99.
99.
867 AD. The third month of summer. Eastern marshlands of Britain. Lincoln.
The Siege of Lincoln had ended so easily it almost felt like a letdown.
It was now the season that, by the solar terms of my past life, marked midsummer. This place was ultimately the same Earth as my previous life, just roughly a thousand years earlier.
Summer was still summer, and people were still people.
'It's sweltering. Stifling.'
It was the kind of weather that drenched one's entire body in sweat after just a brief moment walking under the blazing sun.
To make matters worse, this place sat right on the boundary between highlands and marshlands, making the heat feel even more oppressive, and people were bustling about in the climate.
Today was the day of the execution of Cenred, the former Ealdorman of Lincoln.
'Come to think of it, is this my first official execution?'
Killing Ælla had been an intensely emotional and personal matter, so it was somewhat different in nature from killing Cenred now.
I had decided to execute Cenred primarily because of his own obstinance, and also as a warning and an internal disciplinary measure against those who had dared to reject my offer of surrender and chose to oppose the Norseman army... but in truth, these were all superficial reasons.
The factor that had truly swayed my heart was that Cenred, if left as he was, would not have survived another week anyway.
'Leofric... beneath that innocent face, he had a ruthless side. Who would have thought he'd use poison on a blade.'
In truth, Leofric had not intentionally smeared poison on the blade; it was simply that crawling through the Lincoln sewers had contaminated the weapon he kept in his bosom with foul filth. Nevertheless, this had proven fatally effective, to the point where even the monks famed for their medical skill within the city and my own subordinate Leon had shaken their heads. Even to me and my men, who possessed no medical expertise whatsoever, Cenred's face, which was growing increasingly pale and blue, did not look at all like that of someone who would soon pick himself up and walk away.
Thus, today's execution had been decided by Cenred's own request, as he was well aware of his condition, and by my judgment.
When it came down to it, what did I stand to gain by killing a regional lord like this? I was the very one who had sent Edmund of East Anglia away alive, after all.
This was simply my mercy shown in a different way. Therefore, I had rejected the demands of several overly zealous subordinates who wanted to inflict prolonged agony or carry out the deed in a gruesome manner, and I decided to send Cenred off as quickly and painlessly as possible.
"Refil, begin. Bring Cenred forth."
"Yes, Konungr. Bring in the prisoner."
"Aye!"
The people of Lincoln, who had only days ago been trading arrows in battle against us, were all watching the execution platform set up in the town's central square with anxious eyes, despite my guarantee that their lives would be spared. In contrast, the warriors under my command and the merchants who had come from Beodericsworth and Jorvik were all clapping their hands in delight.
Moments like these, when such aspects reveal themselves little by little, truly made me feel that even though this was a world where people lived, it was a completely different world from the one of my past life.
It was called an execution ceremony, but to exaggerate slightly, the atmosphere was more akin to a concert.
[Tuhbeok- Tuhbeok- Tuhbeok-]
On the day the gates of Lincoln had opened, I had made a promise to Cenred and the people of Lincoln: I would not take their lives, nor would I touch their property.
Those who wished to leave would leave, and those who wished to stay would stay.
However, those who stayed were obligated to swear that henceforth their loyalty would be placed before my name, and that nothing could come before my name.
Not their Ealdorman, not their Cyning, not even their god.
Naturally, those who could not accept this had all chosen to leave, and those who left were required to leave behind all their possessions except for the bare minimum they could carry with them.
The monks left their books and various ritual implements, and the farmers who had owned nothing left the silver pieces they had hidden in the corners of their homes...
The day of farewell for those leaving and those staying was today, and the split seemed roughly fifty-fifty. It was inwardly meaningful that Cenred's end was a new beginning for others.
[Tuhbeok- Tuhbeok- Tuhk-]
The ones supporting Cenred, who could no longer even walk properly by his own strength, were the monks of Lincoln who would soon be departing this place. They had expressed their gratitude for my mercy in not massacring or plundering the occupied territory, and they had made one final request: to be allowed to escort Cenred, who could be called a true servant of the faith, on his final journey.
It was no difficult matter, so I permitted it. The two monks each took one of Cenred's arms and began reciting prayers in a low voice.
It was an arrangement of Latin words, where the rhythmic flow of the sentences, rather than the meaning of each individual word, soothed the hearts of those who listened.
The square, which had been buzzing with anticipation and fear, fell into silence for this moment alone. Cenred, leaning his body against the two monks, simply kept his eyes closed in silence.
However, all good and bad things must come to an end.
The monks soon crossed themselves and stepped back, and my warriors took their place.
Guided by their strong hands, Cenred, his body practically suspended in the air, was brought before me and forced to kneel.
[Tuhlsseok!]
[Seureureureung-!]
What need was there for lengthy words?
I had been leaning my greatsword upright against my chest, and now I slowly drew it. The well-maintained blade revealed itself, emitting a faint green glow, and all those seeing this sword for the first time, as well as those seeing it for the second and third, collectively swallowed their breath and nervously gulped.
"Cenred, Ealdorman of Lincoln. Do you have any last words to leave?"
Cenred's eyes had flickered for a moment upon seeing the greatsword radiating a bright green light before him, but they soon calmed and settled.
"How can a mere mortal know the will of the Lord... Enjoy your victory today to the fullest, honorable pagan Konungr. But no matter how honorable you may be, the day of judgment will surely come, along with the traitors. I shall watch your deeds from Heaven."
Not everyone could be composed in the face of death.
Cenred's voice had been calm, but his hands were trembling, and glimpses of resentment, anger, and a desire for revenge flickered in his eyes...
But it was a matter of no consequence to me now.
I was far beyond being affected by such things, for the blood already on my hands was not that of just one or two men.
This was merely the grumbling of a man about to die.
"Is that so? I understand. Do not worry, I shall see your family safely sent to Burgred, so go in peace. It is time for you to depart now, Ealdorman Kenred. Seutorolpeu?"
"Aye!"
[Puhk! Keuk!]
I was indifferent, but Seutorolpeu, who had been glaring with blazing eyes behind Cenred, was a man who regarded my reputation and honor as his own life. He kicked the kneeling Cenred in the back, forcing his head down. When Cenred's brown hair, his neck stretched long, touched the ground, I looked upon the scene dispassionately, raised my greatsword above my head, and brought it down smoothly, following gravity.
[Hwooong- Seogeok!]
The sensation of the final moment was something only I, the one who swung the sword, could feel.
This horrifyingly sharp weapon cleaved through blood vessels, muscle, and bone as if parting the wind itself, and Cenred's head, with eyes still wide open, fell to the ground and rolled several times.[This is part 2/2. Continue the story from exactly where you left off in the previous snippet, maintaining the same first-person translated style and all structural conventions.]
Soon, from the neck stump that did not yet know its head had fallen, blood began to stream down belatedly.
[Fshk— Fshk— Fshhht—]
"Good Lord... that downward cut, could you see it? I couldn't see it at all..."
"The Konungr's swordsmanship feels as though it improves with each passing day."
"I've never seen such a clean slash before."
My subordinates, every one of them an exceptional warrior, exchanged opinions on my neck-cleaving strike rather than the fact that a man had just died.
"Khhhgh...! Ealdorman...!"
"You son of a bitch! A good death to you!"
"You'll go to hell!"
"You wretch! There's nothing you won't say! He was still the Ealdorman of this place! Show some respect!"
"My arse!"
The people of Lincoln, the refugees from Dair, and Cenred's guards mourned or rejoiced, cursing one another.
"Should've beaten him to death with a shield...!"
"When the great Konungr struck down with that enormous sword in a single blow...! The heavens wept and the earth quaked...!"
Leofric and Leon, who seemed to have come to their senses by then, had apparently grown quite close in the meantime, and were clustered together spouting incomprehensible things.
'Once Stanford falls, I can link East Anglia and Northumbria. Now the old Roman roads will be ours alone to use.'
Of course, my own head was filled with matters to come.
"People of Lincoln! The enmity between you and me is now all gone! Those who will become my people, I shall look after, and those who leave, I shall not harm! May each of your gods bless the road ahead for us all!"
[Hwooong— Chwak!]
I swung the greatsword wide to shake off the blood, wiped it clean with a cloth, then at once turned and walked toward the council chamber of Lincoln's fortress.
The monks would tend to Cenred's body. Would he become a saint in death, as he had wished in life? Probably... the Church would have good cause to make it so.
But I feared nothing now. Not the Church, not Mercia... not Wessex.
For I had already gained nearly everything I had set out to take.
From now on, it was only a fight to see how much bonus I could claim.
The next objective was Stanford.
*****
Two of the three greatest strategic strongholds in the east had fallen.
Nor was the west of Mercia quiet.
"Move quickly! Attack! Attack!"
"Leave not a single one alive—!"
The Mercians, who had clashed with the Northmen in the east and suffered bitterly, had revised their system in that short span. Crudely, but they had begun to employ archers and cavalry far more aggressively on top of their existing infantry shield-wall tactics.
Having tasted defeat once, they realized that while there was indeed a gap in infantry strength, far more men had died or been wounded by arrows.
In a sense, it had been a free lesson, one that helped Æthelred of Wessex swiftly reorganize his army's order of battle. Burgred's insides boiled with resentment... but Æthelred, too, seemed unwilling to let the emotional rift with his sister's husband deepen, and sent fine warhorses to soothe Burgred's aching heart.
Thanks to that, they replenished their lost cavalry, and in place of the slain Cœnred, they appointed Ceolwulf, a distinguished noble of the west, as the new cavalry commander. On the western front, they won victory after victory against the warriors of Cymry—who seemed of a different quality than the Northmen that the mighty northern dragon had led—and the warbands of Hásteinn. So, gradually, a thought began to sprout in Burgred's mind: 'Is this actually... quite manageable...? Perhaps we aren't so weak after all...?'
It was then that strange things began to happen.
The battles waged by Rhodri, King of the western Cymry, and Hásteinn were somehow different from the war-fighting methods of Helgi Ragnarsson.
"Damn it! Too many of them! Let's run!"
"Flee, everyone! Save your lives!"
"Waaaaah! Run! Run away!"
[Yiaaaaa—! They're running away—!!!]
The Cymry and the Northmen would trade a few arrows, then promptly turn tail and flee.
How many times had this been now?
A victory, if you could call it that... but could you truly call it a battle when the combined dead on both sides did not exceed twenty?
"These bastards dare... dare to toy with me...!"
Only then did Burgred realize that the enemy in the west had no sincere will to fight, merely jabbing at the coastlines and borderlands here and there, and that he had unconsciously set his expectations of them to the standard of Konungr Helgi. But it was hard to fault Burgred for this.
For anyone who had faced Helgi Ragnarsson on the battlefield could never forget it easily.
Thus, two choices remained for Burgred.
First, while the mosquito-like Hásteinn and his Northmen had their base across the sea in Brace and would be difficult to deal with, the true main body of these foes, the Cymry, had their homeland invaded just a few years prior when his father-in-law was still alive. He could crush their main camp.
Second, though the damage was exceedingly irritating and steadily accumulating, it was still trivial enough to shrug off. He could hold the current front line and wait for winter. In other words, defend his own main camp.
Between these two, defending seemed the more rational choice so long as the threat in the east remained. But human beings are emotional creatures. Even the coldly rational Burgred was gradually losing patience with the constant jabbing attacks of Rhodri and Hásteinn. Then, terrible tidings flew in one after another from the east.
Lincoln and Huntadun had been taken by Konungr Helgi, and only Stanford remained.
"Eorl Cenred is dead, and Earl Leofric surrendered...?"
'This... this is too fast, is it not? It's not as if I don't know those fortresses.'
However uncooperative the eastern folk were, however naturally rebellious, they were just as tough and skilled at fighting. In an instant, Burgred's head swam, and he staggered. Æthelswith caught his body in haste.
"Burgred!"
"Æthelswith... I'm all right. It was only a moment's dizziness."
"..."
Watching her husband, his face full of anguish, give orders in a strained voice to bring Ceolwulf, Æthelswith—daughter of the renowned Æthelwulf Cyning and famed for her beauty—furrowed her fine brow.
That night, a messenger departing Tamworth, the heart of Mercia, rode south bearing a letter from Æthelswith. And under Burgred Cyning's command, Ceolwulf soon detached half of the Mercian forces deployed in the west and marched them eastward. No sooner had this happened than Rhodri of Cymry, who had been biding his time and causing mischief, began to stir in earnest, as if he had been waiting for precisely this moment.