Early 867 AD, a valley in central Bulgaria.
The setting sun cast blood-red light across the land as ravens circled overhead.
The air reeked of blood.
Eight thousand corpses lay scattered among jagged rocks, most of them Bulgarian soldiers. Broken spears and shattered banner poles jutted toward the lead-gray sky like thorn bushes.
At the entrance to the valley, a crimson battle flag suddenly rose high.
The heavily armored Varangian Guards parted like a tide, opening a passage through the center.
Commander Nils rode slowly forward on horseback, reins clenched in his left hand while his right raised the sword Ice Lake. His scarlet cloak snapped loudly in the autumn wind.
"Nils! Nils!"
No one knew who started it, but deafening roars erupted from the valley floor.
Infantry slammed weapons against shields. Nomad riders let out shrill war cries.
The cheers of over eight thousand men crashed against the surrounding cliffs, terrifying the surviving Bulgarian wounded, who trembled while hiding among piles of corpses.
When the shouting finally subsided, Nils issued orders:
A small force would remain behind to clear the battlefield, capture prisoners, and treat the wounded.
The rest of the army would continue the offensive straight toward the key central Bulgarian stronghold—Veliko Tarnovo.
At present:
Basil's main army had broken into southern Bulgaria
the Serbians of the Balkans had accepted Byzantine payment and invaded from the northwest with over ten thousand men
Under assault from three directions, Bulgaria stood on the verge of collapse.
If Nils captured Veliko Tarnovo, the kingdom would lose any chance of resistance.
Two days later, Nils led the vanguard to the outskirts of the city.
One glance was enough for him to realize his earlier optimism had been foolish.
Before him stood a hill surrounded on three sides by rushing rivers.
Only a single road connected the settlement to the outside world.
The city itself climbed the hillside in irregular terraces, making it extraordinarily defensible.
At the summit stood a stone fortress—said to date back to the Roman Empire.
Nils climbed nearby high ground to study the terrain carefully.
The city's location was almost flawless.
"Damn. Looks like I'll be stuck at this miserable place for a long time."
Even after countless battles, he could only sigh.
A direct assault would cost too many lives.
Siege and encirclement were the only options.
After leaving five thousand troops behind to guard rear areas, his remaining field army consisted of:
4,000 Rus mercenaries
2,000 nomad cavalry
2,000 Varangian heavy infantry
A total of 8,000 men.
Nils established camp outside the city and wrote immediately to Basil, explaining the difficulties on the eastern front.
He requested permission to bypass Veliko Tarnovo and rendezvous with the main imperial army as soon as possible.
Three days later, a cavalry delegation arrived from the emperor.
They congratulated Nils on his brilliant victory—
—but ordered him to continue besieging the city.
The remaining defenders, if allowed to escape, might later become the seed of renewed rebellion.
"There are still two to three thousand defenders inside," Nils argued.
"That means I'll need six thousand men just to maintain the siege. With only two thousand left under my command afterward, I'll barely be useful."
He requested reinforcements.
The envoy refused.
"Activity has increased along the eastern frontier. His Majesty has canceled plans to mobilize additional peasant levies. My apologies, General—you will receive no more troops."
Nils then proposed hiring additional Rus mercenaries.
Rejected again.
After a year and a half of war, Basil had already fielded forty-five thousand soldiers while also financing all Serbian military expenses.
The Byzantine treasury was under immense strain.
There was no money to expand the army further.
"My original plan was to advance west and join the emperor there," Nils complained.
"If I remain trapped at Veliko Tarnovo, this war may drag on indefinitely…"
The envoy listened patiently before smiling.
"His Majesty is already considering other methods to take the city."
During twenty years of slavery, Basil had developed extraordinary insight into human nature.
He excelled at manipulation and psychological pressure.
Throughout the war, he not only directed armies but also personally wrote letters to Bulgarian nobles—threatening, bribing, dividing, and undermining them from within.
After gathering intelligence from multiple sources, Basil identified the weakness of Veliko Tarnovo's commander.
He dispatched an elite cavalry force deep into western Bulgaria and successfully captured the commander's family.
Then he used them as leverage.
The tactic possessed no honor whatsoever—
—but it worked immediately.
One night, half a month later, the commander secretly opened the gates and surrendered the supposedly impregnable city.
With it died Bulgaria's last hope.
After securing the city, Nils marched westward, crushing enemy forces along the way.
By mid-February, after a year and a half of war, he once again met the emperor in person.
At this point, Bulgaria had lost all field armies.
Only a handful of mountain fortresses still resisted.
The outcome of the war was already decided.
Basil had won.
When news reached Constantinople, clever bureaucrats immediately began preparing a triumphal celebration to curry favor with the emperor.
At the end of February, after accepting another noble's surrender, Basil hosted a grand banquet and publicly praised Nils's achievements.
"General, your courage and strategy exceeded everyone's expectations—including mine.
"According to the original plan, the eastern army's role was merely to harass and tie down the enemy. You accomplished that brilliantly. More than that—you defeated Bulgaria's field armies despite inferior numbers and greatly accelerated the war."
Candles flickered throughout the castle hall.
The emperor personally poured wine for Nils.
The surrounding generals and eunuchs hurried to echo his praise.
The flood of admiration washed over Nils, leaving him slightly intoxicated.
Then Basil spoke again.
"The office of Domestikos ton Scholon has long remained vacant. Would you be interested?"
(Domestikos ton Scholon: the highest military office in the Byzantine Empire at this time, effectively Grand Marshal, theoretically commanding all field armies around Constantinople.)
The hall fell silent.
Expressions shifted uneasily.
To let a northern barbarian hold such a position exceeded everyone's imagination.
At that moment, a cold draft swept through the chamber.
Nils suddenly became intensely alert.
After all he had experienced, his political instincts had sharpened considerably.
Without hesitation, he refused the scorching-hot honor.
Basil asked calmly, "Then what do you want?"
Nils set down his wine cup and gave an answer no one expected.
"A peaceful life.
"Thirty-four years have passed since I first joined Ragnar on a raid.
"I've crossed Britain, West Francia, Denmark, Sweden, Eastern Europe, Constantinople, Bulgaria…
"My life stretches across half of Europe, filled with endless war.
"I'm tired now.
"I only want a remote place where I can spend my remaining years in peace."
He requested a map.
At Basil's signal, two eunuchs unfurled an exquisitely crafted parchment map.
Nils studied it silently before pointing toward one of the most distant corners—
—the Crimean Peninsula on the northern shore of the Black Sea.
"Yes. There.
"If Your Majesty is willing to grant me a barren territory there, a place for me and my aging brothers to retire…
"Nothing could suit us better."
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