After the battle, Ívar sought out Rurik."Your strategy was clever," he admitted, "but I have found one flaw that cannot be avoided. The wagon-fort moves too slowly. Should the nomads choose to abandon their camp and migrate, how then would we respond?"
To this, Rurik offered a seemingly reasonable explanation.
Nomadic herds typically mate in autumn, lambing in spring. The newborns require half a year to grow, to fatten on milk and grass before facing their first bitter winter. Lambs born in spring have the greatest chance of survival; those born in summer or autumn are far less likely to endure the cold.
Now it was late April. The enemy's flocks had only just delivered their young. To flee now would mean abandoning both the fragile lambs and the mothers still weak from birth. Only by remaining in their camp could the nomads hope for survival.
"I see," Ívar murmured in admiration. His pale green eyes gleamed with irrepressible curiosity. "How on earth did you come to think of that?"
Rurik deflected with a casual lie:"A bard once mentioned such things. It simply came to mind."
In truth, this stratagem had long been employed by the Duchy of Moscow—raiding the nomadic khanates precisely when mares and ewes were weakened after birthing, a tactic bluntly called "smashing the nest." By timing attacks to exploit the vulnerability of the herds, Muscovite forces could devastate the steppe tribes without engaging in costly pitched battles. The results were often decisive, though distant princes sometimes ignored the northern threat, and opportunities for conquest were occasionally lost.
By noon the next day, they discovered a nomad encampment by a lakeshore. Wagons were drawn into a crude palisade, with a shallow ditch dug before it—a feeble attempt at defense, intended for a last stand.
Alas, the tribe's able-bodied warriors had been nearly annihilated. Barely one hundred and twenty defenders stood ready, among them grey-haired elders and boys with downy faces.
"Such rabble dare resist us?" one man scoffed.
Otto gave the order to attack. His soldiers formed a slow-advancing shield wall, while fifty bowmen loosed volleys from behind to fray the enemy's courage.
When the shield wall reached the camp's edge, the defenders collapsed at once. Their chieftain and a handful of loyal retainers perished, while the rest of the nomads scattered with their families. Henceforth they would wander the steppe as exiles. The lucky might be taken in by other clans; the less fortunate would fall where they fled, their carcasses left to the ravens.
When the fighting ended, Rurik took no part in the pillage. Instead he sat alone upon the grass, gathering his thoughts. He had not crossed worlds merely to play the brute warrior; he yearned to think as a commander.
"The battle just now proves it," he reasoned. "Light horse armed only with sabers and bows cannot overcome disciplined infantry in formation. Yet history shows cavalry often held the advantage over footmen—especially the Mongol empire that came centuries later. How did they achieve it?"
He gathered a score of pebbles, arranging them upon the earth to simulate horse and foot formations. If he were the commander of cavalry, how would he break this hedgehog wall?
Archery harassment?Mounted archers shoot less steadily than trained foot bowmen. In a duel of arrows, the riders would suffer.
Artillery?With current metallurgy, cannon were a dream centuries away.
After half an hour of fruitless trial, his conclusion was grim: only heavily armored cavalry, sacrificing lives in a furious charge, could disrupt a shield wall. Once the formation was shaken, lighter horse could sweep in and cut the infantry to pieces.
His brooding was broken by Ívar, who came running with flushed excitement.
"We're rich! The enemy had plundered six caravans, and all the goods are heaped in one tent. Otto reckons it will take three cargo ships to carry it all. This time we'll make a fortune!"
Rurik followed him. Inside, heaps of snowy furs lay strewn across the ground. Yet poor storage had ruined nearly a quarter: some were mold-spotted, others gnawed ragged by rats.
"There's more," Ívar said, leading him to the chieftain's tent. In a corner lay a half-filled chest of amber.
Rurik lifted the largest piece to the light—its honey glow warm and rich, worth a princely sum. At the bottom of the chest he found a ring, its inner band engraved with Greek letters.
When the captives were brought back to the Rus stronghold, Rurik had the inscription translated. The name was Baldas.
"Baldas," he mused. "Was there such a figure in history?"
Under interrogation, the prisoners confessed: half a year past, they had waylaid a band of travelers led by a Greek, guarded by a dozen Rus mercenaries.
Something felt wrong. Rurik pressed further, asking if anything had been taken from the Greek. One prisoner shrugged."There was a letter, but none of us could read it. The chief tossed it into the hearth and burned it."
"Burned?"
Rurik was aghast. He questioned several others separately, yet the answers were the same. Frustrated, he set the matter aside and turned to the division of spoils.
The plunder was abundant, and with it they had rid the Rus of a grave menace. The tribal chief was well pleased. He kept the horses and sheep but gave all the furs and amber to the caravan. He even promised to build three stout cargo ships and assign fifteen men to help with the transport.
Among the caravan itself, the members agreed to divide the wealth equally.
Ívar raised his cup in triumph. "My old iron sword is ruined. They say the Arabs and Persians are masters of forging scimitars and curved blades—I'll buy myself a weapon worthy of my hand."
"And I," said Nils, smitten with King Erik's youngest daughter, Princess Yve, "I've heard of fine, richly dyed cloth from the lands of the Arabs and Persians, prized across the world for its softness and vibrant patterns. I'll bring some back as a gift, and win her heart."
The men grew more boisterous with every cup, until all were drunk. Otto, noting Rurik's silence, guessed at his thoughts and mocked him:
"Ha! Do you want me to lend you money for a fair-skinned slave girl?"
"No," Rurik answered flatly. "What I want is my quarry."
He was weary from chasing across half of Eastern Europe. What troubled him most now was how to find Lord Borg. Constantinople held hundreds of thousands of souls; without official aid, finding one man would be like searching for a needle in the sea.
The next two months passed in rare peace for the caravan. Bored, Rurik tried learning archery from Nils, but his talent with the bow was nothing like his gift with the sword. He abandoned the effort in frustration.
By July, they set forth again. The summer floods swelled the Dnieper, making the voyage swift. The ships at last reached the river's mouth without mishap.
"What a dark sea," Rurik remarked, plunging his hand into the brine and stirring its black reflection. "No wonder they call it the Black Sea."
At the captain's command he took up the oars, steering the cargo vessel toward a nearby settlement to rest and resupply.
Before they docked, Otto gave stern warning:"To import grain, honey, and slaves, the Greeks have planted isolated colonies along this coast. Their customs are strict. See that none of you bring trouble upon us."