Lazica (6): The People's Wrath
"The people's fury has reached even here."
I nodded at Arslan's words.
"No soldiers, not even guards, in sight this close to the palace—it means it's all over, practically."
Prolonged wars wrecked a nation's internal affairs, win or lose. It was a natural outcome when you considered the nature of armies. They existed purely for destruction, not production. Pure consumption without creation meant every resource in the state funneled straight into sustaining the troops. Production came from the common folk, who normally shared in the wealth it generated. But war was a special circumstance—no distributions happened. Over time, that bred rage against the elites hoarding everything. And this was the result: dead nobles.
"Still, this palace looks quite fortified."
I nodded again at Chaur's observation. It might seem like we could just charge in and end it, but without knowing if Giorgi was inside, we couldn't rush blindly.
"Arslan."
He nodded at my call and gestured. Turkic cavalrymen swarmed to encircle the palace. We couldn't confirm if the king was there, but we'd proceed assuming he was. Storming in risked him slipping away, so we formed a cavalry cordon first.
With the perimeter secured, I dismounted and prepared to enter with the Vikings.
"Arslan and Chaur, follow me. You've earned great merit in battle—I'll honor your right to loot first."
They looked stunned. Before we planned the king's abduction, Arslan had offered to waive his priority. Giving it to him anyway left them visibly moved.
"Then the rest in order."
The Turkic cavalry lit up with excitement. To nomads, looting was like a farmer's harvest. War's brutal stress was bearable only for the rewards. They had every reason to rejoice.
Seeing their enthusiasm, I sighed inwardly with relief. It was a ploy to win their hearts. Even with prior hints, fulfilling promises built trust. That was the surface reason, anyway. The real one? Backup against any surprises. It wasn't distrust of Arslan, now effectively loyal. With Turkic horse outside holding the perimeter, this prevented betrayal from the ranks. Bringing the top-ranked Arslan and Chaur first, then looting by turn, made the cavalry less likely to turn—they'd believe their share was coming.
Fortifications in place, we entered the palace.
"Who goes there!"
"Enemies!"
Guards charged us. Viking soldiers, melee experts, drew swords to meet them. Swinging axes indoors was idiotic—heavy weapons needed space for power and didn't suit tight quarters.
While the Vikings clashed with guards, the rest pushed deeper.
"Kyaaak!"
"Eek!"
Women screamed and fled. Vikings hurled ropes, lassoing them to prevent escape. Purely for loot, of course. Hard to say from a modern view, but in the medieval world, people were prime assets. Armed men died; unarmed men and women made fine slaves. No sense damaging merchandise, so ropes subdued them cleanly.
Inner courtyard secured. Only the king's chambers left. I ordered Vikings to hold here, then headed there with Arslan, Chaur, and a handful of Vikings.
"That's a thick door."
A heavy wooden barrier. It wouldn't budge—barred from inside, no doubt.
"We'll need an iron ram from outside," Chaur said. Arslan nodded, about to order a man.
I shook my head and held out a hand to a Viking.
"Axe."
He handed over a hefty one. Chaur stared in disbelief.
"It's thick. An axe won't—"
"Even with your strength, this is..."
Breaking doors was technique, not brute force. A field skill from officer academy. A firefighter had even demoed the easiest way on wooden doors during fire drills. I knew it cold.
Luckily, besides the double doors, there was a standard side entry. I gripped the axe, slammed it hard into the seam, then twisted like a lever.
"Haaah!"
Not a fire axe, so it took extra muscle. But the trick worked—the wood groaned and splintered.
"Heavens..."
"How with human strength..."
Chaur and Arslan gaped. Perfect chance to impress. As it nearly gave, I raised my foot. It'd open with a tap, but I kicked hard—staged like a dramatic boot shattering the barrier.
Vikings behind us gasped too.
Inside: Georgian nobles and King Giorgi, eyes wide with terror, cornered rats.
"The enemy has reached the palace!"
"You must flee at once!"
Nobles panicked. The king, long fed up with them, had lost his grip on life. But a sliver of hope lingered: reinforcements might come. Absurd, but better than nothing. He'd ordered guards to bar the main central door, then braced the flanking heavy ones with beams.
"They'll never breach this."
"We can hold till they tire."
Nobles sighed in relief. Their faith stemmed from Georgia's legendary wood. In myth, supreme creator god Morige Gmerti shaped heaven, earth, and underworld. His jealous evil sister built a rival force and warred against him. Defeated, she fled down the world tree. Morige hurled lightning, birthing the thunderstruck oak legend—one of Georgia's tales.
Palace doors of this thunder wood: tougher than steel, unrotting for centuries. When nobles rebelled during Giorgi's accession, this door saved him. They trusted it now too.
"No warrior, however skilled, can break this do—"
A chilling crack. Wood splitting.
Crack-ack.
Fissures spiderwebbed before their eyes. Giorgi sobbed skyward.
"Will you truly abandon me?"
Silent heavens. His prayers circled the palace vainly.
Sounds faded. Nobles relaxed, smug.
"It splits, sure—but never shatters. This door..."
"Foolish intruders will—"
Boom! A boot against wood. A Norman-helmed man appeared, eyes like the reaper's. Nobles knew: the end.
Nobles and King Giorgi captured easier than expected. My theatrics spooked them good, but not this much.
"Something in the door must've unnerved them."
They surrendered without fight, trembling. Had to be.
Irrelevant anyway. Securing the king was the win. Dragging him to the emperor ended it all.
Unlike me, soldiers roamed like it was home. Turks grabbed everything in sight.
"Look at this! Worth a fortune!"
"Sell this alone, we're rich!"
Ecstatic Turks. Vikings, calmer, scanned for valuables only.
"Grabbed big last time—loss."
"Yeah. Bulky doesn't sell. Small's best."
Bulgarian palace veterans. Experts, really.
Amid the looting glee, Chaur approached, a woman slung over his shoulder. Nomad bride-raiding culture, apparently.
"Khan, not claiming your share?"
I pulled a small golden box from my tunic.
"Got mine already."
"Treasures inside, eh?"
I opened it. Chaur peered, baffled.
"Bloodstained rags? Why this?"
"Valuable. That's why."
He pondered, then lit up, moved.
"You yielded for the tribe outside?"
"Well... yeah."
Not really, but no need to correct. Better they think noble—lesson from Bulgaria. Chaur, clueless, spread the word. Cavalrymen thanked me one by one, profusely.