valhalla.”
“A death without regrets.”
They laid oiled bodies on wooden boats and set them adrift. A soldier approached Robert with a bow.
“My brothers-in-arms. I will never forget you.”
The arrow loosed. A flaming shaft arced skyward, igniting the vessels of those who would wake no more. Blazing pyres on the waves. Robert gazed in silent tribute.
Turning after the rite, he saw Lord Nikephoros standing there.
“War claims so much.”
“Indeed, Lord Ouranos.”
Nikephoros nodded and offered a flask of clear spirits.
“Care for a drink?”
“How could I refuse the man who earned the greatest merit this battle?”
Nikephoros chuckled and plopped down. Robert sat beside him, and soon the battle-hardened troops joined, eyes turning to Nikephoros.
“You've all toiled far from home against the foe. Well done.”
They eyed him, wondering if the war was truly over. He shook his head.
“We routed them, but their commander fled.”
The Battle of the Hebrus River. Heavy Roman losses, but Bulgaria's core forces shattered. Disarmed captives bound behind them—slaughter them, and Bulgaria became a vegetable state, unable to resist.
Victory in all but name. Yet wars didn't end so neatly.
“Their field army's gone, but securing all Bulgaria will take another four years.”
Disarmament. Seizing cities and villages under Bulgarian control.
“Even so, I can declare before you all:”
Nikephoros steadied his breath, raised the flask, and bellowed.
“Our victory!”
“Hoorah!”
“Victory for Rome!”
“We won!”
Cheers erupted. Nikephoros stood, pulling Robert up with him.
“We can't forget to honor the greatest contributor to this triumph.”
Troops roared as he rose.
“The brave one!”
“Nord's Fury!”
“Legend of the Varangians!”
Alias after alias he'd never heard.
“Everyone here contributed! Eat, drink, and rest today!”
“Hoorah!”
“Long live Lord Ouranos!”
“Long live the Roman army!”
As soldiers reveled, Nikephoros approached Robert.
“Quite the titles you've earned, Rogerius.”
“Thanks to you, my lord. If you hadn't arrived…”
Nestoric's blade had been inches from his throat. Chilling in retrospect.
“I'm sorry I wasn't sooner.”
“No need.”
“Your tactics were bold—baiting with your own life.”
“Had to pin their commander.”
Time was needed for Nikephoros. Against a titan like Nestoric, Robert had no choice but to engage personally.
“The gamble paid off big, but don't make a habit of it.”
“Understood.”
The veteran general's advice hit home. West Point's modern strategies had been dismantled by Nestoric's battlefield-honed genius, teaching Robert the peril of his recklessness. Theory wasn't everything. Leading men in the crucible was far harder.
“Still, a pity we lost their commander.”
“True. But with most captives taken, His Majesty will rejoice when we send them home.”
“He will. Ship them east as slaves, and they'll bolster the empire greatly.”
Robert hesitated, then ventured carefully.
“Slaves are fine, but using these prisoners could end the Bulgarian war swiftly.”
“End it how?”
“Just add this to the report when sending them to the capital.”
An event from original history. Robert would merely nudge the emperor's back.