Ch 8: The Tribe

Following the river current for five days, before everyone could recover their stamina, the cargo ship arrived at the first rapid of the Dnieper River.

Looking into the distance, the originally wide river channel suddenly became narrow. Both banks rose more than ten meters above the water, and many irregular and rugged reefs were distributed in the middle of the river channel, which was daunting.

“Look, I didn’t lie to you. This section of the river is unsuitable for sailing.”

Rurik steered the cargo ship aground on the west bank. Witnessing this scene, Vig and others had resigned themselves to their fate. They silently felled trees to build a slide track and prepared to continue dragging the ship.

Dragging the ship, entering the river channel, drifting along the river, and landing again after arriving at the rapid section to bypass it.

After going through this process, Vig’s patience was reaching its limit. Every day was dragging the ship, eating, and sleeping—much harder than working 996.

“Odin above, this damn life is not for humans. Can we change our way of life?”

Just as he was praying silently, he heard a “whoosh,” and an arrow was nailed to the grassland not far from his toes, its fletching still slightly swaying.

Enemy attack!

Instinctively, he raised his round shield and found a dozen or so nomadic horsemen in the distance, holding bows, wearing pointed felt hats, and with a strand of dirty braids hanging down the back of their heads.

At this time, Ivar took out his bow and arrow from the cargo ship to prepare a counterattack, but was stopped by Rurik. “Don’t kill them; just drive them away. These people are from the nearby Pecheneg tribe. They make their living by nomadic herding and are the most troublesome. Once a blood feud is brewed, they will specifically ambush us at a certain rapid downstream!”

“We can only take a beating and not fight back? This is too frustrating!”

Ivar muttered, but still accepted Rurik’s suggestion and deliberately aimed his arrows at the open space next to the nomads.

The two sides were at a stalemate for a few minutes. Seeing that neither side could do anything to the other, the nomads prepared to retreat. The next moment, an arrow shot out suddenly from the forest in the rear, piercing the face of a rider a hundred meters away. Judging from his attire, the deceased wore iron armor and was of much higher status than an ordinary nomad.

“Who shot the arrow?” Rurik was shocked and looked around, discovering it was Niels, who had just returned from hunting. The latter was complacent, boasting to his comrades, “Look, this is the most accurate arrow I’ve shot in years. Even if he wears the best iron armor, it’s useless!”

Listening to the mournful cries of the nomads, Rurik showed a smile uglier than crying, “It’s over, it’s completely over!”

After understanding the matter, Niels couldn’t help but feel uneasy, scratching the back of his head and tentatively saying, “Maybe they are afraid of my archery skills and dare not come to retaliate. Or we acted quickly and can pass through this area before they retaliate.”

“Forget it, a man is already dead. It’s meaningless to dwell on this,” Ivar told his comrades to build a fire and cook meat, “After eating, let’s rest early and speed up the progress in the next few days to get through this area as soon as possible.”

With danger approaching, ignoring their fatigue, everyone desperately traveled, bypassed the fourth rapid, and followed the river channel to the fifth rapid.

Steering the cargo ship aground on the west bank, Rurik looked at the boundless steppe, holding his amulet in both hands and praying in a low voice:

“Odin above, bless us to safely pass this hurdle. We will offer enough sacrifices afterward.”

After praying to Odin, Frigg, Thor, and other gods, Rurik called his companions to drag the ship, feeling apprehensive along the way, so everyone put on their armor.

The sunlight scorched the steppe, and the cargo ship moved slowly like a heavy pack animal. Suddenly, a large flock of birds flew up in the distance. Rurik lay on the ground, pressing his ear close to the ground, and sensed the sound of many hooves rapidly approaching.

“Retreat, don’t worry about the goods!”

In his desperate gaze, more than a hundred riders swept down from the south slope, uttering strange and eerie screams. The Vikings knew they were no match and fled toward the birch forest on the west side.

Wearing heavy scale armor, Vig was the last to rush into the forest and then froze in place.

Wait, where are they?

Vig tried to find the traces of Ivar, Bjorn, and other comrades, but to no avail. These guys ran faster than rabbits and apparently forgot that there was a hapless guy in the rear.

Before he could complain about his comrades’ lack of loyalty, a creaking sound of footsteps came from the edge of the forest. These nomads were still relentless, abandoning their horses and pursuing on foot!

“Too much, these people are unreasonable.”

Vig stumbled forward through the forest branches and leaves, soon running out of stamina and being forced to stop and lean against a tree trunk to catch his breath. The next moment, a Pecheneg man jumped out from the bushes on the left, holding a scimitar, wearing old sheepskin coat—a typical attire of a lower-class nomad.

In a matter of seconds, more footsteps surrounded him from all directions. In Vig’s desperate eyes, nomad after nomad emerged from behind the bushes, uttering strange cries, their faces ferocious.

“So, this is my end?”

He raised his head and found several noisy black ravens circling above, and a fierce feeling inexplicably surged in his heart. He decided to kill more people to accompany him in death.

The nomad on the left swung his knife, Vig raised his shield to block it, and his iron sword took advantage of the opportunity to stab into the enemy’s abdomen. Before the warm blood sprayed onto his face, two bronze daggers pierced from the right. He blocked one dagger with his round shield, and swung his sword to cut off the wrist holding the other dagger. The severed palm fell to the ground with a “plop.”

Immediately after, a scimitar struck his back. Due to the excellent protective ability of the scale armor, it caused no harm. Vig quickly turned around and swung his sword horizontally, easily slashing the enemy’s neck. The spurting blood splattered on his face, and his vision instantly turned blood red.

Facing death, he lived!

Gradually, he found that the enemy’s movements slowed down, and there were weaknesses everywhere. The flashing swords and knives came into view, his body instinctively reacted, using the cover of the forest to dodge and weave, and his attacks were deadly, as if he had entered a state of “flow” he had never experienced before.

The tenth Pecheneg man fell clutching his chest. The remaining four nomads hesitated. They did not expect this Viking barbarian to be like an immortal beast, bloodthirsty and cunning.

With the intention to retreat, they looked at each other and threw their weapons at the same time. One bronze knife spun and hit Vig’s iron helmet, making a dull collision sound. Not only did it not cause any harm, but the knife itself broke.

“The iron armor of the Northern European barbarians is too good. Retreat!” The nomads shouted and fled in a panic.

The battle ended. The setting sun shone through the leaves, reflecting dazzling light on the pool of blood. Vig panted, took a leather pouch from a corpse’s waist, and drank the foul-smelling mare’s milk wine. A large group of ravens circled excitedly above him, as if thanking him for the sumptuous banquet.

Soon, his companions came one after another, following the sound. Seeing this horrifying scene, Ivar exclaimed:

“After this bloody battle, you finally unleashed your potential. Congratulations.”

Vig’s face showed no joy, only confusion: “It’s hard to say. It doesn’t feel like I’ve become stronger, but that the enemy’s movements have become clumsy.”