After the battle, Ivar sought out Vig. "Your strategy was sound, but there's one flaw. Wagon forts are slow. What if the nomads simply pack up their tents and move? How do we fight then?"
Vig offered what seemed a reasonable explanation:
Nomad flocks usually bred in autumn and lambed in spring. Newborns needed months of feeding before facing their first harsh winter. Lambs born in spring stood a far better chance of surviving than those born in late summer or autumn.
Now it was late April. The Pechenegs' herds had just birthed. To run now would mean abandoning the weak lambs and exhausted ewes. Staying put was their only chance.
"I see…" Ivar's pale green eyes gleamed with curiosity. "How do you think of such things?"
"Some bard once mentioned it. I just remembered." Vig brushed it off.
In truth, the tactic came from Ming border warfare, when imperial armies struck nomads during foaling and lambing seasons—so-called "nest-breaking raids." Combined with autumn grass-burnings and bans on iron trade, the strategy crippled steppe tribes. It worked—until the court neglected the hunting tribes of the northeast, with disastrous results.
By noon the next day, they found the nomads' camp by a lakeshore. Wagons formed a low wall, a shallow ditch scraped before it—signs of a stand.
But their fighting strength was spent. Barely one hundred and twenty could bear arms, many gray-haired or still boys.
"Such rabble dare resist?"
Rurik ordered the attack. Shields locked, the line advanced steadily while fifty archers rained arrows to sap enemy courage.
When the shieldwall reached the camp's edge, resistance crumbled. The chief and a few loyal men died where they stood; the rest fled with their families, doomed to wander the steppes. The lucky might find another tribe's mercy. The unlucky would rot in the grass, carrion for crows.
The fight done, Vig left the plundering to others. Sitting in the grass, he sifted through lessons. He was no longer content to be just a berserker. A traveler from another world, he preferred to think like a commander.
"This proved it—light cavalry with sabers and short bows can't break a solid infantry formation. Yet history shows horsemen did dominate foot. The Mongols above all. How?"
He gathered stones, laying them out as troops on the earth. If he commanded cavalry, how would he crack the "hedgehog"?
Arrow harassment? Cavalry bows were weaker; mounted archery lost to foot bows.
Cannons? Out of the question, given this age's ironwork.
Half an hour's trial left one grim conclusion: send armored shock cavalry to crash into the ranks, no matter the cost. Once the line wavered, light horse could finish the slaughter.
Ivar burst in, breaking his thoughts.
"Fortune smiles! The Pechenegs robbed six caravans, hoarded everything in a single tent. Rurik reckons it would take three ships to haul the lot. We're rich!"
Vig followed him to the tent. Inside lay heaps of furs, snow-white once, now moldy, chewed by mice, a quarter ruined from neglect.
"And not only that." Ivar led him into the chief's tent and pointed to a chest. Within: half a box of amber.
Vig lifted the largest piece, warm and glowing in the sun. Worth a fortune. At the bottom lay a ring, Greek letters engraved inside.
Back at the Rus village, Vig had the words translated: the name was Bardas.
"Bardas… does history record such a man?"
Under questioning, captives admitted to ambushing a party half a year ago. A Greek led it, guarded by a dozen Rus mercenaries.
Vig's instincts prickled. "What became of their things?"
One shrugged. "There was a letter. We couldn't read it. The chief tossed it in the fire."
"Burned?"
Incredulous, Vig questioned others. Their answers matched. The trail ended there. He shelved the mystery—for now—and joined in the spoils' division.
The Rus chief was well pleased. With their great enemy destroyed, he gave freely: the captured herds and horses he kept, but the furs and amber all went to the caravan. He even promised three new ships, with fifteen men to help crew them.
Among the caravan, they agreed to split shares evenly.
"I'll have to buy a new blade," Ivar declared. "The old sword's ruined. They say the men of the East forge weapons without equal. I'll see it myself."
"They also weave some cloth… silk, I think it's called. I'll bring some home for Princess Eve," said Nils, dreamy-eyed. He doted on King Erik's youngest daughter and meant to win her favor with the exotic gift.
One by one, men raised their ambitions with their cups until all were drunk. Rurik noticed Vig, silent all the while, and teased:
"Ha! I suppose you're saving for a fair-skinned slave girl. Want to borrow silver?"
"No. I'm thinking of our quarry." Vig's voice was heavy. Half of Europe behind him, he was bone-weary. Constantinople was a city of tens of thousands. Without official help, finding Lord Borg in that vast sea of faces would be near impossible.
For the next two months, peace held. Too idle, Vig tried archery under Nils' tutelage. But the bow was not his gift; he abandoned it soon enough.
By July, they were ready to sail. Summer swelled the Dnieper, easing the voyage. Their ships reached the sea mouth without trouble.
"What dark waters. No wonder they call it the Black Sea."
Vig trailed a hand in its waves before taking his oar at the captain's order. They steered for a nearby Greek settlement to rest.
Before docking, Rurik warned: "For grain, honey, and slaves, the Greeks keep scattered colonies along this coast. Their rules are strict. Mind yourselves—cause no trouble."