To an outsider unaware of the battlefield situation, Rostislav's choice would seem utterly insane; with the battle already in such disarray, instead of holding his ground and looking for an opportunity to escape, he chose to attack proactively. Wasn't that suicidal?
But Rostislav knew this was precisely not suicidal, but a grand strategy to turn the tide of the battle.
After Prince Rostislav climbed the slope, he could clearly see the entire battlefield, and what he saw was the main force of the Polovtsy already pushing towards the center, their elites charging the right flank, while the left flank, in the Polovtsy's view, had already disintegrated, with no troops attacking there.
The Nomads' main camp was now incredibly empty, guarded only by Khan's guards and a few Nomad soldiers, along with some weak infantry under that light yellow banner, where the Khan himself also stood. Between Rostislav and the Khan's forces, there were no Polovtsy present.
In other words, the path between Rostislav and the Polovtsian Khan was unobstructed.
If he didn't launch a counterattack now, when would he? So, after discerning the situation, Rostislav unhesitatingly chose to attack. The attack would reverse the unfavorable situation, and might even result in taking the Nomad Khan's head and cutting down the Polovtsy's banner, completely turning the battle around!
"Sound the war horns, charge, let everyone rush forward! We are gambling everything, holding nothing back. Let us gain glory under the gaze of Saint George! May we achieve victory like he slayed the dragon!"
The Prince raised his cross, silently praying to the Lord of Hosts, hoping this deity would bestow his blessing upon him. At the same time, he also hoped that the angel of martial prowess would grant supreme protection to the warriors on the battlefield.
As his command was issued, the Slavs began preparing for the slaughter. The cavalry whispered their last words to their warhorses, the infantry prepared to charge, the guard army prayed silently, and some soldiers led ownerless warhorses, tying them to wagons to form several war chariots.
"Yes, Prince Rostislav! In the name of Saint George!"
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The Khan was pondering what to do if Yaroslav was captured after this battle. Should he demand a large ransom or make his skull into a drinking cup to accompany his ancestors?
But a long, clear ox horn sounded from his left flank, which he had thought was routed. Brus Khan suddenly realized something and looked towards the hill on his left.
He saw that the army he thought had disintegrated had somehow re-established itself. Countless red shields stood proudly, and most strikingly, the battle line formed by these red shields was moving towards them.
And on both sides of the shield wall, Slavic cavalry and war chariots advanced under the gaze of the Saint George banner. The sound of turning wheels and galloping hooves mixed together, interspersed with the Slavs' war cries, as they seemed to be shouting the name of Saint George.
"Have the infantry form a line, sound the horns, and tell those in front to return quickly for reinforcement!"
The Khan's confident expression vanished in that instant, replaced only by urgency and panic. He had never expected that the Slavic left flank, which should have disintegrated, still had troops remaining.
The steppe infantry hastily formed a line in front of the Slavs at the Khan's shouting. They were composed of steppe farmers, slaves, and defeated peoples. Their faces were full of bitterness; they had not wanted to participate in this war, nor did they want to die for the accursed Polovtsy. In daily life, they did all the dirty and arduous work in the army, but the curved swords of the cavalry behind them forced them to stand together, facing the Slavic army with shields made of door panels and short, weak spears.
A small number of Nomad elites gathered beside the Khan's banner, ready to protect their Khan. The horns ordering the Polovtsy to return for reinforcement were sounded, commanding the front-line troops to fall back.
However, these horns did not have the intended effect.
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"This is...? Something happened on Father's side?"
Saru, the Khan's son, covered in blood, suddenly raised his head. Around him was a scene of chaotic slaughter. The Khan's son was in the center of the extremely chaotic battlefield and could not see what was happening behind him, but he heard the command for reinforcement.
Saru swung his curved sword, severing the arm of a personal guard in front of him, then rode forward, mercilessly trampling and killing this Slav wearing a pointed helmet.
"Why now...? What a nuisance!"
In front of Saru, a warhorse carrying a Polovtsian heavy cavalryman galloped past, but the rider was slumped on the horse, with a javelin, still bearing a branching twig, in his back.
The Polovtsy's attack on the Slavic right flank was not going smoothly. The fierce charge had indeed broken the Slavic shield wall at one point, but as Slavic heavy cavalry and the Black Hat Army charged out from their flank, the situation changed in an instant.
The Polovtsian heavy cavalry's charge was immediately halted. Horses and riders mingled together, soldiers engaged in close-quarters combat, every strike resulting in injury or death. The Slavic infantry, almost routed, seized the opportunity, and the fellow named Izyaslav even went to the front line to boost morale.
The battle devolved into a complete melee. Infantry and cavalry, personal guards and warriors—there were no longer any lines, no organization. Both sides were mixed together, enemies could appear from any direction, and one could only barely identify friend or foe by their armor.
Every moment, infantry were stabbed to death beneath horses, every moment cavalry were dragged from their horses and had their throats cut, every moment people fell to merciless arrows. The battlefield was as chaotic as a boiling pot of hell.
As a commander, Saru, following the steppe tradition, led the charge for everyone, but the more he fought, the more he found himself in a chaotic vortex, unable to extricate himself, let alone command.
This was why Saru felt a headache; in this situation, he couldn't even extricate himself, let alone lead the nobles and warriors under his command.
The Khan's son's headache didn't last long, because a Slavic cavalryman wielding a long sword was charging at him. Seeing this, Saru stopped thinking so much. What was the point of bothering with those things? First, save his own life.
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And in the center, everyone heard the horn, but most of the Polovtsy didn't even know what was going on, let alone react.
As for the chieftains and leaders, they knew what was happening, but for various reasons—such as being deeply entrenched in the battle and unable to disengage, or the loss of pulling out troops being too great—very few responded to the loud horn.
It could be said that the Khan's horn was blown in vain; few were willing to come to his aid as Khan.
"tengri...!"
Brus cried out the name of the sky god. He desperately wanted to flee the battlefield, to escape from this banner, but he knew he couldn't do that. That would mean the defeat of the war, the demise of his political prestige—and the steppe was never lenient with losers.
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