"They're here! They're here! The Polovtsy are coming!"
In fact, there was no need for the scout to shout; based on the vibrations of the ground, everyone had already sensed the arrival of the cavalry, and in no small numbers.
The Rus' formed ranks in front of a dense reed bed, their infantry raising their round shields and kite shields to form a shield wall, while archers and crossbowmen hid behind the shield wall, weapons raised, ready to shoot at any moment.
"Hold steady! Hold steady!"
Gvaran stabilized the line among the infantry; his ruby helmet, more ornate than those of ordinary warriors, made him stand out and highly visible on the battlefield. However, Gvaran had worn this helmet through many battles and it had never failed him.
In an instant, Polovtsian cavalry appeared before the Rus', like a surging tide at high water. The long-prepared archers did not hesitate, continuously shooting at the horsemen, pulling their bows with all their might to unleash more firepower.
Immediately, several men were shot down unprepared, and a few horses were brought down. However, the Polovtsy quickly reacted, picking up their composite bows and beginning to retaliate, releasing arrows. Faced with the arrows, the Nomads were not alarmed; battles on the steppe were common, and exchanging arrows from horseback was the norm. Standing firm amidst arrows was nothing.
Most of the arrows landed on the shields of the shield wall. The sound and sensation of arrows hitting the shields greatly frightened the Rus' soldiers, who were essentially still farmers. However, discipline and the supervision of the Prince's retinue compelled them to hold their shields firm and maintain the line. Reason also told them this was the correct course of action at the moment.
But over time, accidents would occur. When a Rus' soldier was shot down by an arrow that penetrated a gap in the shield wall, an opening immediately appeared in the shield wall. Polovtsian horse archers did not miss this opportunity, and more arrows immediately flew into the gap, and then more men fell.
Seeing this, Gvaran did not hesitate, loudly shouting for a retreat.
The Rus' soldiers retreated into the reed bed as if relieved, like they were fleeing. The Polovtsy could not help but cheer for such an easy victory, and seeing these weak enemies retreating, they shouted to each other, "Quick, let's ride and chase them!"
They completely failed to notice that the fleeing Rus' were orderly amidst the chaos, and simply rushed into the reed bed, following the Rus' footsteps.
Tugel saw the Rus' forced retreat into the reed bed, and he was very pleased. He immediately committed more soldiers—he was determined to slaughter those Rus' completely, to make them pay the price for offending the noble steppe.
However, the Polovtsian cavalry who entered the reed bed immediately ran into trouble. The mud in the reeds was boggy, and their warhorses could not run after entering. Many cavalrymen got stuck in the swamp and could not move, no matter how hard they tried to escape the swamp's grasp.
The long-prepared Rus' emerged from various places, targeting the cavalry stuck in the mud. Some stabbed wildly with spears, others hacked with swords and axes. They were well-coordinated, with clear objectives.
These poor Nomadic cavalrymen, facing attacks from all sides while on horseback, were powerless to resist. Blood immediately gushed like springs, and agonizing screams continuously rang out. They fell from their warhorses one after another, their blood staining the muddy ground red.
The cavalry behind, unaware of the situation, thought the screams ahead were those of the Rus'. The desire for military merit urged them to rush in, hoping to gain glory, and more and more men and horses crowded into the swamp.
The Nomadic cavalry charged on horseback, only to be immediately trapped in the mud. Rus' ambushers emerged everywhere, arrows flew wildly, and spears and axes fell together. The well-prepared Rus' ambushed the Polovtsy, making them extremely disoriented and unable to withstand wave after wave of attacks.
The Rus' were in their element. The swamp and reeds divided the Polovtsian forces, allowing them to easily defeat the enemy piecemeal, slaughtering them like livestock.
As the situation developed, the Polovtsy understood the predicament they were in. Those Polovtsy who had not yet entered the swamp and the noble youths who were on the battlefield for the first time turned their horses around and ran back along the reed bed, trying to escape this battlefield of blood and swords.
But what they hadn't expected was that their path had already been cut off by javelin throwers.
The Chud threw countless javelins. Most of the warhorses in front were shot dead and piled on the ground, and the riders also rolled onto the ground. The horses behind could not pass, and could only crowd together in layers.
The Polovtsy were naturally extremely anxious. Some did not know what to do, standing there blankly, while others took out their composite bows and shot at the Chud javelin throwers. But the Chud reacted even faster; before they could draw their bows and nock arrows, the javelins had already flown past.
The Chud pushed aside the reeds. They pursued, armed with short axes and long spears. They wore fur hats and no armor, only knee-length cloth tunics, with javelins on their backs, moving freely through the muddy ground.
The tribesmen from the north were no strangers to muddy ground, and fighting in such an environment was like being in their element. For many, this was no different from their raiding wars in the north, just a different muddy terrain to fight in.
These Polovtsian noble youths quickly died at the hands of these Chud. The Chud's fighting style was filled with northern ferocity, with every move being lethal, making them unable to cope.
Normally, these noble youths would not have cared about such lightly armored infantry; they would have simply ridden over them. But now, these enemies they deemed weak had become their grim reapers.
The Chud, who had gained little military merit in the raid that night, now drank deeply of Polovtsian blood.
The expensive feathers on the helmets of these noble youths were all taken. These arrogant warriors were thus killed by a group of infantry they had looked down upon.
On the other side, Rostislav personally led his "Druzhina Cavalry" to charge and kill among the Polovtsy. Whenever the Polovtsy began to gather somewhere, they would charge in to break the enemy's lines.
Rostislav's battle tactics were evident on the battlefield. He easily cut down the Polovtsy in front of him, whether ordinary herdsmen or famous warriors; before his sharp sword, only death awaited them.
His subordinates also formed a combat group with him at its core. Rostislav's "Druzhina" held long spears or bows, fighting by their Prince's side, coordinating with him to slaughter one Polovtsian invader after another.
Archers and crossbowmen occupied the only slightly elevated hillock, continuously shooting at the enemies below. Arrows rained down, and slingers continuously hurled sharpened stones, making holes in the heads of the Polovtsy.
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"What's going on? What's happening in there?"
As the screams gradually faded, Tugel grew uneasy. If they had won, someone should have reported by now? If the Rus' had won... how could that be? Hadn't the Rus' retreated into the reed bed?
He had sent in three-quarters of his soldiers, all cavalry. He couldn't believe that so many cavalrymen couldn't defeat those retreating Rus'.
Unless... it was a trap.
As he suddenly realized this, his warriors somehow began to clamor, interrupting Tugel's thoughts.
"They're out! They're finally out!"
Finally, some Polovtsian cavalry stumbled out of the reed bed. Seeing their blood-soaked and wounded, disheveled appearance, Tugel knew—he had been tricked!
Suddenly, a volley of arrows mixed with javelins rained down on Tugel's remaining troops. This attack was too fast; most of the Polovtsy did not have time to raise their shields before the javelins arrived, followed by the Rus' arrows.
Even for the Qipchaq warriors wearing chainmail, many unfortunately had their armor pierced by the enemy's projectiles—javelins and crossbow bolts—and these brave steppe warriors thus fell from their warhorses.
As for the unarmored herdsmen, their furs could not protect them from the attacks raining down from the sky. They fell in swathes, and those who barely escaped were terrified, almost wanting to flee immediately.
A chorus of screams erupted, which undoubtedly severely demoralized the steppe invaders.
"Go! Let's go! Damn it, I've been fooled!"
Tugel realized that his main force was gone, and the situation had become extremely unfavorable.
And though he was vengeful, he also deeply understood the art of survival. Fleeing immediately was the right thing to do. As for revenge—there would be plenty of time for that; they would fight another day.