To recruit enough mercenaries, Nils did more than offer high pay. He also made an additional promise:
once the war ended, tribes that performed well would receive assistance from the empire in agricultural technology.
Higher crop yields meant the ability to support larger populations—an offer that the Rus tribes found impossible to refuse. Some chieftains even chose to lead their warriors into battle personally.
Over the next month, Nils successfully recruited:
more than 6,000 Rus mercenaries
about 3,000 nomadic horsemen
Although the Rus and the nomads had long-standing grudges, they temporarily set aside their hatred for the sake of profit, seizing what they saw as a once-in-a-century opportunity to get rich.
In early October, at dawn, a massive fleet arrived at Varna, a major coastal city of Bulgaria.
Ignoring scattered defensive fire from the garrison, the fleet sailed straight into the harbor.
At the prow of the leading warship rose a bronze dragon's head. From its throat extended a copper tube. With the thunderous clatter of mechanical devices, a stream of blazing red fire burst forth.
In an instant, the harbor became a churning sea of flames.
More than thirty Bulgarian vessels were engulfed. Soldiers caught fire, screaming as they leapt into the water—but the flames clung to them relentlessly. The air filled with shrieks of agony and the sickening stench of burning flesh and oil.
Moments later, a deep whistling roar echoed across the water.
Ballistae from the Eastern Roman fleet began firing in succession. Dozens of heavy stone projectiles smashed into the eastern city wall of Varna. Battlements shattered and collapsed under the impact, and fragments of stone rained down like a sudden storm.
Caught off guard by the naval assault, the defenders scrambled in panic. Their commander ordered the wall-mounted ballistae to return fire—but it was already too late.
Those weapons had become priority targets.
Within five minutes, they were completely destroyed.
"What terrifying firepower."
Standing at the bow of a galley behind the main fleet, Nils watched the scene with fascination. Beside him, Paymaster Titus proudly boasted of imperial strength:
"No ship can rival our Sea Fire—the empire's sacred weapon. During this war, you need not worry about control of the Black Sea."
Nils said nothing.
After observing for a while, however, he noticed a flaw in the weapon:
Its range was short.
The flames extended no more than thirty paces, making it effective only in close combat.
"So Greek fire has its limits," he thought.
"It can't solve every problem. Otherwise, pirates in the Aegean would have vanished long ago."
About an hour later, the fleet ceased firing.
A loud horn sounded from the flagship, signaling the army to land and storm the city.
With shouted commands from the rowers, twenty galleys moved toward the docks. Varangian Guards, clad in double layers of armor, carried scaling ladders and surged toward the shattered walls.
After suffering several dozen casualties, Nils captured the eastern wall and gate, allowing more troops to flood into Varna.
The city fell.
Soon afterward, the fleet continued ferrying Rus infantry and nomadic cavalry ashore. Nils led more than ten thousand mercenaries in widespread looting across the coastal region.
During the campaign, he deliberately favored Rus tribes that were distant from Rurik's influence:
granting them larger shares of plunder
teaching their leaders advanced tactics
encouraging their ambition and desire for power
Rurik's core domain lay in Novgorod. He had little real control over tribes along the middle and lower Dnieper River, ruling them mostly in name.
When the war ended and these strengthened chieftains returned home, their growing power would inevitably bring them into conflict with him.
"Rurik," Nils thought,
"I trained your army and helped you fight the Pechenegs, and all I received in return was suspicion. This is the debt you owe me."
He did not expect personal gain.
He simply wanted revenge for past mistreatment.
Throughout October, Nils kept his forces near the coast rather than advancing inland.
According to the plan, his mission was to draw the enemy's main forces toward him. Once the timing was right, Basil would lead the field army from the south and strike directly at Bulgaria's heartland.
He sighed.
"I wonder how long this war will last. If the enemy retreats into the mountains and digs in, we're going to be busy for a long time."
At the same time, in Britain, in Luton, Frode was observing militia training.
The sky was overcast.
Six hundred farmers marched slowly across a patch of yellowed grass in four columns. Their clothing was mismatched. Each held a wooden pole about 3.5 meters long in his right hand. Their eyes were filled with confusion and unease—like a flock of sheep driven into an unfamiliar pasture.
At the front and along the sides stood more than thirty instructors—retired officers and soldiers responsible for training the militia.
Every short distance, an officer had to halt the formation to correct its alignment, severely slowing their progress.
After half an hour, a horn sounded.
The militia were ordered to change formation.
They fumbled clumsily for several minutes before finally spreading into a wide battle line under the instructors' shouted commands.
"Enemy cavalry approaching—prepare to receive the charge!"
At the command:
the front rank knelt
their poles angled upward
the second rank leveled their weapons forward
Soon, a dozen dark shapes appeared behind a low hill.
They were local gentry, each mounted on his own horse, galloping toward the militia line.
The ground trembled.
The dark shapes grew rapidly larger.
Some timid militiamen could not withstand the pressure. They dropped their poles and ran. Their panic spread, causing men on both flanks to flee as well.
"Haha! These fools haven't improved at all," the gentry laughed from horseback as they watched the chaos.
Not far away, Frode remained expressionless.
After twenty days of training, the town militia were still this disorganized.
In another half month, inspectors from the county governor would arrive to evaluate them.
At this rate, they would almost certainly fail.
"Your Highness, why not let us assist with the training?" suggested the commander of the royal guards.
If his hundred soldiers joined in, the number of instructors would increase and training efficiency would improve.
"It would be pointless," Frode replied.
"I need to see the real condition of the training."
During the entire training period, he had done only one thing:
Provide food.
He never interfered with the instructors' work.
Still mounted, he turned his attention to the next exercise:
Spear charge training.
Facing wooden targets two hundred paces away, the militia advanced slowly.
At one hundred paces, the instructors blew their horns, signaling them to quicken their pace. Several men fell out of formation along the way.
At thirty paces, whistles shrilled.
The militia shouted and rushed toward the targets.
Some ignored instructions and sprinted ahead, breaking formation. Others stumbled and fell, knocking down nearby comrades. Injured men clutched twisted ankles and cried out in pain.
Soon, two townsmen arrived carrying a stretcher and rushed the wounded back to the hospital.
The remaining militia regrouped and resumed training.
By sunset, smoke rose from the direction of Luton—signals of evening meals.
The exhausted militia felt a surge of relief.
Another day survived.
They formed ranks and marched back to their temporary camp outside the town.
—------------------------------
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