With great care, the exhausted runners moved more upwind of the herds and then unwrapped the cow hides that had been placed over the predator pelts. The foresters could very quickly sense an unease in the herd, as the mild breeze carried the tell-tale scent of lion, bear, and wolf to the horse herd. The outriders began to circle more quickly, trying to keep the horses bunched, but unable to determine the reason for the animals' unease.
At last, feeling sure that enough time had elapsed that the best warriors, tied to logs so they could not be spotted by any sentries, should be nearing the boom. Just behind them, crammed into the fleet's dugouts and small rowing boats, would be the main attack force of warriors.
Ambrose gave the signal, and the men leapt from concealment, waving their skins madly and imitating the cries of the great carnivores that the horses instinctively feared.
With the stink of mortal enemy now strong in their nostrils, the horses had already started to retreat nervously. The sudden movement and sound panicked them, and they broke into instinctive flight. The animals instantly transformed themselves into an irresistible wall of galloping horseflesh. Outriders who were in their path were totally unable to stop the stampede, and only saved their lives by turning the heads of their own horses and allowing them to run freely amidst the herd.
A couple of outriders, closest to the wildly growling and yelling Varangians, realized what had happened and managed to force their way towards the strangers who had emerged from the forest. They yelled their battle cries and waved their swords, clearly hoping to repay the strangers with cold steel. As they approached the dimly moving shadows, however, volleys of spears from the nearby woods toppled many from their mounts. Charging them in turn, the Varangians quickly emptied most of the Pecheneg saddles. Between these and the hobbled horses, the Vikings had soon caught enough horses to mount their own group.
The Vikings rode southward, even as the first warriors from the camp streamed into the little valley. The newcomers looked about wildly to find the cause of all the yelling and for the reason for the herd to be stampeding. Screaming in rage, they turned upon any of their own outriders they could find, but most already lay dead, crushed by horseflesh or pierced by cold Viking iron.
The war horns echoed across the encampment and the Pechenegs rapidly formed into their ranks. They were fighting men, and well disciplined. Without their mounts, however, they knew that they would eventually become easy prey for any bands of Khazars or Magyars who might come across them. Using the relatively few horses that had been kept hobbled for messengers and scouting use, and a large force of runners, the khan sent out his men on a desperate horse-hunt.
Bumbling and cursing in the dark, many Pechenegs saw a hard-riding band of riders gallop south, but thought them merely to be a mounted squad of their own horde.
Shortly thereafter, a shout arose from the raft-boom. There were only the wounded and a few guards left in camp, however, to respond. The Varangian swimmers had reached the boom unseen and killed most of the sentries, but not before one had seen the dark shapes of the many small boats approaching and yelled out a warning. Those who were still in camp and able, raced out onto the raft boom. They unlimbered their bows and clutched their swords as they ran. Against the relatively small numbers who had remained in the camp and could answer the summons, however, the Varangian forces were clearly superior. Fighting from rocking boats and on rafts was not foreign to the Viking men, and they gleefully returned many of the thousands of arrows that the Pechenegs had shot at them earlier.
The Pechenegs gradually regained numerical superiority, however, for many warriors in the woods heard the sounds of battle and returned from their horse hunt. By now the Varangian warriors held the centre of the raft boom. The Varangian axes made short work of the many ropes that held the raft-boom together. Suddenly, looming out of the darkness, came the fleet of ships, tall and sinister in the dim light of the rising moon.
If enough Pechenegs returned and put their bows into action, even darkness would not protect the Varangians from slaughter, for although the nomads' bows were short and didn't have the penetrating power of the longer bows the Rus tribesmen favoured, yet they were made for mounted combat, and the tribesmen were able to release an arrow every few seconds with remarkable accuracy.
The ropes were finally severed and the linked rafts began to drift apart. The Varangians leapt for their ships as they came through the gap, or untied their dugouts and rowed. This time, with the women manning the oars, the men stood at the shield-walls along the sides of the ships and loosed swarms of arrows at the shores and at anyone who was not of Varangian size. In this manner, most of the crew returned to their vessels and the ships managed to finally slip past the barrier.
Just as the battle on the rafts was reaching its peak, Phillip an Ambrose looped back and took their cavalcade galloping through the encampment. After stopping to light torches at an isolated campfire, they charged through the encampment's tent area, throwing the flaming torches at tents and piles of supplies. At the entrance of the area where a large black tent stood, pennants flying from all four corners, a single line of armed guards materialized.
The riders rode hard at them, and the nomad line broke into small groups while the horsemen thundered past. While the nomads separated, they were ready to empty the saddles of anyone foolish enough to leave his guard open. Ambrose himself almost made it through them, but a fast slice of an enemy sword cut the tendons of his mount and the horse collapsed beneath him.
Rolling to his feet, Ambrose felt the Pecheneg guards pressing about him. The cooking fires about the camp cast some light, and Ambrose could see several Pechenegs closing on him. Moving quickly to place his back against a tent, he called out in Saxon at the advancing group.
"Come, you scum, and taste cold steel! Come and die at my feet!"
Without a shield, Ambrose drew his sax, or long dagger, as well as Victory-Maker. The Pechenegs started to close cautiously. They moved forward in unison. Once, twice, Ambrose's blade flickered out, and each time a man yelped. Pushing their shields forward to catch any blows, the nomad warriors began swinging their blades at the stranger. Several powerful blows were absorbed by the sax, and Ambrose's left wrist ached from the impacts. His sword however, formed an arc of glittering death that the Asian warriors were unable to pierce. Ambrose knew, however, that time was against him. Someone would break from their blind anger, grab a bow or spear, and finish the contest from a distance.
Several tents had burst into flames. Ambrose could hear the wild gallop of horsemen coming toward him. Preparing to sell himself dearly now that more enemy tribesmen had arrived, he flicked his eyes briefly in the direction of the noise. The riders were upon him. Suddenly he realized that the riders were using captured lances to spear his attackers!
Ever faithful Phillip, mounted on a large steed that still seemed barely able to hold his bulk, reached down and scooped Ambrose from the ground as if he were once again a four year-old toddler. All mounted again, the party fled south.
They followed the river, for they knew a vessel was supposed to await them a few minutes ride down-river. Once well-away from the encampment and free of any immediate pursuit, the little group slowed their horses to a trot and searched anxiously amongst the shadows for the shape of the ship looming out of the darkness.
At last they saw a darker shadow slightly offshore, and one of the warriors called out, imitating the cry of an arctic owl. A similar reply was heard and the shape began to drift shorewards. They heard a shouted command, in the Norse tongue.
"Step into the water, with your hands empty! Remember, there be bowmen covering you!"
The men dismounted, waded out, and then stood still until their identity could be confirmed. Once aboard, they got a rousing welcome from the jubilant crew, excitedly shouting out the results of the night's events.
Polonius, who had insisted on being aboard the pickup boat, hugged both the young prince and the giant Saxon thane.
Amb
rose grinned. "Well, how did it go?"
"Better than we could have expected, Master! All of the ships made it through safely and wait for us a little down-river."
"And the casualties?"
"Only two or three killed, but a score wounded."
"And you?"
"We burned part of their camp and the horses are still running."
"Excellent. It seems a fitting revenge on the Pecheneg warriors who had dared to attack the Varangian fleet."
Once the fleet formed up again, the men took to the oars. They alternately rowed and drifted ever south, with no pause, until many hours of horse travel were between them and the Pecheneg horde. With no more rapids until beyond Kiev, they were free to sail to their destination!
CHAPTER 25.
The Expedition Reaches Kiev.
During the next five days, Dir and Askold only allowed the ships to touch shore when they found islands a safe distance from the river bank. As tributaries joined the mother river, the Dnieper had widened, until, with its spring flow, it filled a flood plain almost five Roman miles across. Ambrose had never seen such a mighty river before. The men, women, and children of the fleet were only forced to spend two nights on the wooden deck as they gently floated southward.
At no time in this journey did they see any further sign of the Pecheneg marauders, although mute evidence of their passing was occasionally visible in the form of scorched villages. Once they found a Varangian vessel, burned and grounded on the shore.
Several of the crew of Ambrose's vessel cried out in anger and grief when they saw the hulk. Its captain had been impatient to head south, and the ship had left Novgorod only a few days before their own fleet had set sail.
Soon after midday on the fifth day after the fight, the flotilla sighted the wharves of Kiev itself. At last the lead ship gave the signal to turn, and the ships all swung towards the shore. High on a bluff above stood the fortified town of Kiev; trading centre of this section of the Dnieper.
Curious townspeople came down to the docks to stare at the new arrivals as they beached their ships. The northern trading fleet was expected. Kiev's own traders had already sailed south a week earlier. The first traders to reach the southern markets stood to make the greatest profit. But such a large fleet, carrying women and children, was still a surprise.
Dir and Askold had ordered that the crews and passengers were to set up camp in a pasture near the docks, for the town was obviously unable to hold the over one thousand men, women and children that walked off the docks or waded ashore. Besides, the Varangians weren't sure of their welcome. Unlike at Novgorod, they were not invited guests here.
Amongst the curious townspeople, there were a few Varangians visible. Some spotted old friends and rushed over to greet them. Dir and Askold, flanked by a few friends and lieutenants, were carefully dressed in their finest armour, and this group marched up to the fortified town to demand admission.
As the town gates swung ponderously open, it was not lost upon the townspeople lining the battlements that all of the newcomers were wearing full armour, and they carried all their weapons with them. Even the men in the meadow who were helping their families settle were armed and alert. More, they had thrown up a skirmisher line between their camp and the town.
Dir and Askold were escorted directly to the town assembly building, which served both as a headquarters and hall of justice, as well as assembly hall. Here the Varangian party was met by the grinning Rus trader who had sent the original summons, as well as over a dozen Slavs, who looked far less happy about the arrival of the strangers.
One of these Slavs, a portly man, bald and bearded, spoke with a rasping voice. Surprisingly, he spoke fluently in the Nordic tongue. "Traders going south are always welcome to stop and provision in Kiev. Less than a day's journey south, you will find the last staging point before you hit the steppes and the First Cataract. A fleet of trading vessels is gathering there now even as we speak. But you . . . you have brought your women and your children with you, and you have your men armoured and standing in formation below our very gates! I think, Vikings, that you owe us an explanation."
Askold, ever the more talkative of the two cousins, stood and faced the assembled throng of town leaders. "My lords, friends . . . we have come in peace to your town. You are quite right, however, in determining that we are not just another group of traders heading south on the river. It is our desire to settle here, amongst you, and become good citizens of Kiev. With us as allies, the trade from the north is assured, for, as you probably know, our brethren now control the upper reaches of not only this river, but also the Volga, and others. In return for this alliance that I propose to you, we will strengthen the trade ties northward with our sister settlements, and insure peace with the Varangian traders and warriors who pass through your town. Further, we will defend these lands faithfully, and our women and children will be hostage to our commitment to you."
"And what', rasped the same Slav who had spoken before, 'Is the price of this great beneficence on your part?"
The group of Rus adventurers looked the man over carefully, for he was obviously a powerful figure amongst the local hierarchy, and no doubt had designs on the rulership of Kiev himself. The joint commanders had told Ambrose that they were sure that a vacuum had been left by the death of the previous town leaders. Certainly the chains of gold and jewels that the man wore indicated that he was at the least a wealthy man. The many nods of agreement that followed his comments indicated that he also had a powerful following amongst the Slav leaders.
Askold spoke again. "Gentlemen, let me be blunt, for I am a soldier, not a political man. I have at your front gate over a thousand armed and trained warriors. My expedition is fully supported by the other Varangian settlements to the north. I have a letter here from influential merchants in this town requesting me to come and settle here. Last, but far from least, the Khagan of all the Khazars has personally accepted my overlordship over Kiev!"
With that, Askold held up for a brief inspection two documents. One was unmistakably stamped with the seal of the Khazar Khagan. Askold allowed no one to read the letters, and instead swiftly thrust them back into the leather case hanging on his belt. He continued.
"We have no wish to displace any Slavic rulers. On the contrary, we would like to ally ourselves with you. I will swear to you now that my people will only take land that is freely given them, or is presently beyond your effective control. What have you got to lose? Together, we can expand Kiev's control both up and down-river. Kiev will become a major trade city!
Without your agreement or help, we will settle anyway, but we may be required to fight you. Your settlement will burst into civil war, with faction against faction. With your willing co-operation, however, we can together forge a single strong nation, ruled jointly by you and us! Are we to be friends, or enemies?"
The group of Slavs were obviously struck by this proposal. While in fact it meant a diminishing of their own authority, the offer could also mean that they would retain a portion of control over a much larger state. They knew of the battle prowess of these blond Northmen, and were well aware that such raw levies as they could gather from the town itself would be no match for the foe camped outside their gates. Already, a Varangian 'fifth-column' resided within their walls.
Further, it was a time of unrest in their lands, with the Pecheneg nation being driven inexorably in their direction. Such allies as the warlike Varangians could be a potent asset.
Heads swung again to the portly Slav. It was obvious that the others expected him to make the decision; whether to grant concessions or declare war. The Slav paused for a few moments, and then spoke again in his rasping voice.
"If, and I say IF, leaders of the Rus, we were to agree to such an alliance, how would you envision the control of Kiev?"
The others all nodded sagely. This was, in fact the crux of the entire question, for all feared a diminution of their own power. If they could feel secure in this, their anxiety
would be largely alleviated.
Dir, a powerful figure, stepped up beside his cousin. All eyes focussed on him, minutely inspecting his long braided hair, his conical steel cap, and the excellent steel-mesh jerkin that dropped to below his thighs. Even its glittering links could not hide the rippling muscles of his torso and arms when he moved. In truth, with his great moustache and piercing blue eyes, he was a formidable looking warrior. He spoke quietly, as was his wont, but his words filled the hall.
"We Rus commanders propose a town council to be composed of an equal number of Varangian and Kievian officials. It is our way that all property owners and warriors have an equal say in the THING, or assembly. All, either Varangian or Slav, will have the right to be heard. The THING, in turn, will appoint a leader from amongst the council, in free vote. If a Slav is elected, we pledge ourselves to follow his command as if it were Askold or myself. We ask no more from you than that."
The portly leader, whose name was Olaf, stroked absently at his beard, and then spoke. "I must admit, what you say bears some merit. We ask you to return to your camp. We will send you the final decision of this council before the setting of the sun."
Askold, at his winningest best, smiled broadly, showing white and even teeth, a rarity amongst mature warriors. He signalled his escort to withdraw.
"We can ask no more. We part as friends, and I hope we will soon be partners and allies."
With that, all the Rus withdrew to their camp, leaving the town leaders struggling with the proposal. Askold and Dir had, however, ordered selected crewmen to make sure that their epic struggle upriver had been fully recounted in the marketplace. The men had been instructed to neglect neither the great size of the roving horde, nor the humiliating defeat the small Varangian fleet had been able to inflict upon them.
Ambrose, Prince of Wessex; Trader of Kiev. Page 20