This relief force consisted of the First Division and two garrison regiments.
After joining Havrun's detachment, they counted the casualties.
The results were impressive.
The Magyars had lost 1,900 light cavalry, while the Vikings had suffered only 80 dead and 200 wounded.
After three hours of marching, they reached Nitra by evening.
The town had been built against a hillside.
During a siege lasting over half a month, the nomads had captured the outer palisade, forcing the remaining two hundred defenders to retreat into the stone keep atop the hill.
The nomads lacked both heavy armor and proper siege engineering.
Their man-powered trebuchets were too weak and inaccurate to breach the stone fortress.
Against all odds, the defenders had held out until reinforcements arrived.
Comparing them with previous enemies, Havrun concluded that the nomads were far inferior to both the Franks and the Greeks in direct combat.
Their strength lay elsewhere.
Superior mobility allowed them to concentrate overwhelming local superiority, surrounding and crushing sedentary armies with sheer numbers.
Despite winning this first engagement, Frode refused to become reckless.
He ordered construction crews to build a fortress halfway between Pressburg and Nitra.
That wasn't all.
Additional forts were begun roughly twenty miles north and east of Pressburg.
Magyar raids had driven countless refugees into the city, providing abundant cheap labor.
Frode intended to recruit four thousand refugees, expanding the construction workforce to twelve thousand.
By scattering strongholds across the plains, he would steadily compress the nomads' operating space.
Meanwhile, field units continued scouting operations.
Each reconnaissance column consisted of:
One infantry regiment
One artillery company
Two mounted scout companies
Their mission was to locate enemy encampments.
More than ten days later, the nomads once again attempted to surround a Viking regiment.
They failed again.
Instead, large numbers of Viking mounted scouts arrived, inflicting heavy casualties.
Left with no alternative, many nomad camps abandoned the increasingly dangerous western plains.
Crossing the Visegrád Mountains, they retreated into the endless eastern grasslands.
Borsho gathered the other two tribal chiefs and the council of elders.
"Now that we've withdrawn from Viking territory..."
"They shouldn't chase us anymore."
He sighed.
"I never expected the Vikings to be this formidable."
"We picked the wrong target."
"We should have concentrated on raiding the Balkans... or the Slavic tribes north of the mountains."
As the Magyars withdrew, peace briefly returned.
Tens of thousands of Vikings devoted themselves to cutting timber and quarrying stone.
To outside observers, it seemed the empire had abandoned offensive operations altogether, focusing entirely on fortress construction.
Meanwhile, the Magyars redirected their raids into the Balkans, where they enjoyed considerable success.
In early September, Borsho formally proclaimed the founding of the Jute Khanate, declaring himself Khagan.
Since he had successfully led the great migration, no one objected.
Five days later, however, his celebration was cut short.
The Vikings had crossed the Visegrád Mountains.
"What does this mean?"
"They're not even giving me a way to survive?"
Borsho had deliberately yielded ground.
He had assumed the Vikings would be satisfied.
Instead...
They continued pursuing him relentlessly.
Fight?
Run?
Negotiate?
He spent the entire night debating.
Unable to decide.
After crossing the mountains, the Viking army split into five columns.
The Crown Prince personally commanded the main force of 15,000, including:
1,000 heavy cavalry
3,000 mounted scouts
The remaining four detachments operated roughly 10–15 miles from the main army, searching for scattered nomadic tribes.
Each detachment had been strengthened.
Each now consisted of:
Two infantry regiments
One mounted scout battalion
Sixteen field guns
A total of 2,600 men.
The September sun remained fierce.
The grass had begun turning pale yellow.
A gentle breeze rolled across the prairie in endless waves.
As usual, Havrun commanded one of the detachments.
Mounted upon a light chestnut steppe horse, he watched the distant horizon while cheerful marching music echoed across the plains.
The soldiers advanced steadily through the endless sea of grass.
That afternoon, scouts returned.
They had discovered an abandoned nomad encampment.
After another two hours' march, the exhausted soldiers finally arrived.
A vast circular clearing lay before them.
Blackened campfires still dotted the ground.
Gray ash drifted through the wind.
The air carried a pungent mixture of burnt cattle dung, extinguished firewood, and the lingering odor of thousands of livestock.
Judging from the number of fire pits and other traces, the scouts estimated the tribe numbered roughly 4,000 people.
The camp had been abandoned less than a day earlier.
Their migration route was impossible to miss.
A broad trail, trampled by wagons, livestock, and countless feet, stretched southeast toward the horizon like an ugly scar across the prairie.
Havrun quickly wrote a report in military cipher.
"To His Highness."
"My detachment has located traces of a nomadic encampment..."
He dispatched mounted scouts to deliver the message before turning southeast in pursuit.
The following day, Havrun deliberately maintained a normal marching pace.
Unless the nomads abandoned their slow-moving herds...
They would eventually be caught.
Around ten in the morning, a thin cloud of dust appeared on the horizon.
Hundreds of nomad horsemen charged toward the Viking mounted scouts stationed on the perimeter.
"Sound the horn."
"Recall them."
The scouts had more important duties.
Havrun refused to waste them in pointless skirmishes.
Once the scouts withdrew, the nomads began harassing the infantry instead.
They never approached too closely.
Their arrows traveled tremendous distances, striking padded armor weakly or embedding harmlessly in the grass.
They caused almost no damage.
Havrun dispatched two companies of mountain infantry.
Protected by friendly troops, the Welsh longbowmen returned fire.
After losing more than ten riders, the nomads let out piercing whistles before scattering like startled birds.
They continued shadowing the marching column, waiting for another opportunity to strike.
By the third day, the scent of livestock had grown much stronger.
Nomad harassment became increasingly frequent.
Still...
It accomplished little.
Around noon, a low ridge appeared ahead.
Havrun rode to the summit.
The view suddenly opened.
Across the yellowing prairie stretched a caravan of nearly one thousand broad-wheeled wagons.
The endless procession crept toward the horizon.
Even farther out...
The entire grassland seemed covered in sheep.
Gray-white waves flowed slowly across the earth.
Countless animals.
Impossible to number.
Nomad riders galloped constantly around the flocks, preventing the massive migration column from completely dispersing.
"Battle stations!"
The marching music stopped.
Drums beat rapidly.
Units hurried into formation.
The target had revealed itself without warning.
Excitement surged through the soldiers.
Their grip tightened on their weapons as they awaited the signal to charge.
Then...
A middle-aged herdsman rode forward.
He identified himself as Chief Luntu.
Kneeling respectfully upon the grass, he lowered his head.
His tribe possessed barely one thousand adult males.
There was no possibility of defeating:
Two thousand heavy infantry
Three hundred cavalry
Those terrifying new weapons
If they abandoned their wagons and herds...
They would never survive the coming winter.
Neither fighting nor fleeing offered hope.
Only surrender remained.
The soldiers cursed bitterly.
Their military glory had vanished.
Havrun silenced them with a glare before smiling warmly at the tribal chief.
"On behalf of His Majesty..."
"I accept your surrender."
—------------------------------
Pat reon Advance Chapters: patreon.com/YonkoSlayer