The army that arrived from afar was truly a pagan army.
Totems and banners of various pagan deities were raised high in the air; some were exquisite, some simple, but all represented the devotion of their creators to their gods.
Some of these deities had been forgotten by time, while others still flourished, with countless worshipers; they had once been filled with hatred for each other, but now they all stood together, united against the deity on the cross.
Among these countless deities, the most powerful was istvan, the ruler who commanded the Magyar gods, and at this moment, the leader of this great army stood beneath that divine totem.
Yanos was a tall and sturdy man; he had always been regarded as istvan's messenger on earth, destined to lead the followers of the ancient gods to defeat the deity on the cross.
It was for this reason that he was able to lead this pagan army, which worshipped different gods.
Yanos was dressed like a pagan priest; his iron helmet was inlaid with rough fur, and his armor was covered with strung-together bones, which were said to belong to his ancestor, Vata.
Vata was also a chosen one of the gods; he led his followers in resisting the Christians but suffered defeat, his head was severed by the Christians, and his followers were massacred.
Many people were burned in flames; the Christians claimed this would save their souls, but no one believed it at all.
Those tortures failed to extinguish the fire of resistance; in the plains, in the hills, in the mountains, the pagans were still preparing for another struggle, just waiting for the moment to raise arms again.
Now Vata's son wore the armor made from his bones, signifying that he had inherited his will, vowing to end Christian rule and return peace to this land.
His army was composed of pagan elites from all over the ancient Pannonian land; assembling such a large army was thanks to King Bela's national call to arms.
During these days, large groups of people were seen everywhere on the main roads, so the large-scale movement of people seemed perfectly normal to everyone.
Nomadic tribes who believed in the old gods accounted for almost half of the army's numbers; these fur-clad herders had always been staunch believers in the ancient Magyar gods, and their faith in the gods had never wavered.
The other half was made up of fanatical believers and mountain people from various regions; their weapons were diverse, and they had little decent armor, with many even having stolen their equipment, but their fighting spirit remained incredibly strong.
The believers carried totems and banners representing divine authority, firmly believing in the gods' protection and that the gods would grant them victory, which was what brought them to this place.
As for the mountain people, more than faith, they came primarily for plunder; the Árpád Dynasty and Christian faith had brought them no benefits, so the mountain people naturally did not mind fighting for the pagan gods, burning, killing, and plundering in their name.
The nomadic cavalry, who had just been routed, naturally merged into this great army, and as they did, these horse archers regained their fighting spirit; with such a massive force, how could they not defeat those enemies?
The news of their expulsion naturally reached the commander of the main army, and upon hearing of the defeat and understanding its cause, Yanos, who was regarded as the chosen one by his followers, frowned.
Things weren't developing exactly as planned, but the impact was minimal; once his four thousand strong army arrived, those uncoordinated enemies would be crushed in an instant.
— — — — — — — —
Coincidentally, as the pagan army approached outside the city, significant changes also occurred both inside and outside the city.
As more and more thugs poured in from the various city gates they controlled, the situation became increasingly out of control.
These thugs were not primarily criminals; most of them were pagans from various parts of Hungary, who had come to Fehérvár for this very moment, enduring for so long precisely for this moment.
These pagan thugs wildly burned, killed, and plundered, spreading flames throughout the city; Hungary's Catholic city was now dominated by pagans.
Many citizens could only lock their doors, praying to Christian God or some other deity that the thugs wouldn't come to kill them, while more proactive ones armed their families, figuring that they would take down as many as they could.
And as the Hungarian soldiers scattered throughout the city were successively eliminated by the thugs, this army of thugs also continuously gathered, eventually forming a powerful torrent that swept away all obstacles in their path.
The target of this torrent was very clear: the Royal Palace of Fehérvár, the center of Hungarian royal power.
As for the church, it had already been consumed by flames; this symbol of Kiev's authority had now become a giant torch, signifying the pagans' mockery and disdain for Christian authority.
Facing the massive number of pagans, the armed monks and soldiers simply could not resist; they were powerless to protect the Catholic cathedral.
Their heads were now hanging from the church's spire, being roasted in the flames, signifying the pagans' desecration of the Christian faith.
And in the square in front of the church, Christian corpses lay everywhere, with even the lower bodies of monks having been cut off and stuffed into the mouths of corpses, solely for the purpose of insult.
But the Royal Palace was not as easy to conquer as the church; it was already a powerful military fortress and the Christians' best stronghold.
Moreover, the fortress was filled with elites from Rus', Poland, and Hungary; it would be quite difficult for unarmored thugs alone to take it.
However, the pagans were numerous, and among them were truly fanatical individuals; incited by their leaders, and led by pagan elites, they charged fearlessly towards the palace walls and swords.
But they soon discovered that the setbacks they would encounter here would be far, far greater than anything outside.
— — — — — — — —
Once again, with the last fanatic killed, the pagan attack was repelled.
Behind the gate, which had been battered open, lay a carpet of bodies, both pagan and Christian; their corpses overlapped and huddled together as closely as brothers.
Various debris was scattered here: bloody body parts, broken shields, discarded weapons... like a battlefield of carnage.
The pagan leader who led this attack lay on the ground, his sturdy body pierced by dozens of arrows; the armor that should have protected his life was tattered, effectively a heap of scrap metal.
The leader's face was filled with pain and unwillingness, but it was in vain; he was so close to breaching the city wall and killing those damned Christians, but he failed at the last moment.
But even so, the Christians surrounding him did not relax their vigilance.
Just now, this fellow, who was thought to be dead, suddenly erupted, striking down two Polish Knights who tried to collect his head.
But that was all; the Magyar archers on the city wall immediately fired a few more arrows, and he could only fall again, unwillingly.
Seeing his subordinates hesitate, the King of Poland snorted; he strode forward, cut off the pagan's head, and raised this bloody trophy high.
Seeing this, everyone sighed in relief, lowered their weapons, and weariness finally replaced tension on everyone's faces.
Just now, the pagans had broken through the gate with a battering ram, and their defenses had almost collapsed; fortunately, the King of Poland, with his brave warriors, decisively charged forward, and after a fierce struggle, held back those fanatical believers, otherwise, it would have been truly over.
And as they relaxed, many servants immediately came forward with planks and other materials to repair the broken gate, which was their most important and strongest defensive line.
Bolesław held the head for less than a minute before throwing it towards the pagans hiding behind cover, before the gate was fully repaired.
Afterward, he directly sat on a bloody human corpse; the corpse's arms had both been severed, and blood was splattered everywhere.
But Bolesław did not care; though he was a King, he had experienced countless battles and witnessed seas of corpses and blood several times; this small scene was nothing at all.
Moreover, the atmosphere of slaughter excited him; it had been a long time since he had killed so painfully; with a scimitar in hand, the feeling of his hands stained with blood was truly wonderful.
After those unfulfilling meetings, only this could make him feel alive.