"What's going on? Why is that place on fire?"
Near the recently captured fortress, the Norsemen-dressed commander looked at the black smoke rising into the sky and the falcon soaring in the smoke and fire, and couldn't help but ask.
The commander was naturally Olaf; his equipment was extremely luxurious, with intricate carvings on his helmet, and his armor, made by a renowned Hedeby craftsman, needed no further mention.
Olaf, seasoned in war, naturally smelled the scent of battle, but he wasn't surprised; there were still many Rus partisan groups active in the wilderness.
These plundered people were filled with hatred for the Bulgar Army, and the current attack was not surprising.
Behind Olaf was a large army, with many armored warriors at the front of the formation; they were the elite Olaf had accumulated over the years.
Behind them were many peasants with bitter expressions; if not for the officers beside them occasionally cracking their whips, these people would have run away long ago.
The combat effectiveness of these people was extremely weak, but the commander of this army didn't care.
He brought these people only to make them shout and sway the morale of the Rus; when they saw many compatriots defect, many people would waver.
"Lord, do we need to stop?"
Behind Olaf, a warrior also dressed as a Norse warrior asked.
Suzdal had many Norse immigrants living there, and Norse warriors were very common, many of whom were relocated by Yaroslav.
These people were quite supportive of Olaf, as he was one of the few Norse-descended nobles with strong Norse customs.
"No, we continue. The Bulgar camp seems to have been attacked; we'll provide support perfectly."
Olaf pondered for a moment, then gave his answer. The warrior immediately retreated to carry out the Prince's order.
As the order was given, the fully armed soldiers immediately began to whip the forcibly conscripted farmers.
The farmers had bitter expressions but dared not speak their anger. Everyone knew the fate of those who dared to resist, so they could only silently carry their weapons and advance.
However, what Olaf didn't know was that in the dense forests on both sides of his army, countless people were holding weapons, waiting for that signal.
"Attack!"
---
Battlefields after major wars are often littered with corpses and the wails of the wounded, and the omnipresent scent of blood fills everyone's nostrils.
But the victors were indifferent to this, for they were the victors, the winners of this slaughter, and those who survived the battlefield naturally let out cheers that echoed through the clouds for victory and glory.
"This battle was truly difficult."
After putting his wounded warhorse out of its misery, Yang, covered in blood, raised his head and looked at the cheering all around.
His expression was not good. If not for his subordinates turning the tide, there would be no current victory, and for this, they had paid too great a price.
When the ambush began, everything proceeded very normally, all according to plan.
The forcibly conscripted farmers immediately scattered, and many even turned against Olaf's men. Almost instantly, Olaf found himself surrounded on all sides.
But then problems arose. Olaf's subordinates reacted quickly. Facing enemies attacking from all directions, they did not hesitate and immediately formed a solid circular formation.
The army composed of farmers and tribal people simply couldn't break through that solid shield wall. Swords and spears shattered before the shields, bodies were easily cut down, and the enemy even launched counter-attacks, briefly routing the attackers.
Helpless, Lord Yang had no choice but to personally lead his subordinates to turn the tide. If not for this, the situation would eventually reverse, and these farmers were, after all, unreliable.
They directly charged their horses into the shield wall, forcibly breaking through this solid barrier of shields.
And for this, more than thirty comrades lost their lives, and several more were half-dead, slumped on their horses. Whether they would survive depended entirely on God's will.
The rest of the battle had no suspense. The broken gap was quickly exploited by everyone. The tide of farmers rushed in, overwhelming these enemies.
Lord Yang personally cut off Olaf's head. This Rus noble fought with his personal guards until the last moment.
However, his head was still severed by Lord Yang, and now his head had been impaled on a spear.
Olaf's troops were excellent. This was clearly a battle-hardened unit. Lord Yang regretted that this army was annihilated in such a way; they should have died on a more glorious battlefield.
And it was at this moment that Lev walked out, surrounded by a large number of devout veles believers. They all held swords, and many of them were stained with blood.
These believers were the backbone of the recent battle. If not for them and those fanatics who believed in perun, the farmers would have collapsed long ago.
"What? Are you going to turn hostile now?"
Looking at Lev, Lord Yang was unwilling to even put on a pleasant face. If his men weren't so weak, why would he have paid such a price?
"This is our problem, Lord Yang, I am very sorry. As compensation, all these spoils of war belong to you."
Lev seemed very embarrassed by Lord Yang's words. The farmers' poor combat effectiveness indeed led to the current situation, and it was indeed their problem.
"As for betrayal, you don't need to worry. We haven't been so perfidious yet."
"All this garbage belongs to you. It's useless for me to take it. So, let's go our separate ways now."
Lord Yang got straight to the point. He directly wanted to part ways with this group of people. With Olaf's death, their common goal had disappeared. Since that was the case, they might as well separate sooner.
"Everyone! Assemble immediately!"
At Lord Yang's shout, everyone quickly gathered. These were all veterans long accustomed to discipline, so they naturally executed the command without hesitation.
The only outsiders were those few Gael, who had originally planned to thoroughly loot the dead, but now could only reluctantly mount their horses and assemble.
"Oh, by the way, Lord Lev, what exactly happened at that fortress?"
Lord Yang raised his horse whip, pointed towards the fortress from which black smoke was rising, and asked.
"A Rus army captured it. It belongs to your Prince. Now that place is a Rus fortress, and I am very lucky."
If not for the siege there, their ambush would certainly have been noticed by the Bulgar.
Then, facing a pincer attack from the Bulgar and Olaf's forces, their annihilation would only be a matter of time, so Lev was grateful for this luck.
"Luck? I don't think so." Lord Yang turned his horse around.
"Lord Lev, let us part ways here. You had best leave this place as soon as possible. I look forward to our next meeting."
Lord Yang finished speaking and spurred his horse away, his subordinates quickly following behind him.
"Yes, I look forward to it too..."
Lev said, narrowing his eyes. He and Lord Yang both understood the subtext, but neither of them clarified it. The next time they met, it would very likely be as enemies...