March 15, 970 AD
Near Arcadiopolis, Rhomania
"Sir! I see riders coming up behind us!" Borislav, appointed commander of the Rus army, twirled his horse around and peered where one of his druzhinniki was pointing. He squinted trying to focus his vision in the early morning light. Yes, indeed, there were riders coming up behind. A small group, granted. They were carrying a banner, but he couldn't make out what the symbol was. He grunted, and turned to the observant member of his guard.
"Unless the Greeks have defeated our lord Sviatoslav and broken from Adrianople, it's likely they are friendly. Probably relaying some news from the camp.” The druzhinniki nodded, still staring at the approaching riders. Borislav waited for a moment; seeing that he would not be getting more of a response, he sighed.
"Lyubomir! Vadim! To me. We'll meet these riders and see what news they bring from the siege camp." The two druzhinniki brought their horses alongside Borislav's, and the three broke from the main force to meet the approaching band. As they drew closer, frightened thoughts ran through Borislav's mind. What if it was the Greeks? What if this is a plot? They are cunning enough to try something like this...
Just as that thought was leading into panic, the wind shifted and the banner was finally visible. Borislav was relieved, and then alarmed. A mighty cheer went up from the advancing Rus column.
It was the personal banner of the Kniaz himself. And if his banner was here...
"My lord!" Borislav threw himself from his horse and bowed low to the ground, followed by his two druzhinniki. The approaching riders slowed, and most stopped, but Borislav, from where he lay nearly prone, could hear one move up towards him before coming to a halt directly in front of him. There was a silent moment, and then...
"Get up, Borislav. You know how much I hate seeing a Rus on his knees." Borislav arose, and beheld his master, Kniaz Sviatoslav of Kiev, hammer of the Khazars, conquerer of the Bulgarians, subduer of the Pechenegs, and, soon (gods willing), lord of Tsargrad.
Sviatoslav cut a ferocious figure. His blond hair was styled in a single side lock, in the style of a traditional warrior. His face was scarred from countless battles, his mouth nearly obscured by his rather impressive mustache. His eyes were a cold blue, reminding Borislav of the ice of the far north. He stood no taller than most men, but he was broad shouldered and well built; and, astride his powerful mount, arrayed in his war mail, he was enough to put fear into the heart of any foeman. Or even a subordinate.
"My lord, may I inquire as to why you have graced our army with your presence?" Sviatoslav rolled his eyes at the formal wording, and some of his own druzhina chuckled wickedly. Borislav ignored them; he was a stickler for protocol, no matter what people said behind his back. It had gotten him this command, and he was not about to risk seeming casual.
Sviatoslav shrugged his shoulders.
"Any pridurok can oversee a siege, especially over some terrified Greeks. I'm bored, so I thought I might join in your advance."
Borislav blinked, feeling his face begin to burn. Sviatoslav stared right into his face, eyes seeming to bore right into his skull. He cleared his throat.
"Does that mean that your majesty is... assuming command?" Sviatoslav laughed- a sharp, abrupt sound that reminded Borislav of a hound baying.
"No, don't worry Borislav. I wouldn't dare take away your chance for glory. I'm just here to observe. And, perhaps, kill a few Greeks while I'm here." Borislav's fear subsided, though uncertainty still churned beneath the surface.
"Ah, I see. I am honored that you would...."
A shout rose up from somewhere at the end of the column, rolling up along the Rus lines. Borislav turned, and saw another member of his druzhina galloping towards the group.
"We've spotted the Greeks, my lord- my lords!" Borislav could feel his heart leap to his mouth.
Svaitoslav cleared his throat. Borislav blinked, glanced at the Kniaz, back at the messenger, and back at the Kniaz. He took ahold of his horse's bridle and mounted back into the saddle.
"Prepare for attack," he called out. The messenger rode back towards the head of the column, while Borislav and his liege rode to rejoin the army. Far above, black carrion birds began to swirl, their croaking calls drowned out by the noise of battle preparations.
----------
Stratopedarch Peter was watching the circling birds, chewing absentmindedly on a long stalk of grass while he ran the whetstone along his blade. It was a habit he had developed early on in his military career, helping to funnel his nervous energy into something constructive. He heard someone approach behind him, armor jingling. The guard currently watching Peter snapped to attention, meaning that it could only be one possible person.
"Alright, run this past me again,” Peter said around his grass as the other man sat down. Domestikos Bardas Skleros drew his face into mock shock.
“Not even a ‘good morning Bardas, how was your sleep’, or a ‘hello’? Straight into business are we?” Peter smiled. One couldn’t help but like Bardas. He was a good general and an even better socializer.
“Not today, friend.” Peter spat the grass stalk onto the ground and stared down the length of his blade. “Run it past me again.”
Bardas sighed and shrugged in false resignation.
“I suppose even eunuchs have forgotten social niceties in this day and age.” Peter briefly smiled again. It was true- he was a eunuch, one of the few to show military aptitude and break out of the administrative rut. Much of the army had laughed about that promotion- what good would a eunuch be in combat? You might as well put a woman in command! But Peter had silenced his critics with his campaigns in the East. Now no one brought up his lack of manhood- except Bardas, but his was a special case.
Seeing he was unable to provoke a rise, Bardas sighed and his face grew serious.
“You are to stand here with a third of our force, to distract the Varangians and draw them to battle. You will then feign a retreat, which should cause these barbarians to break formation and give chase. I will then sweep in with the remainder of our forces, hit them while they're in disorganized pursuit and we will shock the bastards into retreat. Constantinople will be saved, the Emperor will give us high praise, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”
Peter nodded. The plan seemed sound to him; he knew that Bardas had based his plan off of sound tactics. But he had a gnawing unease that refused to go away. He considered ignoring it, but decided it was better to be safe than sorry.
“And we are sure Sviatoslav is not leading this force?” Bardas nodded.
“Yes, our spies indicate the Varangian monster is still before Adrianople. This is led by one of his subordinates, with one of those hard to pronounce names.”
“Good, good…” Peter said, trailing off as a horn sounded from his assembled force. The two men stood.
“Well, I better return to my forces, Peter.” The two men clasped hands.
“Christ watch you, friend.” Bardas murmured.
“And you as well.” Peter replied. Bardas hurried off, while Peter turned towards the North. He could see the Varangian mass appearing on the horizon. He tapped his sword absent-mindedly against his leg while one of his men brought his horse to him. As he mounted up, the unease rose up again.
Please, Lord, let Sviatoslav be far from here…
----------
“This is all the vaunted Empire sends to face us?” Borislav paced his horse back and forth, staring at the small band of Greeks before his army. “Why, that's like sending a kitten to face a bear! I am almost insulted!” A few of his druzhinniki gave a sympathy laugh, as they had learned to do when their commander said anything vaguely humerous. Borislav glanced at his liege, hoping that his confident manner had made an impression, but Sviatoslav’s face was inscrutable. He was seemingly staring beyond the Greeks, brow furrowed in thought. Borislav opened his mouth to say something directly to the Kniaz, but quickly thought better of it. Perhaps he was really going to let Borislav conduct this battle on his own.
He cleared his throat, and turned to one of his guard, who was holding a rather intricate horn.
“Give the signal. Let’s knock these Greeks out of our way, and move on by nightfall.” The druzhinniki nodded, and, raising the horn to his lips, let out a long blast. The army cheered, and a force of Pecheneg horse archers rode out to begin the combat.
Borislav’s strategy was a simple one. The Greeks were in a fairly decent defensive formation, so he wanted to test their bounds before sending forth his troops. Any excess casualties from carelessness would reflect badly on him, so he had decided on a cautious approach. The Pecheneg horsemen would test the line for any holes; they would be joined soon by a force of Magyar light cavalry, who would assist them in their harassment duties, hopefully spreading out the Greeks. The Rus and Bulgarians that made up the vast majority of the force would move up, and, when the Greeks were sufficiently distracted, a force of heavier cavalry would hit their flanks while the infantry rushed their center. The Greeks would be disorganized and break, and pursuit and plunder would follow.
The plan went well at first. The Magyars and Pechenegs did a wonderful harassment job, and several Greeks fell to their arrows. The main body of the force advanced, and Borislav began to feel jubilant. He glanced over at his lord a few times to see what he was thinking, but Sviatoslav was still staring just beyond the Greeks.
As the main body of the force prepared to deliver the decisive blow, a trumpet trill from the Greek lines reached Borislav’s ears. He straightened up in the saddle and watched the Greeks begin a very orderly withdrawal.
“Damn. This Greek commander is slightly smarter than I thought. He doesn’t want to fight it out here and now, as he recognizes he has been outmatched. He thinks to preserve his force to fight another day.” Borislav turned to the signalman. “No matter- sound the pursuit. We’ll turn him to a rout soon enough.” The man nodded, and let out a series of blasts from his horn. The army cheered again, and began to rush at the withdrawing Greeks, the light cavalry outstripping their heavier counterparts and the infantry. The Pechenegs were in the lead, always looking for easy plunder. The Greeks stepped up their pace, a rearguard breaking off to delay the main force. They stood for a few moments before the Pechenegs broke through them with whooping war cries. The main Greek force was now nearly at a run. Borislav grinned. He looked back at Sviatoslav, who finally broke his vigil. He returned Borislav’s gaze.
“Sound a recall.” Borislav blinked, the grin instantly gone.
“My lord-”
“Sound a recall.”
“But the enemy…”
“Sound. A. Recall. Now.”
Borislav sighed, realizing protest was useless, and turned to his signalman. Before he could relay the order, a series of trumpet calls sounded from far across the field. In growing horror, Borislav watched as a new force of Greeks appeared from seemingly nowhere. Their retreating comrades stopped their flight, turned, and fell upon the Pechenegs. A fresh force of Greek cavalry slammed into their flank, and soon the tribesmen were fleeing before them. The Rus force, in its pursuit, had become strung out, and now Borislav watched in terror as the panic began to spread through his army.
He heard a sword be drawn. He looked over at his liege, who now had his weapon in hand.
“My lord…” Sviatoslav glared at him.
“Don’t ‘my lord’ me, you pitiful snake. You’ve nearly lost my army. Now I have to fix your mess. I’ll deal with you later.” The Kniaz turned to his druzhina.
“Let’s ride. Unfurl my banner. If these bastards are worth anything, when they see their Kniaz riding towards the enemy, they will remember their duty.” Borislav watched his liege ride at a gallop towards the chaos, followed by his guards, followed by Borislav’s guards. Soon, the commander was left alone on the hillside. He began to cry.
----------
Stratopedarch Peter slashed his sword down at the barbarian, who didn’t have time to react before it cut deeply into his chest. He screamed and fell, and Peter turned his attention to a Varangian with a spear who was trying to fend off blows from another Imperial cavalryman. He rode to the assistance of his soldier, stabbing down and impaling the spearman through the neck. The Varangian fell with a gurgle, and the cavalryman gave Peter a quick salute with his sword in thanks before moving to his next target.
Peter, taking a moment to recover his breath, saw the battle going exactly as planned. Bardas had been correct- the disorganized Varangian pursuers had not expected a fresh attack, and even now the entire army was beginning to flee. He let himself relax slightly as his troops streamed past him. Constantinople was safe…
And that's when he saw the banner. Bearing a strange heathen symbol, Peter had seen it sketched in intelligence reports before. It was the personal banner of Sviatoslav, the leader of the Varangians. And it’s presence could only mean one thing.
The Varangian monster was here, not at Adrianople.
The closer the banner came, the more the Varangian troops rallied. Some still ran, but many turned against the Greeks and fell upon them with newfound ferocity. Peter felt the tide of battle shift, from a Greek triumph to a heated contest once more. The result was once again in doubt.
Peter spat out a curse, and spurred his horse towards that banner.
“Come on, men of the Empire! Stand for Christ! Stand for your homes!” He cried out, hoping to inspire some sort of feeling in his troops hearts. Most probably did not hear him, as they were too busy trying to fend off the Varangian assault. Peter cursed again, and suddenly, found himself at the front.
A screaming Varangian with an axe charged at him. Peter reacted quickly, catching the axe with his shield, then striking at the man’s clenched hand. The Varangian recoiled, crying out in pain with a few fewer fingers. Another barbarian rushed him with a spear; Peter maneuvered his horse in a side step, and the Varangian stumbled as he met with nothing but air. A strike from Peter’s sword threw him to the ground.
A few more Varangians rushed at him, and Peter braced for the end. But then there was a shout, and they held. Peter glanced, and saw him- a face that, like the banner, he had only seen sketched before.
Sviatoslav himself, sword dripping blood, staring directly at him. Peter turned his horse towards the Varangian monster, feeling the weight of the world fall upon him. The battle seemed to get very quiet, and the world shrunk to just him and the barbarian King.
Sviatoslav said something, and raised his sword in a sort of salute. Peter did not respond, except to adjust his grip on the rains. Sviatoslav smiled. There was a pause; and then, as one, the two leaders rushed at each other.
A flurry of blows followed. Peter was surprised that Sviatoslav had finesse as well as brute strength, something he had not anticipated. The Varangian was a wonder with a blade; Peter soon found himself on the defensive. A high strike here, a low strike there, a stab here- a dodge there, a block here, a sidestepping horse there. Back and forth, back and forth, until-
Peter’s horse tripped on a fallen soldier, and stumbled, letting out a panicked whinny. Peter’s focus was broken, as he tried to keep his mount upright. And then, whistling right above his guard, came Sviatoslav’s blade. Peter felt it cut into his chest, ripping deep into him. Pain filled his body, as Sviatoslav let out a triumphant, almost bestial roar. He felt his grip on his sword weaken, and then- falling, falling, falling…
----------
Bardas Skleros glanced up at the moon. It was night now, and the Varangians had finally given up their pursuit. He turned around in the saddle to look at the bedraggled force behind him. What had earlier in the day been a small, but motivated force was now a miniscule, shattered mob. He cursed his overconfidence- he should have prepared for the possibility Sviatoslav was on the field. And now Peter had lost his life due to his blunder. Damn. Damndamndamn.
He silenced his self hate for a moment by reflecting on what he had to attend to. He needed to get this force to Constantinople as soon as possible- he had already sent what riders he had with decent mounts to get as many of the remaining garrisons he could to prepare for action. Panic would rise in the countryside, and civilians would be fleeing to Constantinople in droves for protection in the walls there. He would do his best to ensure as many as possible were safe, but he knew he could not save them all.
He had also dispatched a courier with a letter to the Emperor, who was across the straits fighting with the Phokas clan. He needed the Emperor’s army if he was to truly repel the barbarian horde now.
Feelings of self hate and utter hopelessness rose up again. Bardas looked up at the moon and cursed again.
He had no time for this. He had to save Constantinople. He had to save the Empire.
----------
So I had tried to do a different sort of format to discuss this idea I had, but I now decided to just go ahead and throw this out here. Let me know your thoughts. Thanks!
Near Arcadiopolis, Rhomania
"Sir! I see riders coming up behind us!" Borislav, appointed commander of the Rus army, twirled his horse around and peered where one of his druzhinniki was pointing. He squinted trying to focus his vision in the early morning light. Yes, indeed, there were riders coming up behind. A small group, granted. They were carrying a banner, but he couldn't make out what the symbol was. He grunted, and turned to the observant member of his guard.
"Unless the Greeks have defeated our lord Sviatoslav and broken from Adrianople, it's likely they are friendly. Probably relaying some news from the camp.” The druzhinniki nodded, still staring at the approaching riders. Borislav waited for a moment; seeing that he would not be getting more of a response, he sighed.
"Lyubomir! Vadim! To me. We'll meet these riders and see what news they bring from the siege camp." The two druzhinniki brought their horses alongside Borislav's, and the three broke from the main force to meet the approaching band. As they drew closer, frightened thoughts ran through Borislav's mind. What if it was the Greeks? What if this is a plot? They are cunning enough to try something like this...
Just as that thought was leading into panic, the wind shifted and the banner was finally visible. Borislav was relieved, and then alarmed. A mighty cheer went up from the advancing Rus column.
It was the personal banner of the Kniaz himself. And if his banner was here...
"My lord!" Borislav threw himself from his horse and bowed low to the ground, followed by his two druzhinniki. The approaching riders slowed, and most stopped, but Borislav, from where he lay nearly prone, could hear one move up towards him before coming to a halt directly in front of him. There was a silent moment, and then...
"Get up, Borislav. You know how much I hate seeing a Rus on his knees." Borislav arose, and beheld his master, Kniaz Sviatoslav of Kiev, hammer of the Khazars, conquerer of the Bulgarians, subduer of the Pechenegs, and, soon (gods willing), lord of Tsargrad.
Sviatoslav cut a ferocious figure. His blond hair was styled in a single side lock, in the style of a traditional warrior. His face was scarred from countless battles, his mouth nearly obscured by his rather impressive mustache. His eyes were a cold blue, reminding Borislav of the ice of the far north. He stood no taller than most men, but he was broad shouldered and well built; and, astride his powerful mount, arrayed in his war mail, he was enough to put fear into the heart of any foeman. Or even a subordinate.
"My lord, may I inquire as to why you have graced our army with your presence?" Sviatoslav rolled his eyes at the formal wording, and some of his own druzhina chuckled wickedly. Borislav ignored them; he was a stickler for protocol, no matter what people said behind his back. It had gotten him this command, and he was not about to risk seeming casual.
Sviatoslav shrugged his shoulders.
"Any pridurok can oversee a siege, especially over some terrified Greeks. I'm bored, so I thought I might join in your advance."
Borislav blinked, feeling his face begin to burn. Sviatoslav stared right into his face, eyes seeming to bore right into his skull. He cleared his throat.
"Does that mean that your majesty is... assuming command?" Sviatoslav laughed- a sharp, abrupt sound that reminded Borislav of a hound baying.
"No, don't worry Borislav. I wouldn't dare take away your chance for glory. I'm just here to observe. And, perhaps, kill a few Greeks while I'm here." Borislav's fear subsided, though uncertainty still churned beneath the surface.
"Ah, I see. I am honored that you would...."
A shout rose up from somewhere at the end of the column, rolling up along the Rus lines. Borislav turned, and saw another member of his druzhina galloping towards the group.
"We've spotted the Greeks, my lord- my lords!" Borislav could feel his heart leap to his mouth.
Svaitoslav cleared his throat. Borislav blinked, glanced at the Kniaz, back at the messenger, and back at the Kniaz. He took ahold of his horse's bridle and mounted back into the saddle.
"Prepare for attack," he called out. The messenger rode back towards the head of the column, while Borislav and his liege rode to rejoin the army. Far above, black carrion birds began to swirl, their croaking calls drowned out by the noise of battle preparations.
----------
Stratopedarch Peter was watching the circling birds, chewing absentmindedly on a long stalk of grass while he ran the whetstone along his blade. It was a habit he had developed early on in his military career, helping to funnel his nervous energy into something constructive. He heard someone approach behind him, armor jingling. The guard currently watching Peter snapped to attention, meaning that it could only be one possible person.
"Alright, run this past me again,” Peter said around his grass as the other man sat down. Domestikos Bardas Skleros drew his face into mock shock.
“Not even a ‘good morning Bardas, how was your sleep’, or a ‘hello’? Straight into business are we?” Peter smiled. One couldn’t help but like Bardas. He was a good general and an even better socializer.
“Not today, friend.” Peter spat the grass stalk onto the ground and stared down the length of his blade. “Run it past me again.”
Bardas sighed and shrugged in false resignation.
“I suppose even eunuchs have forgotten social niceties in this day and age.” Peter briefly smiled again. It was true- he was a eunuch, one of the few to show military aptitude and break out of the administrative rut. Much of the army had laughed about that promotion- what good would a eunuch be in combat? You might as well put a woman in command! But Peter had silenced his critics with his campaigns in the East. Now no one brought up his lack of manhood- except Bardas, but his was a special case.
Seeing he was unable to provoke a rise, Bardas sighed and his face grew serious.
“You are to stand here with a third of our force, to distract the Varangians and draw them to battle. You will then feign a retreat, which should cause these barbarians to break formation and give chase. I will then sweep in with the remainder of our forces, hit them while they're in disorganized pursuit and we will shock the bastards into retreat. Constantinople will be saved, the Emperor will give us high praise, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”
Peter nodded. The plan seemed sound to him; he knew that Bardas had based his plan off of sound tactics. But he had a gnawing unease that refused to go away. He considered ignoring it, but decided it was better to be safe than sorry.
“And we are sure Sviatoslav is not leading this force?” Bardas nodded.
“Yes, our spies indicate the Varangian monster is still before Adrianople. This is led by one of his subordinates, with one of those hard to pronounce names.”
“Good, good…” Peter said, trailing off as a horn sounded from his assembled force. The two men stood.
“Well, I better return to my forces, Peter.” The two men clasped hands.
“Christ watch you, friend.” Bardas murmured.
“And you as well.” Peter replied. Bardas hurried off, while Peter turned towards the North. He could see the Varangian mass appearing on the horizon. He tapped his sword absent-mindedly against his leg while one of his men brought his horse to him. As he mounted up, the unease rose up again.
Please, Lord, let Sviatoslav be far from here…
----------
“This is all the vaunted Empire sends to face us?” Borislav paced his horse back and forth, staring at the small band of Greeks before his army. “Why, that's like sending a kitten to face a bear! I am almost insulted!” A few of his druzhinniki gave a sympathy laugh, as they had learned to do when their commander said anything vaguely humerous. Borislav glanced at his liege, hoping that his confident manner had made an impression, but Sviatoslav’s face was inscrutable. He was seemingly staring beyond the Greeks, brow furrowed in thought. Borislav opened his mouth to say something directly to the Kniaz, but quickly thought better of it. Perhaps he was really going to let Borislav conduct this battle on his own.
He cleared his throat, and turned to one of his guard, who was holding a rather intricate horn.
“Give the signal. Let’s knock these Greeks out of our way, and move on by nightfall.” The druzhinniki nodded, and, raising the horn to his lips, let out a long blast. The army cheered, and a force of Pecheneg horse archers rode out to begin the combat.
Borislav’s strategy was a simple one. The Greeks were in a fairly decent defensive formation, so he wanted to test their bounds before sending forth his troops. Any excess casualties from carelessness would reflect badly on him, so he had decided on a cautious approach. The Pecheneg horsemen would test the line for any holes; they would be joined soon by a force of Magyar light cavalry, who would assist them in their harassment duties, hopefully spreading out the Greeks. The Rus and Bulgarians that made up the vast majority of the force would move up, and, when the Greeks were sufficiently distracted, a force of heavier cavalry would hit their flanks while the infantry rushed their center. The Greeks would be disorganized and break, and pursuit and plunder would follow.
The plan went well at first. The Magyars and Pechenegs did a wonderful harassment job, and several Greeks fell to their arrows. The main body of the force advanced, and Borislav began to feel jubilant. He glanced over at his lord a few times to see what he was thinking, but Sviatoslav was still staring just beyond the Greeks.
As the main body of the force prepared to deliver the decisive blow, a trumpet trill from the Greek lines reached Borislav’s ears. He straightened up in the saddle and watched the Greeks begin a very orderly withdrawal.
“Damn. This Greek commander is slightly smarter than I thought. He doesn’t want to fight it out here and now, as he recognizes he has been outmatched. He thinks to preserve his force to fight another day.” Borislav turned to the signalman. “No matter- sound the pursuit. We’ll turn him to a rout soon enough.” The man nodded, and let out a series of blasts from his horn. The army cheered again, and began to rush at the withdrawing Greeks, the light cavalry outstripping their heavier counterparts and the infantry. The Pechenegs were in the lead, always looking for easy plunder. The Greeks stepped up their pace, a rearguard breaking off to delay the main force. They stood for a few moments before the Pechenegs broke through them with whooping war cries. The main Greek force was now nearly at a run. Borislav grinned. He looked back at Sviatoslav, who finally broke his vigil. He returned Borislav’s gaze.
“Sound a recall.” Borislav blinked, the grin instantly gone.
“My lord-”
“Sound a recall.”
“But the enemy…”
“Sound. A. Recall. Now.”
Borislav sighed, realizing protest was useless, and turned to his signalman. Before he could relay the order, a series of trumpet calls sounded from far across the field. In growing horror, Borislav watched as a new force of Greeks appeared from seemingly nowhere. Their retreating comrades stopped their flight, turned, and fell upon the Pechenegs. A fresh force of Greek cavalry slammed into their flank, and soon the tribesmen were fleeing before them. The Rus force, in its pursuit, had become strung out, and now Borislav watched in terror as the panic began to spread through his army.
He heard a sword be drawn. He looked over at his liege, who now had his weapon in hand.
“My lord…” Sviatoslav glared at him.
“Don’t ‘my lord’ me, you pitiful snake. You’ve nearly lost my army. Now I have to fix your mess. I’ll deal with you later.” The Kniaz turned to his druzhina.
“Let’s ride. Unfurl my banner. If these bastards are worth anything, when they see their Kniaz riding towards the enemy, they will remember their duty.” Borislav watched his liege ride at a gallop towards the chaos, followed by his guards, followed by Borislav’s guards. Soon, the commander was left alone on the hillside. He began to cry.
----------
Stratopedarch Peter slashed his sword down at the barbarian, who didn’t have time to react before it cut deeply into his chest. He screamed and fell, and Peter turned his attention to a Varangian with a spear who was trying to fend off blows from another Imperial cavalryman. He rode to the assistance of his soldier, stabbing down and impaling the spearman through the neck. The Varangian fell with a gurgle, and the cavalryman gave Peter a quick salute with his sword in thanks before moving to his next target.
Peter, taking a moment to recover his breath, saw the battle going exactly as planned. Bardas had been correct- the disorganized Varangian pursuers had not expected a fresh attack, and even now the entire army was beginning to flee. He let himself relax slightly as his troops streamed past him. Constantinople was safe…
And that's when he saw the banner. Bearing a strange heathen symbol, Peter had seen it sketched in intelligence reports before. It was the personal banner of Sviatoslav, the leader of the Varangians. And it’s presence could only mean one thing.
The Varangian monster was here, not at Adrianople.
The closer the banner came, the more the Varangian troops rallied. Some still ran, but many turned against the Greeks and fell upon them with newfound ferocity. Peter felt the tide of battle shift, from a Greek triumph to a heated contest once more. The result was once again in doubt.
Peter spat out a curse, and spurred his horse towards that banner.
“Come on, men of the Empire! Stand for Christ! Stand for your homes!” He cried out, hoping to inspire some sort of feeling in his troops hearts. Most probably did not hear him, as they were too busy trying to fend off the Varangian assault. Peter cursed again, and suddenly, found himself at the front.
A screaming Varangian with an axe charged at him. Peter reacted quickly, catching the axe with his shield, then striking at the man’s clenched hand. The Varangian recoiled, crying out in pain with a few fewer fingers. Another barbarian rushed him with a spear; Peter maneuvered his horse in a side step, and the Varangian stumbled as he met with nothing but air. A strike from Peter’s sword threw him to the ground.
A few more Varangians rushed at him, and Peter braced for the end. But then there was a shout, and they held. Peter glanced, and saw him- a face that, like the banner, he had only seen sketched before.
Sviatoslav himself, sword dripping blood, staring directly at him. Peter turned his horse towards the Varangian monster, feeling the weight of the world fall upon him. The battle seemed to get very quiet, and the world shrunk to just him and the barbarian King.
Sviatoslav said something, and raised his sword in a sort of salute. Peter did not respond, except to adjust his grip on the rains. Sviatoslav smiled. There was a pause; and then, as one, the two leaders rushed at each other.
A flurry of blows followed. Peter was surprised that Sviatoslav had finesse as well as brute strength, something he had not anticipated. The Varangian was a wonder with a blade; Peter soon found himself on the defensive. A high strike here, a low strike there, a stab here- a dodge there, a block here, a sidestepping horse there. Back and forth, back and forth, until-
Peter’s horse tripped on a fallen soldier, and stumbled, letting out a panicked whinny. Peter’s focus was broken, as he tried to keep his mount upright. And then, whistling right above his guard, came Sviatoslav’s blade. Peter felt it cut into his chest, ripping deep into him. Pain filled his body, as Sviatoslav let out a triumphant, almost bestial roar. He felt his grip on his sword weaken, and then- falling, falling, falling…
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Bardas Skleros glanced up at the moon. It was night now, and the Varangians had finally given up their pursuit. He turned around in the saddle to look at the bedraggled force behind him. What had earlier in the day been a small, but motivated force was now a miniscule, shattered mob. He cursed his overconfidence- he should have prepared for the possibility Sviatoslav was on the field. And now Peter had lost his life due to his blunder. Damn. Damndamndamn.
He silenced his self hate for a moment by reflecting on what he had to attend to. He needed to get this force to Constantinople as soon as possible- he had already sent what riders he had with decent mounts to get as many of the remaining garrisons he could to prepare for action. Panic would rise in the countryside, and civilians would be fleeing to Constantinople in droves for protection in the walls there. He would do his best to ensure as many as possible were safe, but he knew he could not save them all.
He had also dispatched a courier with a letter to the Emperor, who was across the straits fighting with the Phokas clan. He needed the Emperor’s army if he was to truly repel the barbarian horde now.
Feelings of self hate and utter hopelessness rose up again. Bardas looked up at the moon and cursed again.
He had no time for this. He had to save Constantinople. He had to save the Empire.
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So I had tried to do a different sort of format to discuss this idea I had, but I now decided to just go ahead and throw this out here. Let me know your thoughts. Thanks!
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