Vikings: Lords of the Ice Sea

Chapter 8 Tribe
After drifting along the river for five days, before everyone could recover their strength, the cargo ship reached the first rapid of the Dnieper River.

Looking into the distance, the once wide river suddenly narrows, with the banks rising more than ten meters above the water. The middle of the river is dotted with many irregular and rugged rocks, which are awe-inspiring.

"See, I didn't lie to you, this section of the river is not suitable for navigation."

Rurik's cargo ship ran aground on the west bank. Wittgenstein and his crew had resigned themselves to their fate, silently cutting down trees to build a sliding track and preparing to continue towing the ship.

The boat is towed into the river, drifts along the river, and then goes ashore again to bypass the rapids.
Going through this process, Vig's patience was nearing its limit. Every day consisted of tugboats, eating, and sleeping, which was many times more arduous than working a 996 job.

"By Odin, this is unbearable! Can't we find another way to live?"

Just as he was praying silently, he heard a "whoosh" and an arrow landed on the grass not far from his toes, its tail feathers still swaying slightly.

Enemy attack!

He instinctively raised his round shield and spotted a dozen or so nomadic riders on horseback scattered across the distant grassland. They held bows, wore pointed felt hats, and had a dirty braid hanging down their backs.

At this moment, Ivar took out his bow and arrows from the cargo ship to retaliate, but Rurik stopped him, saying, "Don't kill them, just drive them away. These people are from the nearby Pecheneg tribe, who are nomadic and extremely troublesome. If a blood feud is started, they will ambush us in the rapids downstream!"

"Can't fight back and can only take the beating? That's so frustrating!"

Ivar grumbled and cursed, but he still accepted Rurik's advice and deliberately aimed his arrows at the open space next to the nomads.

After a few minutes of stalemate, neither side able to gain the upper hand, the nomads prepared to retreat. The next moment, an arrow shot out from the woods behind them, piercing a rider's face from a distance of a hundred meters. Judging from his attire, the deceased was wearing iron armor, indicating a status far above that of ordinary nomads.

"Who shot that arrow?" Rurik was shocked. He looked around and saw that it was Nils, who had just returned from hunting. Nils was now smug and boasting to his companion, "Look, this is my most accurate arrow in years. No matter how good his armor is, it's useless!"

Listening to the nomads' mournful cries, Rurik revealed a smile that was more like a grimace. "It's over, it's completely over!"

Having figured out what had happened, Nils couldn't help but feel uneasy. He scratched the back of his head and tentatively said, "Perhaps they are afraid of my archery skills and dare not retaliate. Or perhaps we can act quickly and get through this area before they retaliate."

“Forget it, the man is already dead, there’s no point in dwelling on this,” Ivar told his companions to start a fire and cook the meat. “After we eat, let’s get some rest and speed things up in the next few days to get through this area as soon as possible.”

Danger loomed, but despite their exhaustion, they pressed on, bypassing the fourth rapid and following the river to the fifth.

With his cargo ship stranded on the west bank, Rurik gazed at the endless grasslands, clutching his amulet and whispering a prayer:
"By Odin, may we get through this safely, and we will surely offer enough sacrifices afterward."

After praying to Odin, Frigga, Thor, and other gods in turn, Rurik ordered his companions to tow the ship. They were so nervous along the way that everyone wore armor.

The sun scorched the grassland, and the cargo ship moved slowly like a heavy pack ox. Suddenly, a large flock of birds flew up in the distance. Rurik lay on the ground, his ear pressed to the ground, and noticed the sound of a large number of horses' hooves approaching rapidly.

"Retreat! Forget about the goods!"

In his despairing gaze, hundreds of riders swept in from the gentle southern slope, letting out strange, eerie screams. Knowing they were outnumbered, the Vikings fled for their lives toward the birch forest to the west. Wearing heavy scale armor, Vig was the last to rush into the woods, then froze in place.

Wait, where are they?
Vig tried to find traces of Ivar, Bjorn, and their companions, but to no avail. The group had darted away faster than rabbits, clearly forgetting about the unfortunate fellow behind them.

Before he could complain about his companions' lack of loyalty, the sound of creaking footsteps came from the edge of the woods. The nomads were still not giving up and abandoned their horses to give chase on foot!

"This is outrageous! These people are completely unreasonable."

Vig stumbled and staggered forward through the branches and leaves of the forest, but soon ran out of energy and was forced to stop and lean against a tree trunk to catch his breath. The next moment, a Pecheneg man sprang out from the bushes on his left, holding a scimitar and wearing a tattered sheepskin coat, a typical look of a low-class nomad.

In just a few seconds, more footsteps approached from all directions. In Vig’s desperate gaze, one nomad after another emerged from behind the bushes, uttering strange cries and displaying ferocious expressions.

"So, this is my end?"

He looked up and saw several noisy, dark ravens circling overhead. A fierce feeling welled up inside him, and he decided to kill a few more people to accompany him in death.

The nomad on the left swung his knife, and Vig raised his shield to block, taking the opportunity to plunge his iron sword into the enemy's chest and abdomen. Before the warm blood could even splatter on his face, two bronze daggers came thrusting from the right. He blocked one dagger with his round shield, swung his sword and severed the wrist holding the other dagger, the severed hand falling to the ground with a thud.

Immediately afterward, a curved blade struck his back, but thanks to the excellent protective capabilities of his scale armor, it caused no damage. Vig quickly turned and swung his sword horizontally, easily slicing through the enemy's neck. The spurting blood splattered all over his face, instantly turning his vision blood red.

Live to the death!

Gradually, he noticed that the enemy's movements had slowed down, revealing openings everywhere. As the flashing blades came into view, his body reacted instinctively, using the cover of the trees to dodge and weave, unleashing attacks that were all deadly, as if he had entered a state of "flow" he had never experienced before.

The tenth Pecheneg fell, clutching his chest. The remaining four nomads hesitated. They hadn't expected this Viking barbarian to be like an unkillable beast, bloodthirsty and cunning.

With the thought of retreating crossed their minds, they exchanged a glance and simultaneously threw their weapons. One of the bronze daggers spun and struck Vig's iron helmet with a dull thud. Instead of causing any damage, the dagger itself broke.

"The armor of those Norse barbarians is too good! Retreat!" the nomads cursed as they fled in panic.

The battle ended, and the setting sun shone through the branches, reflecting a dazzling light onto the pool of blood. Vig, panting heavily, pulled a leather pouch from the waist of one of the corpses and gulped down a mouthful of foul-smelling mare's milk. A large flock of ravens circled excitedly above him, as if thanking him for this sumptuous feast.

Soon, his companions followed the sound and arrived one by one. Upon witnessing this horrifying scene, Ivar exclaimed in amazement:

"After this bloody battle, your potential has finally been unleashed. Congratulations."

Vig showed no joy, but rather looked puzzled: "It's hard to say. It doesn't feel like I've gotten stronger, but rather that the enemy's movements have become clumsy."

(End of this chapter)