The moment Borsho heard news of the Viking main army, his spirits immediately lifted.
"How many men do they have?" he demanded of the commander of a thousand.
"They have a great deal of cavalry. We couldn't get close enough for an exact count, but we estimate around twenty thousand."
Borsho commanded thirty-two thousand warriors, including the forces of the three major tribes and the auxiliary tribes absorbed along their migration route.
Purely in terms of numbers, the Jute Khanate held an overwhelming advantage.
But every Viking soldier wore armour and wielded those sinister magical weapons. Borsho had little confidence in fighting a decisive battle.
He scratched his bald scalp for a long time before an idea occurred to him.
"How about this? We ignore both this wagon fort and the Viking main force. Instead, we strike their rear, cut off their retreat, and trap these Viking barbarians until they starve."
The thousand-man commander shook his head.
"Khagan, we've already scouted westward. The Vikings have built fortified camps at regular intervals. Each has walls and ditches, almost as defensible as Balkan towns. If we can't take this wagon fort, we won't be able to capture those camps either."
As Borsho hesitated, evening arrived.
He invited the tribal chiefs into his great tent for a feast.
The atmosphere was painfully awkward.
Every guest wore a grave expression, worried about the coming battle.
"What do all of you think?"
He slowly turned a golden wine cup in his hands, tossing the problem to his subordinates.
In truth, Borsho wanted to retreat.
But as Khagan, he couldn't be the one to suggest it.
Doing so would shatter his prestige.
His ideal scenario was simple:
The chiefs would recommend retreat.
He would publicly scold them for their cowardice.
Then, with great reluctance, he would "respect everyone's wishes" and order a withdrawal.
Unfortunately...
No one spoke.
After waiting for what felt like an eternity, he asked again.
"So?"
"Fight or retreat?"
Silence.
Suppressing his anger, Borsho singled out an elderly chief.
"Tutuya. What's your opinion?"
The old man coughed twice before replying hoarsely,
"You are the Khagan chosen by Heaven, possessing supreme wisdom and authority."
"I obey whatever decision you make."
That old fox...
Borsho cursed inwardly before turning toward the tall, gaunt chief beside him.
"And you?"
The man lifted his cup.
After pondering for nearly half a minute, he answered,
"Fighting has its advantages..."
"Retreating also has its advantages..."
"I believe..."
He rambled on for quite some time before deftly tossing the question back.
"Whatever Your Majesty decides, I shall obey."
One after another, Borsho questioned every chief present.
Yet throughout the entire tent...
Not a single "loyal subordinate" was willing to shoulder the burden.
Everyone wanted to retreat.
None dared be the first to say it aloud.
No one wished to earn the reputation of being a coward.
Besides...
They all knew Borsho's character.
Whenever something went wrong, he blamed his subordinates.
After so many precedents, nobody was foolish enough to volunteer.
The banquet finally ended in unbearable awkwardness.
September 30. Early morning.
Borsho pushed the sleeping Slavic woman off his body.
After slaves helped him dress, he ate some dried meat and drank fermented mare's milk before convening another council.
The chiefs had barely taken their seats when a thousand-man commander burst into the tent.
"The Viking main army is approaching."
"They're roughly four hours away."
"And..."
He hesitated.
Only after the Khagan demanded an explanation did he continue.
"The traitors the Vikings recruited have been fighting alongside them."
"They told us to pass along a message."
"The Crown Prince is looking forward to facing you."
"He believes you're a brave and fearless hero..."
"...not a coward who flees whenever the enemy appears."
At that moment...
Borsho realised the bitter truth.
He had no way out.
If he fled without fighting, his prestige would collapse.
Sooner or later his rule would end anyway.
He might as well gamble everything on one final battle with thirty thousand warriors.
"Since none of you object..."
"Pass my orders!"
"The entire army advances!"
"We will crush that arrogant young barbarian!"
At seven that morning, the nomadic army lifted its siege.
Several hundred horsemen remained behind to monitor the wagon fort while the main force marched northwest to intercept the Vikings.
Two hours later...
The two armies met upon a broad open plain.
Warned by his scouts, Frode immediately reacted.
Following the tactical doctrines recorded in his father's military manuals, he deployed his four elite infantry regiments at the centre.
On either flank stood two hollow-square formations at regimental strength.
Behind them stretched numerous wagon forts defended by support personnel.
The Vikings deployed with remarkable speed.
Everything was ready by the time the nomads arrived from the east.
Borsho commanded 31,000 warriors.
Most were light cavalry.
Their formation spread astonishingly wide.
From south to north it stretched over three kilometres, with a depth exceeding three hundred metres, forming an enormous rectangle.
The Jute Khanate possessed neither a written command system nor signal flags.
Complex orders could only be delivered verbally.
Their command efficiency was painfully poor.
After watching for several minutes, Frode noticed the enemy formation remained disorganised.
He immediately ordered a change of signals.
The four infantry regiments advanced.
The flanking squares protected both sides.
Meanwhile, six mounted scout battalions were dispatched to harass both enemy wings.
"As ordered!"
All six battalion commanders acknowledged.
Santan, commander of the Fourth Mounted Scout Battalion, received responsibility for attacking the enemy's northern flank.
Cold wind whipped across his face.
Ahead stretched the immense nomad army.
Holding his banner high, Santan led from the front.
Occasionally he detached small squads to eliminate isolated enemy riders.
Within his battalion...
One-third of the men carried no bows.
Instead, each bore a cylindrical iron tube slung across his back.
When they came within a thousand metres of the enemy...
Santan pulled on his reins.
"Off your horses!"
The men dismounted immediately.
Launching frames were assembled at roughly forty-five degrees.
"Hurry!"
"Light them!"
"The cavalry's almost here!"
Flints struck.
Fuses ignited.
Sssssss—
The fuses burned rapidly.
An instant later...
Dense white smoke and brilliant orange flames burst from the iron tubes.
The rockets screamed into the sky, leaving blazing trails behind them as they arced toward the nomad host.
The other mounted scout battalions fired simultaneously.
Across a front stretching several kilometres...
Rockets streaked wildly through the air.
Some even curved back halfway through their flight.
Fortunately for the Vikings, the nomad army occupied an enormous area.
More than seventy percent of the rockets landed somewhere within their ranks.
The spectacle alone was terrifying.
The roaring flames and shrieking trails panicked countless horses, throwing the entire formation into greater confusion.
"Don't stand there watching!"
"Withdraw!"
Once every rocket had been fired, Santan abandoned the launch frames where they lay.
His battalion galloped back toward the wagon fort to collect fresh ammunition.
"What is that?"
"Magic?"
"Witchcraft?"
The various commanders finally reacted.
Large numbers of cavalry rode out to intercept the Viking skirmishers.
Soon...
The ground between both armies dissolved into countless scattered engagements.
Mountain infantry and mounted scouts clashed with Magyar horsemen across the field.
In some sectors, the nomads successfully blocked the Vikings.
Elsewhere, they were driven back, allowing fresh rockets to rain into the enemy ranks.
Finally...
Without waiting for orders...
Two thousand-man formations on the northern wing charged of their own accord.
"Forward!"
"Kill these cowards!"
—------------------------------
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