On the ancient, wild northern land, sunlight streaming through the tent woke Prince Rostislav.
He put on his wool coat and climbed out of his cot.
Stepping out of the tent, Rostislav saw the Black Hat Army's iconic black hats; these riders, guarding the border for Rus, were loudly chatting about killings and plunder, and the Nuo City Prince's appearance only earned a glance from these Nomads.
The Black Hat Army didn't like this Rurik boy; he always looked at them with condemning, hypocritical eyes during slave raids, as if he were a saint of high moral standing.
Yet, wasn't it he who led them to attack the villages of the poor Chud people? What's with the saintly act? He must be sick in the head.
"Father said he'd be back today."
The standard-bearer, Yang, appeared beside the Prince, his spirits high.
"I don't know what there is to scout.
Besides those in the Mountain Stronghold, no Chud dares to stand before us."
Following Yang's words, Rostislav looked towards the Mountain Stronghold on the hill.
Compared to the so-called "Mountain Strongholds" they had previously conquered, this Mountain Stronghold had deep and wide moats, filled with various traps, and giant walls built of stone.
In Estonia, it was one of the strongest fortresses.
Coupled with the dozens of wealthy villages radiating from this Mountain Stronghold, this was the fundamental reason Alar could lead the Chud.
But now, the villages had turned to ash, and the farmlands once full of crops had been trampled by soldiers' iron boots, replaced by camps housing the large army.
The trident of the wise and the raven of the merciless were everywhere, and the tents of the allied army surrounded the towering Mountain Stronghold.
"Anyway, let's go greet Lord Vishata."
Rostislav didn't want to talk much about the war; the atrocities of war made him feel irritable, and he preferred not to discuss them.
Yang couldn't help but give the Prince a strange look.
The young standard-bearer thought Rostislav had been quite odd lately; he always showed disgust and reluctance during slave capturing and village burning.
As a Prince who had thrown himself into battle, shouldn't he regard these things as natural as breathing?
However, Yang never voiced his inner doubts.
Rostislav was the lord, and he was merely a subject; a subject should not comment rashly on his lord.
Lord Rostislav was just too benevolent; he believed time would strip him of this weakness.
The two walked through the bustling encampment, with Granval and a few personal guards following behind them.
After the battle of Yuryev, his father's personal guards had completely come to trust him, serving him as their lord.
The allied army's camp was very busy, with countless craftsmen rushing to produce various siege engines.
Engineers hired from the imperial capital were debugging their precious ballistas; his grandfather had spent a lot of money on these ballistas.
The morale of the Rus and Norwegian soldiers was high.
Rostislav heard most often discussions about how much loot was in that Mountain Stronghold.
No one believed they could fail; the veterans regarded the next battle as a sure victory, while the newcomers were full of desire to throw themselves into battle for glory and wealth.
Everyone yearned for slaughter, for war.
"Ah, just in time, someone's coming."
As the two reached the camp entrance, they saw a column approaching, and Yang couldn't help but exclaim excitedly.
Rostislav raised his hand to his forehead, recognizing the leading rider as Vishata, whom they had been waiting for.
Vishata sat upright on his horse, behind him were Rus soldiers with bulging bags and smiling faces, followed by captives chained together, bowing their heads and sobbing.
The accompanying Black Hat Army riders laughed and pointed at the slaves, finding amusement in their miserable state.
"It seems Father has gained a lot of spoils."
Yang said excitedly, but then immediately looked at his Prince with concern.
Fortunately, there wasn't much change in Rostislav's expression.
"Lord Vishata, it seems you have achieved a victory.
Congratulations."
"Just dealt with a few tribes, that's all.
These few people dared to resist, truly overestimating themselves, but it did make my lads rich.
But I won't talk much with you; the soldiers need rest, and the slaves still need to be settled."
Vishata's face showed nonchalance; those battles were truly child's play.
Just one charge, and the Chud collapsed, followed by pleasant burning, killing, and plundering.
"Of course, please yourself."
Rostislav made way, allowing the Prince's army to pass.
The Rus soldiers and Black Hat Army quickly walked past him, and next came the pathetic slaves.
The slaves were visibly full of sadness; they were depressed, like a group of walking dead.
Their relatives and friends had mostly died at the hands of the Rus, and just surviving was incredibly fortunate, but what was the difference between living like this and dying after such a huge blow?
But something even more tragic awaited them; most of the men among them would either become human fuel as oarsmen on ships or work as beasts of burden on some farm for a lifetime.
As for the women, if they were lucky, they could marry a bachelor who bought a wife; if they were unlucky, they would have to spend their lives in a brothel.
Looking at the ragged, scarred slaves and the Black Hat riders around them who were wantonly beating, scolding, and joking, Rostislav couldn't help but recall his teacher's words, "The way of governance is the way of leading beasts to devour people."
This saying was truly apt in this era.
And he could only consider himself fortunate to be a noble Rurik; if he were unfortunately captured, someone would care and someone would ransom him.
As for these ordinary people waiting to be slaughtered, their fate was like a weak branch in a storm, ready to break at any moment.
Many times, Rostislav couldn't help but feel compassion; his modern values found these ugly things intolerable, but in this era, these were the norm.
Even his retainers and personal guards considered all this natural and participated in it, so what could he say or do?
Rostislav understood that in the eyes of many around him, he was truly too hypocritical, and indeed, in this era, it was true.
Although he had been in this era for almost ten years, it still took time to accept the most brutal aspects of war.
In the preceding years, he had been too well protected by his father and hadn't deeply encountered these most brutal scenes; now he had to pay the price for it.
But fortunately, this was ultimately just a minor issue.
Although Rostislav couldn't stand all this, he wouldn't refuse orders or command because of it.
From this perspective, he was indeed very "hypocritical."
Thinking of this, Rostislav couldn't help but laugh self-deprecatingly; he was truly being sentimental, like a cowering jester.
However, what Rostislav didn't know was that in the besieged Mountain Stronghold, the true "jesters" were staging a clumsy political drama.