At one in the afternoon, the Viking mercenaries broke the lord's guard with two volleys of javelins. The remaining rebels fled north from the stone fortress.
At the cost of four hundred casualties, Nils finally captured the stronghold.
After such a brutal fight, the mercenaries began looting the lord's residence, cellars, and warehouses—their rightful reward, paid for with blood.
Neither Basil nor Nils could stop them.
The two men climbed a watchtower and silently observed the chaos below.
"Even after losing a third of their number, they can still fight," Basil said, gazing at the corpses piled beneath the walls.
"These barbarians are truly formidable."
Their morale, he thought, rivaled that of the ancient Roman legions described in history.
As commander, however, Nils felt none of that admiration.
Instead, he felt a heaviness settle in his chest.
Only now did he truly understand the price behind such high pay.
A New Threat
The looting lasted less than half an hour.
Suddenly, a mass of figures appeared along the northern mountain road—
Bulgarian cavalry.
"Defensive positions—now!" Nils rushed down from the tower, running through the fortress and forcing the exhausted mercenaries back onto the northern walls.
At that moment, Basil shouted from above:
"Commander! Enemy light infantry are crossing the western ridge—they're trying to circle south and cut off our retreat!"
"I see it."
Nils immediately detached two companies to secure the southern side:
pull the ladders and battering ram inside
drive the horses into the fortress
send riders south to call for reinforcements
Once finished, he returned to the northern wall.
In the distance, the enemy force had formed up:
around 4,000 troops ahead
plus light infantry flanking over the ridge
In total, over 5,000 enemies.
Can They Hold?
"Can we hold?" Titus asked quietly.
Before Nils could answer, Basil spoke firmly:
"This fortress is critical—we cannot abandon it."
"And when we set out this morning, nearby garrisons already mobilized their peasant levies. They're slow, but should arrive by afternoon."
Nils snorted.
He remembered those poorly disciplined, sluggish peasants—about a thousand of them.
"They're useless. Even if they arrive, they'll be cut off outside the walls. Then we'll have to sally out to rescue them."
Basil added:
"There's more. Additional reinforcements are on the way. We just need to hold until tomorrow at noon."
But even as he spoke, his voice slowed.
All three men knew the truth.
With these exhausted mercenaries, holding that long would be nearly impossible.
Silently, they reached the same conclusion:
The fortress could not be held.
Basil's Gamble
As the commander of the operation, Basil hesitated.
If he chose to retreat and save his life, the emperor might forgive him—
but he would likely never again be entrusted with independent command.
His hand brushed the cold stone battlements, then his own weathered face.
There was no time left.
Born in 812, now past fifty—
was he to spend the rest of his life as a mere court favorite?
The sky dimmed.
Cold winds howled.
After a long silence, Basil suddenly opened his eyes.
His expression startled Titus.
"Open the gates."
"I will negotiate with their commander."
"If I am killed or captured—hold this fortress. Earn the emperor's generous pay."
Ignoring all objections, Basil adjusted his attire, mounted a tall white horse, and rode alone toward the enemy.
Titus stared after him.
"He's lost his mind… completely mad."
Nils said nothing.
In Basil, he saw echoes of his younger self—and of men like Vig.
When faced with a chance to change one's fate, some would stake everything.
But if they lost—
there would be no coming back.
An Impossible Outcome
Then, something unbelievable happened.
From afar, Basil spoke briefly with the Bulgarian commander.
Moments later—
the enemy began to withdraw.
The signal horns sounded.
The Bulgarian army outside the northern gate slowly pulled back.
Even the light infantry on the ridge, confused but obedient, followed the retreat.
Under countless stunned gazes, Basil rode back unharmed.
He brushed snow from his cloak, calm and composed—
as if returning from a casual visit to a friend.
Titus hurried forward.
"How did you do it?"
Basil replied casually:
"I studied his weaknesses and circumstances… and used a few words to frighten him into leaving."
"But that conversation lasted less than ten minutes," Titus pressed.
"How could you know so much?"
Basil smiled.
"Two years ago, I visited Bulgaria with a diplomatic mission. I gathered information on their leadership."
"Didn't expect it would prove useful today."
He laughed softly.
"Well—this should satisfy the emperor."
The Sword
Over the next hours, the guard reinforced the defenses.
The three leaders ate together atop the tower.
A centurion soon presented a Damascus steel sword, reportedly found deep within the cellar.
Nils declined it and gestured for it to be given to Basil instead.
Basil drew the blade and examined it carefully.
"Excellent… the flowing pattern is rare. A fine piece—comparable to those in the imperial treasury."
Then, unexpectedly, he sheathed it and tossed it to Nils.
"This is wasted on me. You should keep it."
Nils caught the sword, surprise flashing in his eyes.
For a Viking warrior, such a weapon was irresistible.
His fingers traced the cold, beautiful blade.
Memories surfaced—other legendary swords he had seen:
Dragon's Breath. Dawn. Sovereignty. Fury Tide. Heartbreaker…
"Have you chosen a name?" Basil asked.
A name…
Thinking back, the most important moment of his life was not meeting Princess Eve, nor being named Earl of Nottingham—
but standing beside the frozen lake of Gnutz.
"Ice Lake," Nils said quietly.
"I'll call it Ice Lake."
Reinforcements Arrive
That afternoon, a disorganized group of peasant soldiers finally arrived.
With their support—and as the Vikings regained their strength—the fortress could now be held even if the Bulgarians returned.
The next day, more reinforcements arrived.
The situation was secured.
Basil ordered the Varangian Guard to hand over the fortress and return to Constantinople.
Credit and Ambition
In this campaign, the greatest credit clearly belonged to Basil:
he urged the emperors to act decisively
coordinated logistics during the march
secured horses and supplies
and persuaded the Bulgarians to withdraw, preventing a larger war
On the journey back, Titus eagerly attended him.
"My lord, with such achievements, the emperor will surely grant you more than just the title of Protospatharios. What position do you think you'll receive?"
Basil replied in a measured tone:
"Everything I've done is for the emperor."
"Whatever he grants—I will gladly accept."
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