The roar of bronze cannons drowned out the riders' shrieking war cries.
Flames erupted from the wagon line.
White-hot iron balls tore into the nearby horsemen.
Men and horses collapsed together.
Blood sprayed across the grass.
"Artillery—fire at will!"
The gunners, burdened by their padded armor, hurriedly swabbed their barrels with wet brushes before loading fresh powder and canister.
They fired again.
And again.
After five volleys, the Magyar commander finally understood.
The enemy possessed an entirely unfamiliar weapon.
Every shot killed more than ten warriors while terrifying the horses.
The devastating firepower visibly broke the nomads' momentum.
Their wild cries weakened.
Their formations became increasingly disorganized.
Realizing the Viking defenses were simply too strong, the commander sounded his bronze horn.
Retreat.
The surviving cavalry wheeled away—
Only to receive one final blast of canister.
Once the enemy had withdrawn beyond longbow range, nine Mandarin Duck Formation squads left the wagon fort to collect the battlefield.
They gathered water skins, rations, and brought back wounded enemies who couldn't escape.
The Magyars had long lived north of the Black Sea.
None of the Vikings spoke their language.
Using interpreters who knew Slavic and Pecheneg tongues, Havrun finally obtained a rough estimate.
Five thousand nomads.
"So."
"Five times my numbers."
"They certainly think highly of me."
He chuckled.
There was remarkably little concern in his voice.
Every noon and evening, ten mounted scouts rode back to Pressburg carrying reports.
If communications ceased altogether, the main army would advance according to plan.
Now that Havrun had gauged the enemy's capabilities, he needed only survive another two days.
The mission would then be complete.
The wagon fort measured barely 150 meters per side.
The battlefield frontage was too narrow.
The nomads could commit no more than a thousand cavalry at once.
The pressure remained manageable.
Food and water were plentiful.
If necessary...
They could hold indefinitely.
For the next hour the nomads made no further attacks.
The grasslands fell silent once more.
Toward evening, each platoon gathered together.
Using captured wooden shields and small amounts of charcoal, they cooked a large stew containing oats, smoked sausage, onions, beans, and fish sauce.
Along with the meal, every soldier received either a cup of sugarcane liquor or hot cocoa, plus a small pouch of tobacco.
After dinner, Havrun divided his 1,200 men into four rotating watches.
The night passed without incident.
Third day. Dawn.
The nomad army still lingered nearby.
As Havrun chewed hard bread, he noticed something.
About two hundred meters away stood a small group of heavily armored cavalry observing the wagon fort.
Beside them fluttered a blue banner.
"The enemy commander?"
An idea struck him.
He summoned the artillery captain.
"Give them a surprise."
The captain wiped bread crumbs from his mouth and immediately gathered every gun crew.
All eight cannons were loaded with solid shot and carefully aimed.
"On my command..."
"Fire!"
Eight field guns thundered almost simultaneously.
Ignoring the results, the captain immediately ordered a second volley.
Only afterward did he scramble atop a wagon.
Through the drifting white smoke...
The armored horsemen had scattered.
Only the banner remained upright.
Several bodies lay motionless nearby.
Not long afterward, unrest spread through the distant Magyar host.
Havrun frowned.
Did that barrage actually kill their commander?
The remainder of the day passed peacefully.
The nomads launched no attacks.
The Viking soldiers relaxed.
Havrun did not.
If the enemy commander had indeed been killed or wounded...
The subordinate chiefs would surely seek revenge.
That evening he gathered all officers.
He reminded them of the Third Viking–Frankish War seven years earlier.
"Before the Battle of Rick Plain..."
"The Emperor ordered me to seize the nearby hills with the mounted scouts."
"After a forced march, we captured them."
"Then we fought the Frankish heavy cavalry all night."
"It was the hardest battle of my life."
"None of you were there."
"You can't imagine it."
"Everywhere you looked..."
"...there were moving shadows."
"Sometimes you couldn't even tell friend from foe."
After speaking for a long time, Havrun strengthened the night's defenses.
Instead of four shifts, the troops would rotate through three, sacrificing sleep for greater readiness.
It proved exactly the right decision.
During the darkest hours before dawn, when the sentries were most exhausted...
The nomads moved.
Leaving their horses behind, every warrior advanced on foot.
They crept silently toward the wagon fort.
Only a few dozen paces away, Viking sentries spotted countless glints in the darkness.
They immediately woke their comrades and fired crossbows into the moving shadows.
Several screams rang out.
The assault began.
Half the attackers remained behind, firing volleys of arrows.
The other half charged with round shields and curved sabers.
A storm of arrows rained into the wagon fort.
Panicked horses screamed and strained against their reins.
Some soldiers died in their sleep.
Others awoke in utter confusion.
BOOM!
The artillery fired canister directly into the densely packed attackers.
Since the nomads had abandoned cavalry and charged in close infantry formations, the effect was devastating.
Each volley cut down whole ranks like wheat before the harvest.
Some sections successfully drove back the attackers with cannon fire.
Elsewhere, brutal hand-to-hand fighting erupted.
Spearmen stabbed over the wagons at shield-bearing swordsmen.
Havrun ordered the archers and crossbowmen to abandon ranged combat altogether.
They drew melee weapons and reinforced threatened sectors.
The struggle continued.
The nomads' armored elites suffered catastrophic losses.
Even where ordinary warriors managed to enter the wagon fort...
...they still couldn't defeat fully armored Viking infantry.
At last...
The retreat horn sounded.
Dark figures melted back into the night.
The artillery continued firing regardless—
one final volley of canister...
followed by two volleys of solid shot.
The night assault had failed.
The nomads abandoned the siege and withdrew.
On the morning of the fourth day, after confirming the enemy had departed, Havrun shifted the wagon fort several hundred paces away from the increasingly foul-smelling corpses.
Then the regiment remained in place...
waiting calmly for the arrival of the main army.
—------------------------------
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