Dir and Askold, when they heard the commotion, went to Kiev's open gate. Askold called down as the men stumbled up the steep hill.
"You there! What are you crying out?!"
The tallest of the men bent over for a few moments to catch his breath. At last he straightened up and replied.
"Jarl Askold . . . yesterday evening . . . we were nearing the fort at Vitchev Hill . . . We intended . . . to spend the night there. . . My cousin . . . is the garrison commander."
"And now you are here. That is a remarkably quick journey, but what exactly is the problem?"
"Jarl, the fort . . .at Vitchev . . . is gone!"
"Gone? What are you talking about?"
"The fort is . . . levelled . . . Jarl."
A deep frown covered Askold's face. "And the men? There are over twenty men stationed there."
"The men lay . . . dead on the ground . . . Their horses were gone . . . and the fort has been pulled down log by log."
"By Odin's left eye! If steppe raiders are coming north, why didn't the fools light the signal fire?"
"I know not, Askold. Most were caught out in the open, but they all had wounds on their fronts."
"Then bloody Loki is up to his tricks again! Do you know who did this foul deed?"
The tall man turned to his companions, who had caught up to him, and stood panting behind him. He spoke tersely. "Show him."
Two of the men silently threw down several arrows and a broken lance. Askold first kicked at the broken weapons, and then stooped to pick up an arrow. He held it up to Dir and Olaf, who stood close behind him.
"I recognize the fletching. I should; I've had enough of the cursed things shot at me! I'm sure it's Pecheneg."
Dir looked closely. "By Odin's balls, this means the bastards are already in the forest and may have been since yesterday! Captain, how did you get here before the horde?"
"We rowed all night, Jarl. We saw that the wood in the signal pyre had been carted away. Rather than take the time to find enough for another pile, we decided to try and to beat the heathen devils here."
"Then you and your crew have done well. There will be a reward for you all once we have defeated these pigs. Go now, and rest. You have earned it.
As for the rest of you - there is no time to lose! Olaf, get the signallers on the watch towers with their horns. We must order all the people within the walls immediately, with as much food and livestock as possible. Askold, will you put together a squadron of messengers and send them on their way?"
"Aye, of course. What message would you have them carry?"
Olaf replied. "Give each a war arrow. The people will understand. And send the messengers north and south first by boat. Let them take to horse at different villages both up and down river."
Dir stared at Olaf. "What are you thinking, Olaf?"
Olaf smiled grimly. "If I were a Pecheneg, my friends, I would have sent in men in disguise, who at such a moment as this, would be waiting in ambush on all the major trails leading away from Kiev."
Askold cursed. "By Odin's bones! You are right, Olaf. There have been many Hun guards hanging around since that caravan arrived last week. I have seen none today."
Dir spoke. "I concur. If the messengers do not get out, we are in deep trouble. Let the messengers start their journey by ship. And tell them to travel the trails with a large escort."
"Consider it done! And what are you up to?"
"I will rally some men and light our signal pyre. We better be ready when the bastards get here!"
As the deep notes reverberated across the fields and river, riders galloped down to the docks and shouted for crewmen to man two sleek river vessels. The first of the great signal pyres, built at regular intervals up and down the river, was uncovered and lit. The message was unequivocal. The enemy was upon them!
Almost before the townsmen of Kiev, who were working in the fields only a short distance from the town, were able to gather the proceeds of their efforts and return to the fortress town, a band of hard-riding Pecheneg horsemen appeared from the south. They rode hard and fast on lathered mounts, obviously hoping to surprise the town's inhabitants and seize the main gate before it could be bolted shut.
Amidst screams and panic, the townspeople ran for the safety of the open gate. Within minutes the riders were mingled in with the panicked mob of running men and women. Scattering the sheep and cattle that were being driven through the entrance, the vanguard of riders rode directly at the few guards Dir had managed to assemble near the gate.
The sound of the horns woke Ambrose from his nap. He opened his eyes and stared at Phillip who stood by the open door of their trading factory. "By all that is holy, Phillip, what is all that noise about?"
"I know not, Prince, but I greatly fear that it does not bode well. There has been much shouting and running about while you slept, and the war horns are blowing recall. I think we would be wise to put on our armour and report to the main gate."
"Polonius, do you know anything else?"
"Nay, Prince, but there is very definitely something wrong."
The three friends slipped on their chain-mail shirts, grabbed their weapons, and ran to the main gate. The scene there was chaotic. Men tried to beat their way through herds and flocks of milling animals, while women clung desperately to screaming children. As Ambrose, Phillip and Polonius arrived, the first of the steppe riders burst through the open gate.
Phillip was in the lead. Facing the first of the steppe riders, he drew his giant sword, and, swinging the heavy weapon in great circles, attacked.
At the end of the arc of his swing, the sword struck a Pecheneg whose lance was aimed at another Varangian warrior. To the nomad's utter amazement, he, as well as his horse, was knocked to the ground. The nomad stared down vacantly at his lower torso where his leg had recently been attached. Matching the beatings of his heart, red jets of blood pumped out, staining the ground. With no further thought for his first victim, Phillip struck again and again at the riders who had managed to charge through the gate.
Ambrose yelled out to his companions and any sentries who remained alive. "Close the bloody gate! If many more make it in, then we are all dead!"
Phillip and a small circle of sentries who had made it to his side held the attention of the small band of warriors who had entered the town. The riders rode desperately at the stubborn knot of men. Close behind them rode hundreds of seasoned warriors, and behind them rode the horde in its thousands. They were only minutes from seizing the town. All that was required was for them to keep the gate open until the reinforcements arrived.
Ambrose and Polonius, unnoticed in the excitement, slipped towards the gate. They were within several feet of the gates when Ambrose's peripheral vision detected a movement. He yelled out in warning. "Look out, Polonius!"
They both turned just in time. A single rider had spotted their movement and, lance couched, was riding hard at them. A pair of throwing knives leapt into Polonius' hands, and Ambrose threw up his shield.
The warrior chose Ambrose as the more dangerous, and aimed his lance directly at him. The warrior was heavily armoured, and there was little that Polonius could aim at. Ambrose yelled out again.
"Polonius, if you can't hit him, kill the bloody horse!"
As quick as lightening, four knives spun through the air. The horse was not instantly killed, but the wounds drove it out of control. It screamed and broke its charge. Ambrose had been able to deflect the deadly point of the lance, but he had been only moments from being crushed against the wall.
The steppe warrior abandoned his lance and threw up his arms in an attempt to regain his balance. It was the opportunity Polonius had been waiting for. Two daggers flew into the man's unprotected face.
Ambrose ran the last few steps towards the gate. "Come on, Polonius! Don't just stand there. We still have to close the damned gates!"
The two leaned hard on the massive timbers of the nearest gate. Slowly, ponderously, it began to move. Renewe
d screams of rage and pain could be heard behind them. Ambrose cast a quick glance back, to see that Dir and Askold, with a glittering escort of heavily armoured men, were wading into the fray.
Ambrose strained as pigs and sheep squealed and ran back and forth in terror. The gate was moving much too slowly. The main body of riders had to be close!
At last the gate reached the limits of its arc, but even shut, it only blocked half the entrance. Ambrose was relieved to see Phillip struggling with the other gate. Once the gates met, the Varangians and Slavs could easily take care of the Pecheneg warriors within.
At last the two gates thudded together. Phillip quickly swung the locking bar over so that the two gates were secure, and then the three turned to help finish off the now trapped warriors.
Dir and Askold, recognizing the danger of the open gates, had forced their retinue between the riders and the three men who were working so hard to close the gates. A mob of lightly armed townsmen had formed on the other side of the raiders, but they were not a disciplined force, and they broke and ran every time the riders rode at them.
Ambrose called out to his friend and old weapons tutor. "What do we do next, old friend?"
Phillip mutely pointed upward and made the motions of an archer. The three retrieved their bows and quivers and raced for the steep stairway that led to the ramparts. Soon they were loosing shaft after shaft at the milling horsemen within. Even as they started to harvest the trapped Pechenegs, howls of rage arose from without. The next large body of hard-riding warriors had arrived only moments after the gate had slammed shut!
Gradually more and more men joined Ambrose, Polonius and Phillip on the ramparts, until they were able to loose volleys that made close approach to the gate on either side all but impossible. The nomads trapped within were gradually being dispatched by the archers and the aroused townsmen. Those men of Kiev who couldn't find a place on the ramparts climbed to the roofs of their homes, and loosed arrows, slingstones, spears, and rocks, at the desperate Pechenegs below.
The very ground began to shake before the advance of the main force. Two thousand horsemen, accompanied by their herds of spare mounts, now came into view. As spectators on the ramparts, Ambrose and his companions watched in awe as the horde approached and calmly ringed the town except for the water side, where the bluff and newly-constructed ramparts leading to the river fort denied them access. Only the narrow trails and extensive marshes surrounding the town had prevented the main force of riders from arriving totally unannounced!
The prince watched the efficient warriors prepare to besiege the town, and he turned to his friend Polonius. "By all that is holy! We were almost taken without warning. How in Christ's sweet name did the bastards almost catch us with our pants down?"
Polonius shrugged. "The Pechenegs are veteran warriors. Probably the Rus and Slav sentries at Vitchev Hill were themselves working in the fields, and were caught like us. But an intelligent commander would send many scouts ahead, probably disguised as merchants. Sharp knives and darkness would be enough to silence many of our sentries. As for the rest, look at the size of their horse herd."
"I see it, Polonius, but I do not understand the implications of its size."
"Think, Master. How could the Pechenegs prevent our own sentries from reaching us before they do?"
"Well, as you say, they could leave scouts on the major trails with instructions to kill any riders."
"And?"
"And they could then ride like hell's demons are on their tails."
"And how would they then beat our riders they didn't catch, who are prepared to kill their horses to get to us first?"
"By riding horses until they tire, and then switching to a relatively fresh mount, one that has not been carrying a rider."
"Splendid, Prince. It is actually called the Long Gallop. The nomads practise changing mounts at a full gallop from infancy. The full-tilt charge is a favourite trick of the steppe riders. If they have enough fresh horses, they can outrun the word of their coming."
A large enemy camp was set up near where the Varangian band had camped only a few months before. Ambrose watched until darkness set in. Though riders swirled near the walls, no further serious attempt was made against the town that day.
A lone warrior, grizzled with age, and carrying his spear with its head downward in token of peace, advanced from the main horde. He halted before the gate, and with a deep and guttural voice, he called out loudly in the Slavic tongue.
"Hear us, rulers of Kiev. We are the warriors of the Pechenegs; unconquerable in war, but merciful to those who submit to our power! It is the will of our leaders that this city opens its gates to us . . . If you will send your leaders to bend knee at our leaders feet, we will show mercy and not burn your puny town to the ground. We will make terms that leaves you with your lives, your land, and enough food to see you through the winter. If you refuse our leader's magnanimous offer, we will level your town, sell your women and children as slaves, and graze our herds upon your graves!"
Askold, resplendent in his gleaming armour, stood tall and proud in the tower above the gate. At last he spoke in a booming voice.
"Tell your leaders that I, Askold of the Rus, and joint ruler of all this land, give the Pecheneg rabble four days to cross our lands and move west. If, in five days time, you are not gone from our domains, I will order the Varangians and the Slavs to rise to a man and exterminate you!
No longer do the Pechenegs face isolated villages to bully! We are formed in an indissoluble union of many. You yourself know of the might of my men, for it was Pechenegs whom we slaughtered north of here at the time of the spring planting!"
A growl of anger escaped the lips of the envoy, who had indeed heard of the thrashing the Varangian traders had given an entire horde of his fellow tribesmen. The scowls of many of the mounted troops behind him indicated that Askold's slur had not gone unnoticed.
"You will face a hundred times the force you faced before, for the signal fires you saw on the river have called to arms all men for many days' journey. Even now our armies gather! Even now our fleet is preparing to sail south. In five days we will close the river crossing to your tribe. Go now, to protect your women and children. Help them across the river, before our ships, and our Khazar allies, arrive to destroy you."
With a wave of his gauntleted hand, he indicated the harbour, where, indeed, seventeen karves; those still in harbour and not on a trading expedition, were manned and rapidly moving into mid-river. The current would take them south to the ford that the Pechenegs favoured, and where their wagons and servants, women and children, must cross before the fierce Ghuz or Khazar armies reached the eastern bank of the Dnieper.
Askold continued. "Take our hand in friendship and ride west. Hear my words! In five days, we will strike against any of you still in our territory!"
The ancient warrior threw back his head in derisive laughter. While he laughed loudly, his face gave no sign of good humour. Suddenly he snarled at the leaders assembled on the wall.
"Take heed, farmers! It is the way of the world that the Pechenegs take and you give! If you don't struggle, we allow you to live. If you defy us, we destroy you and your paltry towns! Open your gates wide, before my men tire of this game and grow angry!"
In frustration and fury, the enemy watched Askold yawn loudly and turn away from the wall. Surprised at the resistance of this oft-conquered town, with its soft farmers; the nomads felt a stab of fear. Winter was coming soon and their food stores were terribly low because of the harassing they had received in their own homeland from the god-cursed Ghuz and Khazars. They needed shelter and foodstuffs, soon, or their women and children would perish. They had to fatten their animals before winter, but knew that the best of the lands to the west were held by the Magyars, who had in any case already grazed their animals on them before they themselves moved west to fresh pastures.
Thus the two allies, fury and desperation, drove the nomads on, and they prepared to storm the to
wn that they had so often plucked like a ripe apple. Nothing if not seasoned warriors, the battle horde prepared for a siege, setting up their portable ballista and putting men to raise outer palisades and cut lumber for battering rams. It was some satisfaction to the town's people, though small, to see a large body of the horsemen ride back south, already heading back to where the lumbering wagon trains had been left; in an attempt to protect them from the ships and any Slavic bands that might really rise in arms against the fierce nomad warriors.
CHAPTER 27.
KIEV IS BESIEGED.
In the many riverside villages and isolated forest settlements that constituted the domains of Kiev, the people gathered their animals together and turned to the safety of their walled hamlets. Many settlements were indefensible, even against horsemen, and the people fled.
The women and children hid in the forest, and the men marched to the pre-determined gathering points. There, for the first time in the memories of even their most ancient sires, farmers of different clans and tribes banded together. The new blond rulers from the north were harsh masters, and disobedience was ruthlessly punished. Petty differences were put aside.
While the Pechenegs' rapidly rising siege-works effectively cut Kiev off from the sustaining land, the citadel's tenuous connection with the river held. By boat, messengers could easily escape the tightening noose, and reports managed to reach Kiev daily. Of equal importance, fighting men and supplies were ferried in in large enough quantities that the Pechenegs were unable to cut the umbilical cord of Kiev, the twin walls that connected the river fort with the citadel on top of the cliff.
Along the western banks of the Dnieper, the smaller villages lay burnt or smouldering. Their new masters had not had enough time to build up the fortifications, and the existing primitive ones had been easily swept aside by the hordes of mounted raiders desperately foraging for food and valuables.
The Pechenegs were impotent on the rivers, however. They shouted curses at the fleets of Varangian and Slav vessels that cruised the rivers; hauling away foodstuffs and people even as the nomad raiders attacked.
The horde, which relied on its faithful horses to move from area to area, found themselves bogged down in the swamps and wetlands that surrounded the town of Kiev. Those Slavs who escaped attacks on their villages vowed vengeance, and their men, too, moved to the secret river bank gathering places to be picked up by the cruising Viking vessels.
Ambrose, Prince of Wessex; Trader of Kiev. Page 22
