Ivar slung an arm around Rurik's shoulders.
"Well worth the trouble I spent teaching you the sword. How about a rematch, when we've time?"
Rurik shook his head. "No need. Even after that… moment of clarity, I'm no master. Hardly something to flaunt."
They counted heads. Only twelve remained of the company. One of Rurik's men had fallen to an arrow; two shield-brothers lay dead from close-quarter fighting with the nomads.
Yet for all their losses, the Pechenegs had fared worse. The forest floor bore twenty-five of their corpses. But spite ran deeper than grief: they seized the furs and amber from the Norsemen's ship, then put the vessel itself to the torch. Flames devoured the hull until nothing remained but cinders.
"Cowards!" Ivar spat. "Let's stalk them tonight, steal their horses in the dark!"
Rurik shook his head. "Foolishness. On the open steppe, we'd be slaughtered." He frowned, silent in thought, before sighing with grim resolve.
"There's a Rus tribe southwest, two days from here. Their chieftain owes me favor. We'll seek their protection."
Ivar's brow arched. "You hesitated so long—why? Doubt the bond?"
"I saved the chieftain's life two winters past," Rurik admitted. "He offered me his daughter's hand. I refused. Now that I come as a beggar… I doubt I'll leave unwed."
He spoke true. The moment his tall, flame-haired figure appeared at the tribal gates, excitement rippled through the settlement. The chieftain himself welcomed them into the longhouse, setting before them loaves of wheat bread glazed with honey.
Bread of fine flour, dripping with sweetness—luxuries beyond the reach of peasants, now offered without stint. Rurik shifted uneasily at such generosity.
He nudged Rurik with his elbow. "We're but passing strangers. Is this not excessive?"
Rurik downed a horn of mead, belched, and laughed. "You've much to learn. The soil here is rich, the bees plentiful. Compared with the stony north, life here is bountiful. Why else do you think so many of our kin have settled in these lands?"
Rurik fell silent, recalling later histories: how the Rus, shaped by Norse blood, would in time form their first kingdom. And its first ruler… was said to be a Viking named Rurik.
Rurik!
He stared at the red-haired warrior until the man shifted uncomfortably. "What are you gawking at?"
"Nothing… nothing at all."
The chieftain soon pressed for news. When he heard of the burned ship, his fist smote the table.
"For too long the Pechenegs have raided at will—plundering caravans, stealing our wheat. Enough!"
He vowed to aid them, on one condition: Rurik must wed his youngest daughter.
"So be it," Rurik answered at once.
And so, that very afternoon, the marriage was sealed. Before a thousand tribesmen, the chieftain slaughtered ox and sheep, pouring their blood to Dazhbog the Sun God and Perun the Thunderer. Then came the revelry: feasting, dancing, the rites of marriage.
Rurik scarcely cared for bride or groom. He ate his fill, stuffing himself with meat and bread to make up for weeks of hunger. Later he lay upon a straw-stuffed bed, too soft after so many nights under the open sky, and tossed sleepless for hours before slumber finally claimed him.
Three days passed. True to his word, the chieftain mustered one hundred and fifty warriors.
"Rurik," he declared, "you and your companions are champions. I await your triumphant return."
Rurik, less confident, counseled caution.
"Forge iron caltrops. Have the carpenters refit the baggage wagons. Better preparation than regret."
Two more days were spent in readiness. Then the war-band set out: twelve iron-clad Norse among the Rus levies, their presence stiffening the men's courage. Against unarmored horsemen, armored infantry held the advantage—if the nomads could be brought to battle.
On the road, word of Rurik's stand against the Pechenegs had spread like fire. Rus youths crowded him, mangling the Norse tongue with questions, wide-eyed with awe.
Exasperated, Rurik waved them toward Ivar. "Ask the Boneless. My swordplay is his teaching. Watch him in battle—if luck favors you, perhaps you'll learn a trick or two."
By the next morning, scouts reported riders gathering to the south. By afternoon, two hundred horsemen arrayed on the steppe. At their head, a blue banner flew, a white horse embroidered upon it, edged in gold.
The banner dipped thrice. With a roar, the Pechenegs loosed their arrows and thundered forward.
But the Rus did not meet them in the open. Instead, eighteen wagons had been drawn into a loose ring. Within this carapace of wood, the defenders crouched, waiting.
At fifty paces, the nomads rained down arrows. Rurik gave the signal, and the Rus replied in kind, archers firing from atop wagon-beds, sheltered by thick planks.
From horseback, the Pechenegs' arrows lacked force or accuracy. Against the steady bows of men on foot, their disadvantage grew plain. In minutes, twenty horsemen lay slain, for the loss of only three defenders.
Frustration gnawed at their chief. His keen eyes probed the wagon-circle until he spied a weakness: the northeast corner, gapped wide enough for ten horses abreast, guarded by green youths whose arrows had yet to find a mark.
"There!" He spurred forward, banner aloft, leading his men in a furious charge.
But instead of panic, the Rus leveled their spears in a bristling wall. The gap had been bait all along.
"Trap! Fall back!"
Too late. From the wagons, men flung handfuls of iron caltrops. Horses screamed as iron bit their hooves. Riders stumbled, trapped amid the ring. Norse heavy infantry pressed in with spear and shield, driving their points into trapped men and beasts alike.
The Pecheneg chief watched in horror as his warriors toppled from their saddles, skewered like game upon spits. He ordered retreat, but chaos reigned. Some dismounted, scrambling through wagon-gaps, only to tread upon hidden caltrops and collapse, pierced and helpless, before arrows ended them.
In barely ten minutes, the steppe was littered with seventy dead Pechenegs. The defenders counted but seven of their own lost.
And within the wagon-fort lay spoils beyond price: twenty-five horses, captured alive. By those steeds alone, the expedition had already turned a profit.