Trapezunta Siege (5): Arms in Hand, Into the Fray
He took up his weapon and charged into the battlefield. He cleaved through everything in sight. Screams echoed. Hot blood followed. Each time an enemy blocking his path crumpled, a surge of ecstasy flooded his body. It felt like he had become something beyond death itself. Racing across the field seemed like his destiny.
At last, he reached the heart of the fray. There, Halvar was fighting desperately, weapon in hand. Without a second thought, he spurred his horse toward Halvar.
“Hah!”
The short distance was nothing; the horse's power and weight sent the enemy reeling in an instant. Halvar, freed from encirclement, removed his helmet and bowed in gratitude.
“Your Majesty saved my life. Thank you.”
“You held out well enough.”
Halvar gazed at him, moved by the words, then lowered his head in deep respect.
“How stands the field now?”
“It was a deadlock until Your Majesty arrived.”
“Good.”
He turned, pointing to the rear. “You've done enough. Rest and regroup back there.”
“No, Your Majesty. My brothers and I still thirst for blood.”
The Vikings, drenched in gore, looked like berserkers from legend—starved for the crimson flood. The Varangians nodded in unison, sharing Halvar's hunger for battle.
Beings who craved war. For them, he pointed again. “Mercenaries in the rear are targeting our lines. Deal with them.”
The warriors' excitement at fresh prey was palpable. Halvar thanked him with a salute. Loyal Halvar. To others, his fervor might seem excessive after his brother Bjorn's betrayal. But to him, Halvar's loyalty shone true, even accounting for that—a man worthy of entrusting his life to.
Thus, he summoned the standard-bearer to convey that trust. The flagman approached. He ordered the banner handed to Halvar.
A purple standard emblazoned with an eagle. It signified the emperor's flag, borne only by the emperor or one he approved.
Halvar knew its weight. He stared in awe.
“Halvar, you are the sacred spear Odin granted me, my mightiest hammer. To you and your brothers, I bestow this banner. Annihilate the foe in honor of my name.”
“It... it is the greatest honor, Your Majesty... I shall not fail you.”
Halvar's hands trembled as he took it. He thrust it skyward and bellowed.
“Brothers! The time has come to show all what terror Vikings bring under His Majesty's banner!”
“We are Odin's spears!”
“The gods' hammers!”
With roars, Halvar and the Vikings charged the rear. Trapezunta soldiers tried to block them, but morale piercing the heavens proved impenetrable.
“You thought you could stand against us under His Majesty's command?!”
Halvar's sword flashed like magic, severing heads. The Trapezunta men, stunned by the sudden slaughter, screamed loud enough to reach his ears, trembling.
“The... the wrath of the gods!”
“Berserkers! Emperor's berserkers with his flag!”
“Don't block our path!”
Like a chariot, Halvar's unit pierced the rear. Corpses piled like mountains in their wake. A fearsome sight. Even Arslan beside him was impressed.
“I've never seen such valor, even on the ruthless steppe. Astonishing.”
Arslan seemed deeply moved. The Turkic cavalry nearby wore resolute expressions, fired up not to be outdone.
“Your Majesty, grant us a chance for glory too.”
A mutual spark of rivalry. Rising morale was always welcome.
Just then, enemy banners appeared in the distance. A man in ornate armor—Serdios—came into view. Sever his head, and the war ended.
“There's the rebel who defied me. Who will claim his head first?”
Arslan stepped forward eagerly. As he moved to command, Andronikos and Peter joined him.
“Grant us the opportunity too, Your Majesty.”
Arslan, the steppe veteran, and Andronikos, the young dux eager to prove himself. He nodded to them both.
“The first to bring his head shall be rewarded.”
At the order, Arslan smirked at the youth. “Best not trip me up.”
“They say you learn length only by comparison.”
A spark of competition. With that, the pair led their forces toward the target.
* * *
“Wh... what in the hells is this?”
Serdios reeled in confusion. He'd assumed his mercenaries' rear attack would tip the scales with Trapezunta's numerical edge. But that illusion shattered swiftly.
With Emperor Rogerius's arrival.
“Rogerius... you bastard...!”
The battlefield was ruled by numbers, weapon quality, and strategies crafted through the night by staff. More men meant greater force. Better arms inflicted heavier tolls. Brilliant minds minimized losses and seized victory.
War demanded meticulous plans. One man—no matter who—couldn't flip the field alone. Unless he was a god... or akin to one.
“A god...? Or something like it...?”
Serdios scoffed at his own thought. Entertaining Rogerius as divine was absurd.
“No, he's just flesh. Bleeds like any man.”
Gripping his sword, Serdios roared.
“Traitor Rogerius is there! Kill him, and this war ends!”
The end of war. To soldiers enduring hell daily, it lit fires in their eyes. Slay Rogerius, escape the abyss. They surged toward him, eyes ablaze.
But Lazica's men felt the same: kill Serdios, victory. The armies clashed anew on the plain.
“Die, Lazica peasants!”
“Damn Trapezunta scum! Yield your necks—I'll make it quick!”
A brutal stalemate. Amid the push and pull, Serdios spotted an unnaturally quiet sector: the right flank.
There stood Trapezus katepano Andronikos and his aide Peter.
“Andronikos on the field? Rogerius must be desperate.”
Serdios smirked. But it faded fast. Andronikos was slowly overwhelming the right.
“We're... being pushed!”
“Right flank's collapsing! Help!”
Despite fewer numbers, Andronikos's unit dominated impossibly. Serdios gaped, then understood.
“Using a wedge formation to sever the right from the main body...!”
The wedge was for breakthroughs, not standoffs—too risky amid chaos. Changing formation in battle's melee was near impossible, even for elites; orders drowned in the din.
Yet Andronikos solved it with Peter. They pulled it off amid the madness.
A disaster for Serdios commanding Trapezunta. At least he'd spotted it early.
“Main body, support the right! Block their wedge first!”
The main shifted right, dragging the left along. A gap yawned open.
As if waiting, Turkic cavalry stabbed in like a needle.
“Brave Turkic brothers! Time to teach the foe the steppe's terror!”
Arslan's thunderous cry boomed. Serdios realized too late: a trap.
“A... a trap!”
Truthfully, no coordination—Andronikos and Arslan had sought breakthroughs independently, coinciding by chance. Ignorant, Serdios saw perfect sync. Not wrong, in his eyes.
“Y... Your Excellency. The rear line's broken too.”
Worse: Bachana's cavalry shattered the defense. Hemmed by horsemen fore and aft, Serdios felt doom closing.
“We haven't fallen yet. All forces, protect me. We'll retreat to Trapezunta, rebuild the line.”
Late retreat ordered. His aide scrambled. Then a scout rushed up, blurting without leave.
“Trapezunta's on the verge of falling to their cavalry! We need reinforcements now!”
Trapezunta falling meant total defeat. Serdios stared blankly skyward.
“Damn it... I... I can't die like this. I'm chosen!”
Serdios's wail. But before it ended, a blade sought his neck.