Whether it was Rostislav's personal guards or his uncles' personal soldiers, they were all well-adapted to marching through such unfamiliar territory.
They were professional soldiers to begin with, having seen all sorts of landscapes from campaigning in various places, so they had no worries about the unfamiliar surroundings.
The military servants were also quite accustomed to all of this; they walked leisurely across the land, as if the surrounding environment was still their homeland.
These military servants had followed the army on many campaigns; under a long military career, even the most amateur farmers had transformed into experienced soldiers skilled in military affairs.
However, the merchants were not doing so well; they were constantly worried about potential enemies, after all, this was an area filled with Pecheneg mounted bandits.
Even the occasional Pecheneg Nomad running by could scare them out of their wits; if it weren't for the personal soldiers and Princes acting as if they were walking on their homeland, this group would have long since fallen into disarray.
The army's movements were very regular each day; during the day, they advanced across the land under strict discipline and formation, and in the evening, they set up well-equipped camps, constructing fortifications sufficient to withstand attacks, and spent the night protected by these defensive structures.
And when camping in the evening, Rostislav and his second uncle Sviatoslav would lead their respective troops to patrol near the camp to check for any potential ambushes.
Today was naturally no exception; as the sun set, Rostislav rode his horse across this land that gave him a sense of gloom, the Prince dressed in long-sleeved chainmail, and behind him were groups of fully armed personal guards.
Looking at the scenery around him, which he had seen countless times over these past few days, Rostislav couldn't help but yawn in boredom; novelty always comes and goes quickly, and he was truly tired of looking at these sights now.
However, the appearance of a contingent instantly jolted Rostislav, because the one leading that contingent was none other than his second uncle, Sviatoslav Yaroslavich.
Undoubtedly, his second uncle was a heroic Ross Warrior, tall and imposing, with a resolute and powerful face; he possessed not only the martial prowess of his namesake ancestor but also the cultural level of his grandfather, making him an exceptionally outstanding individual.
But because of this, Rostislav was very reluctant to see him; he and his second uncle were both well aware of certain comparisons between them, and they knew that one day they would inevitably become adversaries.
However, for now, both sides still had to feign cordiality.
Behind his second uncle was his heavy cavalry unit; those cavalrymen were clearly incredibly skilled riders, and their movements on horseback clearly showed them to be experts in mounted combat.
Rostislav controlled his expression and nodded to his second uncle, who reciprocated the gesture.
However, both sides remained silent thereafter, and the atmosphere became quite awkward.
Many thoughts surged in both their minds at that moment, but they both kept their mouths tightly shut.
The accompanying people sensed the unusual atmosphere, but everyone remained silent; the Prince's affairs were not for them to interfere with.
They were merely swords in the Prince's hand; a sword does not need the ability to think, only the ability to execute tasks.
As they advanced, the Rus' camp soon appeared before them; having just crossed the low hill, their current position offered a clear view of the entire camp.
At this time, the sun was about to set, and night was approaching; countless fires had already been lit for illumination in the camp, and the outer perimeter of the camp was filled with sharpened wooden stakes.
These stakes were made by the Rus' people after arriving in this land; after breaking camp, they could be pulled up and transported away for reuse.
Although protection money had been paid, necessary vigilance still had to be maintained, for who knew if those Pechenegs would break their promise, and how many dared to trust the credibility of Nomads?
Behind those sharpened wooden stakes were wagons full of supplies, arrayed to form a defensive wall.
These wagons were also fitted with anti-arrow baffles, and archers were constantly guarding them from behind; this was Rostislav's suggestion.
The most likely enemies they would encounter on this Wallachia trip were those Pecheneg Nomads, and the felt-tent people's mastery of archery was well-known; circling the camp and shooting was a basic skill, so naturally, preparations against arrows had to be made.
And behind this were the livestock herded together and the orderly camp, with rows of tents neatly arranged, a pleasing sight.
The essence of All Rus' was gathered here; maintaining strict discipline was not difficult.
The merchants were also brought under control, and they naturally cooperated fully with the Prince's regulations, as they were relying on him now, so they naturally had to obey his orders.
As Rostislav's contingent gradually approached the camp, the sun sank lower and lower.
Finally, the sun completely set, but fortunately, Rostislav's subordinates had no night blindness issues; how could Princes' personal guards, who ate and drank meat and wine every day, possibly suffer from insufficient nutritional intake?
The moon in the sky was so big and round, how could they not see it? And the campfires also provided them with guidance.
The closer they got to the camp, the more Rostislav's spirits relaxed; the tense patrol was finally over, and he could go back and rest well.
"My Lord, look over there quickly."
Just as Rostislav was thinking about how comfortable his campaign bed, covered with soft furs, would be to sleep on, Vasily's voice suddenly reached his ears.
The voice was full of urgency, which made Rostislav immediately look in the direction.
Then he saw torches appearing on the hill they had walked over earlier; first one, then two, three, four...
Finally, it even grew to over a thousand, and seeing this scene, even the dullest person understood what it meant.
So many people moving in the middle of the night could only be for that one thing.
"Enemy attack!"
Rostislav, realizing what was happening, roared; he had already made out the figures beneath those torches—Nomads wrapped in furs, and the identity of these enemies was self-evident.
Sviatoslav also noticed the enemy's appearance; his panic lasted only an instant, then he too roared to announce the news of the enemy's arrival.
"The Pechenegs have betrayed us!"
Rostislav ordered his subordinates to speed up, and Sviatoslav likewise ordered his subordinates to speed up; they were not far from the camp, and a quick dash would get them there.
With the enemy situation unclear, it was safest to return to the camp, where there were so many complete fortifications.
And those Pechenegs merely watched as the Ross cavalry accelerated away; they knew they couldn't catch the Rus' people, and rather than pursue, it was better to conserve their horses' strength and prepare for the upcoming battle.
Seeing the two Princes leading their contingents, the personal guards on duty inside the camp showed no panic; they were all battle-hardened veterans, and they consciously moved aside the cheval de frise at the gate, allowing the Princes' contingents to enter.
Then they sealed the gate again at the fastest speed; the entire process was fluid, a style developed through countless campaigns.
The military servants' panic lasted only a moment, then, at the shouts of their captains or personal guards, they began to work, piling various supplies onto the wagons.
As the work got on track, the panic completely disappeared, after all, they were accustomed to this kind of work, they just needed time to adapt.
As for the merchants, they were in a bad state, completely bewildered and in a panic.
However, the Rus' Princes had anticipated that these fellows would be useless, and had long arranged for personal soldiers to organize them.
And then, without the Princes' shouting, more personal soldiers climbed out of their tents; these warriors even slept in their armor, holding weapons, prepared for any potential enemy.
The personal soldiers with bows and arrows consciously took up their assigned positions, while those without bows and arrows, after forming neat ranks, raised their shields, ready to receive the enemy's arrows and charges.
And after Rostislav and Sviatoslav's subordinates had settled their horses, they naturally dismounted their warhorses and joined their ranks, and immediately after, their great uncle and third uncle also emerged in armor, standing with their brother and nephew.
The Pecheneg cavalry, arriving under the cover of night, had no magnificent equipment; almost no one wore armor, and most people were wrapped in furs, making up the majority of this army no different from the ordinary Nomads Rostislav had settled in Northeast Rus'.
Their most valuable possessions were the composite bows in their hands and the various weapons on their saddles, and their mounts were also very ordinary, typical nomadic cannon fodder.
Some Nomads also carried javelins, but even in the dimmest light, Rostislav could see that they were merely crude goods, though such goods could still kill.
Only a few nobles rode good horses, carried gleaming scimitars, and wore armor, but that armor was very mismatched.
Rostislav saw at least several styles, even some from a hundred years ago, but in this era, weapons from a hundred years ago still did not hinder killing.
This group was extremely undisciplined, their entire formation was incredibly messy; the Polotsk formations were much better than this.
Undoubtedly, this was a motley crew, in various aspects, with uneven combat strength, which was also why these cavalrymen did not forcefully charge the formation; they lacked the ability and could not do so.
However, Rostislav noticed that there were still many torches on the hillside, where many cavalrymen were standing; under the firelight, there was no lack of gleaming armor, indicating that the elite forces of the Pechenegs were observing the situation from there.
These cavalrymen stopped in front of the formation for about ten seconds; in this eerie peace, they quickly spread out to semi-encircle the Rus' people and shouted a few insults in their barbarian language.
The Rus' people, due to the unclear enemy situation, did not attack, but chose to hold their ground in the camp, having no choice but to endure the enemy's provocations, which were part of the Nomad's tactics.
After confirming that the Rus' people dared not leave the wagon fort, they immediately revealed their weapons; the merchants, who had just managed to calm down, gasped, their cries immediately drowned out by another sound—the varying sounds of countless arrows falling from the sky and piercing into wood, ground, tents, armor, and flesh.
Within a few short minutes, the Pechenegs fired arrows and threw javelins at the camp from all directions; thousands of arrows and javelins rained down into the camp, as if everyone was bathing in a shower of arrows and javelins.
This scene made the archers, waiting to retaliate, instinctively duck their heads behind the baffles or shields; the firepower was simply too dense, and rashly exposing oneself would result in being shot full of holes, even if they were wearing armor, they did not want such a fate.
However, the casualties caused by these arrows were not very large, as the personal soldiers and military servants were all obediently hiding behind their shields, and they all wore armor.
The merchants suffered the most casualties; facing the overwhelming barrage of projectiles, they panicked and started running wildly, only to be shot down one by one. Nomads loved such foolish, aimless runners, as shooting them down caused the most panic.
However, most of the people present were skilled in warfare, so how could they be intimidated by such a scene?
Nevertheless, what the Pechenegs did next slightly increased the trouble: they lit their arrows, unleashing volleys of fire arrows.
Arrows carrying flames were naturally more visible and intimidating than the unseen projectiles in the dark, and they could also ignite tents to create more chaos.
Unfortunately, they encountered the elite of All Rus'. Under the shouts and commands of their officers, the soldiers bravely extinguished every potential source of fire, preventing the flames from spreading. The casualties, though present, could not make these battle-hardened warriors flinch.
As for the small fires that did ignite, they had little impact and instead helped illuminate the battlefield.
The Ross casualties were not significant, clearly not as high as the Pechenegs had anticipated. They let out frustrated cries, and with their fire arrows mostly expended, they immediately began to shoot arrows even more vigorously, sending more into the camp.
Like most Nomads, these Pechenegs were skilled archers and horsemen, effortlessly drawing and firing bows from their mounts. However, most mounted archers could only do so much.
Their tactics did not aim for precise shooting but rather for rapid firing, sending as many arrows as possible into the camp before them. This was clearly a tactic developed from the infighting among these Nomads.
However, the Ross would not sit idly by and take a beating. With Izyaslav's command, the personal guard archers unhesitatingly stepped forward and began to shoot.
With a series of bowstring twangs, a group of Pechenegs fell unexpectedly. Against the longbows and powerful crossbows in the hands of the Ross personal guards, their fur protection was utterly meaningless.
And besides the archers, there was also a group of crossbowmen providing fire. These were Great Duke Rostislav's subordinates; he had brought these soldiers as military retainers. The crossbows in their hands could pierce even armor without hindrance.
Most importantly, both the archers and crossbowmen were fully clad in iron armor and iron helmets. The Nomad arrows had great difficulty penetrating the iron armor, and many continued to fight vigorously even with dozens of arrows stuck in their bodies.
The Pechenegs, however, fell one by one to the archers, dropping like wheat. Some even had their horses shot dead, falling along with their mounts, then either trampled to death by their comrades or causing their own horses to fall in disarray.
In such circumstances, the Pechenegs wavered. It had been a long time since they had encountered such a counterattack.
Even when raiding Hungary or the Eastern Empire, they would enter and withdraw quickly, never encountering significant battles. Moreover, their raids were small in scale, and the raided parties did not organize large armies to resist.
"Damn it, these people are too tough to crack, Tatus! I shouldn't have believed your nonsense and gotten involved in this mess."
On the hillside where the Pechenegs had emerged, the Pecheneg chieftains leading the raid watched the increasingly unfavorable battle, their complaints growing louder.
They complained not because of the deaths of their tribesmen, but because of the loss of property—in the eyes of these chieftains, their tribesmen were their property.
The target they were besieging was simply too strong. The encircling fire of Nomad cavalry, far outnumbering them, had absolutely no effect on the force below. Instead, they fell like small fry against the enemy's powerful bows and crossbows, and they had no way to deal with those archers.
"We shouldn't have done this. Those people already paid the toll, they should have been allowed to pass. The Wallachians didn't even participate in this raid; this greatly affects our reputation. If we lose credibility, how will we do business in the future?"
An old man wearing a typical Nomad pointed hat said, his expression full of dissatisfaction with the attack on the Ross. He had opposed it from the beginning; were the heads of Rus' Princes so easy to obtain?
And as an elder, he was very clear about the current combat strength of the Pechenegs. He knew that attacking the Ross would not end well.
But the younger generation, whose hearts were seized by greed, didn't care so much and insisted on launching the attack, so he could only reluctantly join them in risking their lives.
"Tsk, Tatus, we came to get the heads of those Ross. Now this…"
"Yes, Tatus, these enemies are too strong. We really can't beat them. Let's not send our young men to their deaths anymore…"
"Let's retreat. It doesn't look like this will end well…"
That elder seemed to have great authority among these people. With his words, others also began to waver. The Ross in that camp looked too strong; they were completely rebuffed.
The Pecheneg tribes came for wealth, for business, not to fight to the death. Another part of the reason was the power of the person before them.
Standing on horseback before the Pecheneg chieftains was Tatus. At a glance, we could see a young man no older than thirty.
He wore a long robe embroidered with patterns, a pointed fur hat adorned with gold and silver rings, and a luxurious silver-inlaid scimitar at his waist.
Tatus was the most powerful Pecheneg ruler in the land of Wallachia, though his power was seen as problematic by the surrounding rulers, as he had only managed to make other chieftains bow to him, and gathering so many chieftains was the result of him exhausting all his favors.
However, no matter how he coerced or enticed them, the Wallachians refused to join the attack. The reason was very simple: they were unwilling to break the rules for it.
They believed that attacking that heavily armored force would not end well, and most importantly, the Wallachians of today were no longer as weak as they once were in the face of these Nomads; they had the courage and confidence to refuse the Pechenegs.
Tatus listened to the weak words of the chieftains around him, his expression growing increasingly ugly. These guys wanted to eat meat, but they didn't dare take even a small risk. They became so weak after losing only a few expendable Nomads.
How could they achieve such a rich victory as taking the head of Great Duke Rostislav without paying a price?
If they hadn't been so cowardly and incompetent these past few decades, how could the power of them, the Pechenegs, have continuously shrunk?
These people were full of drive when fighting among themselves, but they retreated when it came to doing something for the entire tribe. They were the leaders of the Pecheneg tribes, yet they were so selfish and narrow-minded.
If not for their internal strife, how could the situation have developed to the point where the Wallachians dared to say no to them? Moreover, the combat strength of the entire Pecheneg group had continuously deteriorated in these low-intensity, even village-scale battles. Their current reputation was only sustained by the prestige of decades past.
Furthermore, this battle was of utmost importance to him, because if he could take the head of Great Duke Rostislav, then his dream could be realized, and he could unite the tribes.
His dream was very simple: to become the Khan of the Pechenegs, leading this nation to once again become iron cavalry spreading fear in all directions, restoring their former glory.
They clearly still had a large number of elites at hand, but these guys were unwilling to commit them to battle. Damn it, a concentrated charge with heavy forces would be enough. As long as they could crack open the Ross's turtle shell, everything else would be easy.
The one who aspired to be Khan cursed inwardly. He truly felt hatred. He had prepared for this day for so long, gathering these people had almost exhausted all his favors, and he had given so many gifts, yet these guys treated him like this?
Tatus's anger was evident to everyone present, but they all unanimously chose to feign ignorance.
His gifts and favors were not enough to make these shrewd people fight for him. Some even secretly sneaked away, planning to take their own forces and leave, getting away from this dangerous place.
Seriously, who would use the elite forces that their tribe depended on for survival as cannon fodder for this guy? Did he think that just because he was good at fighting and had defeated them before, he could make them go to their deaths? Who did this guy think he was?
Some were still cursing Tatus in their hearts. Damn it, he didn't even know his own limitations, yet he wanted to be Khan. It was truly laughable.
What was critical for Tatus was that he desperately needed the combat power of these chieftains. If they were unwilling to commit their elites to the battlefield, then he would be powerless against the Ross below.
Tatus felt everything was collapsing, everything was going wrong. Nothing was going according to plan. The Ross were unexpectedly strong.
And his subordinates and the friends he had gathered were unexpectedly weak. All of this was too great a blow for him to accept.
And just as Tatus was pondering what to do next, like an ant on a hot pan, he suddenly saw a scene that greatly surprised him.
The Ross actually voluntarily opened the gate they had sealed, and then squad after squad of fully armed Ross Warriors cavalry charged out, rushing towards the Nomad cavalry who were shooting arrows.
And judging by the banners and armor, it was two Rus' Princes who had personally charged out.
"Gentlemen, the opportunity is right before your eyes, will you miss it? Those are two Rus' Princes! Whether captured or killed, they can bring glory and wealth!"
Seeing this, Tatus felt that the Eternal Sky was truly looking out for him. The Ross actually took the initiative to attack, and by the looks of it, they even intended to challenge them in cavalry combat. Wasn't this a gift to him?
Tatus's words immediately stirred the hearts of those who had just been thinking of fleeing. As Tatus said, this was an opportunity! If they could take the heads of those two Rus' Princes, their future would be glorious!
Gradually, one chieftain after another joined Tatus's side, indicating their willingness to join the attack. And as these people led the way, others immediately followed suit.
However, some still firmly refused to participate, like the old chieftain who had always said the attack was a bad idea. Now, he sighed as he looked at those people, truly, good advice cannot save those who seek death.
So he quietly left with the chieftains who were willing to follow him. He was not so optimistic, understanding that these people would not have a good end. Moreover, he planned to return to his tribe and immediately flee, as his intuition told him the Ross would not let this go easily.
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