Ívar slung an arm around Rurik's shoulders.
"Not for nothing did I wear myself out teaching you the sword. When we've time, shall we have another bout?"
"No need." Rurik shook his head. Even after his moment of sudden insight in the last battle, he did not fancy himself a peerless warrior. Flaunting his skill felt premature.
A count was made: only twelve remained of the caravan. One of Otto's retainers had fallen to an arrow, two shield-men had died in close struggle with the nomads.
Though they had seized the advantage in arms, the nomads had left twenty-five corpses among the trees. To vent their rage, they stripped the caravan's ship of its furs and amber, then set it ablaze, extinguishing any hope of recovery.
"Craven dogs!" Ívar spat. He proposed they follow the retreating raiders and steal their horses by night.
Otto forbade it. "Foolishness. On the open plain we have no chance." He fell silent, brows knotted, sitting upon the ground in long thought. At last he decided:
"We seek allies. Southwest lies a Rus' tribe with whom I have good ties. It is but two days' march. We'll go and claim their shelter."
Ívar narrowed his eyes. "So long you brooded—do you doubt their friendship?"
"Two years ago I saved their chieftain's life. He would have wed his daughter to me, but I refused." Otto sighed. "Now I come as a supplicant. That marriage, I fear, cannot be avoided."
He spoke no falsehood. When his figure appeared before the tribal gates, a stir rose at once. The chieftain himself welcomed the caravan warmly into the great hall, offering them honey-smeared wheat bread.
Honey and white bread—luxuries to common folk. Here they were served without measure. Rurik felt strangely ill at ease.
He nudged Otto with his elbow. "We're but passing Norsemen. Is this not too much?"
Otto raised a horn of mead, drained it in one draught, and belched.
"You needn't fret. This soil of eastern Europe is rich, good for wheat and bees. Life is far easier than in the North—why else do so many of our people settle here each year?"
True enough.
Rurik recalled the history he knew: the Rus' tribes long under Viking influence, ties deepening until, in the mid-ninth century, they formed the first Rus' state.
Its founding ruler—if memory served—was named Otto.
Otto!
Startled, Rurik forgot his food, studying the tall, broad-shouldered youth with fiery hair until the man shifted uncomfortably.
"What are you staring at?"
"N-nothing."
Soon the chieftain pressed Otto for the purpose of his visit. When he heard the traders' ship had been burned, he struck the table in anger.
"These Pechenegs grow ever more brazen—raiding caravans, stealing our wheat at harvest. I have long despised them!"
He vowed to aid in recovering the goods, on one condition: Otto must wed his youngest daughter.
"Very well. I consent."
Lest the young man repent, the chieftain held the wedding that very afternoon.
Before a thousand tribesmen he slaughtered cattle and sheep, offering sacrifice to Dazhbog the sun-god and Perun the thunderer. Then followed a boisterous marriage feast.
Rurik paid no heed to the new couple's faces. He took the chance to eat his fill, replenishing the strength worn thin by their travails. At the banquet's end he sought his guestroom, yet, long accustomed to rough bivouacs beneath the sky, he found the straw-stuffed bed too soft, and lay sleepless two hours before slumber claimed him.
Three days later, the chieftain furnished one hundred and fifty warriors.
"Otto, you and your companions are mighty fighters. I await your good news."
Too few, thought Rurik. Their chances were thin. Before departure he urged Otto to prepare further.
"Have the smiths forge caltrops. And the carpenters—alter the baggage carts' frames."
Two days more were spent. At last the punitive host marched.
With twelve Norse warriors clad in iron, the Rus' morale blazed. Against unarmored nomads, mailed heavy infantry were an overwhelming force—provided the Pechenegs did not flee.
"Is it true?" young tribesmen asked along the road, pestering Rurik in broken Norse and gestures. "Did you slay ten riders alone?"
Their chatter made his head ache. He waved them off, thrusting the credit on Ívar.
"Ask Ívar the Boneless. He taught me. Watch him in battle—you might learn a thing or two."
By the next morning, scouts sighted nomad horsemen to the south. Realizing the threat to their own camp, the Pechenegs began to gather.
By mid-afternoon two hundred riders massed ahead, a blue banner with a white horse rippling at their fore, its hem stitched with gold.
The flag dipped thrice. With a howl, the nomads loosed their curved bows and charged.
Yet the Rus' did not scatter into shield-wall nor line of battle. Instead they wheeled their eighteen carts into a wide ring and withdrew within.
Soon the horsemen closed to fifty paces, circling the wagon-fort and raining arrows. At Otto's command the Rus' bowmen replied, standing atop the wagons, using their planks for cover as they shot back.
The nomads' arrows, loosed from the saddle, lacked both range and force. Their marksmanship, too, faltered on the gallop. In all, twenty riders fell while the defenders lost but three.
The Pecheneg chieftain grew uneasy. Watching keenly, he spied a gap in the northeastern arc of the wagon-ring, wide enough for ten horses abreast. The bowmen there were callow youths—none had struck a target.
A weak point?
Seizing his banner, he led the charge himself. They burst through the gap—only to find the Rus' not in chaos, but waiting, long spears braced in ordered rank.
"A trap! Withdraw!"
Too late. From the wagons, men flung down caltrops, tripping the outer riders. Inside, Norse heavy infantry thrust their spears, cutting down horsemen hemmed in tight quarters.
One after another the nomads toppled. Panic seized the chieftain. He ordered dismount and escape through the wagon gaps. In the flight, many trod upon the hidden caltrops, falling in shrieking heaps, only to be finished by arrows from above.
In scarcely ten minutes it was done. Seventy nomads lay dead. The defenders had lost but seven.
And within the wagon-ring remained twenty-five captured horses. For these alone, the campaign was profit enough.