106.
106.
I had not known just how important a weapon that could fully receive my strength truly was.
[Fwoong-! Chwak-!]
"Aaaagh-!"
Another long sword strike that cleaved through.
An enemy who had been unlucky enough to catch only the tip and not been fully cleaved let out a scream, and I soon brought my sword down lightly to end his suffering.
"-Aagh-"
[Seogeok! Kung!]
When density was high, the opponent should logically suffocate.
But that logic did not apply to me.
At least for me, holding this greatsword that had flown in from outer space, laws that were not of this world were necessary.
[Fwoong-! Chwak-! Fwooong-! Seogeok!]
For otherwise, there would be no one anywhere who could explain this sight.
'My senses, my strength, even my swordsmanship... it all seemed to have grown.'
It could not have been this effortless before.
Perhaps it was because I had finally encountered a weapon I could swing freely that my limits had been released.
My body continued to supply me with vitality, and my mind continually told me the correct sword paths and where to place my feet.
At this level, I could truly be considered a living war machine.
There existed no enemy before me who could withstand even a single strike.
"Th... this..."
"Demon... demon...!"
Did a person lose the ability to speak when gripped by extreme terror?
The faces of the enemies who had resisted us with resolute hearts were now openly streaming with tears.
The fact that they still did not put down the spears and shields they held in their hands was either because they had lost even the presence of mind to do so, or because they had truly steeled themselves for death.
I decided I would confirm which it was.
"Lay down your weapons! Put away your shields! Warriors of Leicester! I have already crossed the walls—do you not know that the battle is already over!"
"Konungr!"
"Konungr Helgi!"
"Guard the Konungr! Stay close to him, I said!"
With my shout, a brief standoff ensued on the blood-soaked walls.
Seizing that opening, the warriors of my Örn who had been climbing the ladders hurried to secure the space.
Beneath Oleg's Old Fortress, a solid shield wall formed in an instant, and this ground was soon ours.
In a sense, a battle over walls was akin to a game of claiming ground.
The faces of the enemies who realized this fact took on a dazed look, and at last the spear tips that had been trembling before me yet firmly gripped were lowered, and the strength drained from their shield hands.
It was when I hardened my heart for a more decisive shock, for a swifter and more certain victory.
A voice that flew in at a stunningly perfect moment seized my feet as they were about to spring forward.
"Konungr Helgi Ragnarsson!"
Unlike when my subordinates called me, a highly challenging and solemn voice carried my name.
'That man right there...'
The commander Burgred had appointed here—his name, if I recalled, was Ceolwulf.
'He had a tactical mind. Letting him go back alive would be dangerous.'
The fact that he had been a Cyning had played a large role in why I spared Edmund.
Whether Cyning or Konungr, even if the kings of this age had little real power, showing respect for royalty could greatly influence how those beneath them regarded me.
But a Jarl, and such a threatening one at that...
"My name is Ceolwulf! Ealdorman of Mercia!"
As I glared at him in silence, Ceolwulf, having introduced himself, soon gripped his sword tightly.
I could tell that he meant to test his final luck.
"I challenge you to a sacred duel!"
'Were sacred duels in fashion among the Angles?'
Ridiculously, a stray thought that passed through my mind at this grave moment.
First Edmund, and now Ceolwulf was challenging me to a duel?
Both Mercia and East Anglia were kingdoms founded by the Angles.
I had wondered if there was some connection, but no answer came to mind.
"A sacred duel..."
"Yes! If I die, all within this fortress shall surrender at once! In exchange, if you die! Withdraw your warriors!"
"Ha-ha..."
A hollow laugh escaped me.
Why was it that every last lord of Mercia set conditions?
They were in no position to do so.
"No."
At my resolute answer, Ceolwulf's eyes flew wide open.
I leveled my sword at this enemy before me who was laboring under a serious misconception.
[Seuk-]
"Even if I die, my warriors will not stop their attack. But you need not worry about that, Ceolwulf of Mercia."
[Tat!]
As I sprang forward like a lightning bolt, Ceolwulf thrust his spear at me.
[Shwiik-! Tak!]
I applied sudden force to my ankles and shifted my straight path diagonally, deflecting the sharp, superbly executed spear thrust with my greatsword at an angle.
[Peoseok!]
"Keuk!"
From a short distance, I brought the body of my greatsword down diagonally across Ceolwulf's exposed chest.
"Kreuk... keuuh..."
The blade that had cut through his collarbone and cleaved everything beneath it.
I looked into Ceolwulf's eyes as blood trickled from his mouth, and then finally I stepped back and fully cleaved through his body.
[Chwak-! ... Teol-sseok!]
"For you would die by my hand regardless. In recognition of your courage, I will not kill those who surrender."
"..."
The fallen Ceolwulf had nothing to say.
[Hwik- Chok!]
I shook the blood from my sword with all my might, and slowly stepped away from the red pool gathering at my feet as I shouted loudly.
"Is there anyone left who still wishes to fight!?"
[Chaeng! Taeng! Chaeng!]
Starting from the enemies standing closest to me, one by one they laid down the weapons and shields in their hands.
Iron armaments that clattered loudly against the old stone walls. Shields made of sturdy wood.
The sound that spread like a wave carried all the way to the rear, and soon, upon hearing both the news of Ceolwulf's death and the news that the troops who had defended the center of the eastern wall had all surrendered, the remaining warriors of Leicester also surrendered.
I ordered that Ceolwulf's body be recovered and buried beneath the church of Leicester's fortress.
*****
Leicester was a small fortress, but a fortress it was nonetheless, and as most of its inhabitants had fortunately already taken to the road as refugees, the troops under my command were able to enter the fortress without much difficulty.
Except for the Fort Hunters, who thanks to my buff were the first over the enemy walls this time, the first to set foot on the walls were the warriors on the left flank, led by Ubba.
Not long after that, though with no great gap in time, even Refil's warriors climbed the walls — taking last place — and with Ceolwulf's death, Leicester surrendered cleanly, and we were able to occupy it without much effort.
Ubba and Refil, seeing me drenched crimson, let out small sighs but said nothing in particular.
'What a relief.'
I thought I was in for an earful. But I suppose good results really do wash away all sins...!
I should make use of that from time to time.
Roughly two thousand prisoners from the surrendered Leicester were herded together near the church by the riverbank of the fortress and were being kept under guard.
Most of the deputy commanders who had been maneuvering with Ceolwulf died by my hand, and about three survived.
At this rate, Mercia's entire eastern army was annihilated.
'The only thing left now is Burgred's main force, then.'
The lords in the west would have their hands full just dealing with the Cymry and Hásteinn.
The end of the Mercian war was slowly drawing near.
"Konungr. A man called Rhodri of Gwynedd has sent a messenger."
Rhodri of Gwynedd?
Did he mean Rhodri of the Cymry? How could the king of the Cymry, who were on the far side of Mercia to the west, send a messenger all this way?
"Rhodri of the Cymry...? Let him enter."
"Yes, Konungr."
Aside from Refil, Stórolf, and myself, I had sent every available soldier, including the Jarls, off to wash up (even Leon and his disciples!), so the office even felt a bit vacant.
Though he must have been exhausted, Refil, not showing the slightest dishevelment, stepped out to usher in the guest. I was watching Stórolf, who had insisted on standing guard and was leaning in a corner of the office, nodding off, when —
With a word of entry from outside the door, Refil came back in, leading a single man.
The messenger wore light leather armor and leather boots, his whole body still smeared with unbrushed leaves, mud, and dried soil. He offered a brisk greeting.
"Good health to you! Dragon of the North! Konungr Helgi! I am Artos of Gwynedd! I bring the words of Roderick, lord of all the Cymry!"
His voice was as confident as his spirited appearance.
These people are supposed to be masters of guerrilla warfare? I had wanted to see that once, but I absolutely did not want to be on the receiving end of it.
'It would be wise to stay on friendly terms.'
I greeted him in a gentle voice, welcoming his introduction.
"Well met, warrior of the Cymry. The road here could not have been easy. Roderick must be at ease, having a subordinate as exceptionally capable as you."
At my praise, Artos's nostrils, shoulders, and head all rose together.
This fellow seemed entirely uninterested in hiding his feelings.
"Truly, Konungr, you are not like those two-faced Mercian Cynings! Never before have I seen anyone acknowledge our Cymric Rix so readily...! Indeed! Mighty Konungr! All those lands the Mercians claim as their own are places my ancestors once roamed...! Should I set my mind to go, their feeble sentries and defenses are nothing!"
Pffft— Pffft—
The sight of Artos snorting sharply as he worked out his anger was first like a squirrel, but now more like a wild boar.
"Whether Konungr, Cyning, Kuning, or Rix, it is only natural for one king to respect another. Well then, what is it that Roderick of the Cymry wishes to convey to me?"
"Ah— truly, your stature is great, but your heart is even greater!"
Truly awed, Artos bowed his head respectfully and spoke to me.
"Roderick bade me tell you that when Mercia's Burgred moved, I was to relay that fact to you, Konungr. And so, here I stand!"
"Oh?"
I had thought he would come at some point, but he moved even faster than I expected. Burgred.
"And furthermore..."
"Furthermore?"
"Though this was news relayed via Jarl Hásteinn, Salomon of Brittany has sent a messenger in haste from across the sea."
Salomon of Brittany?
"It appears that the movements of Boudewijn, the Margrave of Flanders, have been detected... and it seems his objective is to cross the sea."
What on earth did that mean.
"Wait, if my memory serves... was the Margrave of Flanders not a vassal of Karl King of West Frankia?"
"Not a mere vassal. He is his son-in-law."
Damn.
The Margrave of West Frankia was going to Wessex? He wouldn't cross the sea just to trade jokes.
I would have to send word to Djur and Guthrum on the front line from East Anglia into Wessex — at Huntadun and Grantebrycge — to fortify their defenses thoroughly.
And I would give up on holing up in fortresses to hold out.
Now I needed to smash Burgred as quickly as possible and find out what schemes Wessex was hatching.
"You have not merely brought me information, brave Artos. You have given me something worth more than a thousand gold pieces, and I shall reward you richly."
"Konungr! I thank you for your words, but I fear my heart's respect for you may be soiled by coin! If you bestow on me good drink, I shall accept it gladly, but I did not come seeking gold and treasure, so please, take it back!"
"Huh—."
The sight of Artos standing proud, chest thrust out, was dazzling.
What did it matter that his clothes, face, and hair were a bit dirty, steeped in the smell of many nights spent camping rough?
It had been a very long time since I was so genuinely moved.
"You are truly a warrior of strong heart! I salute you, Artos of the Cymry!"
Stórolf and Refil also wore looks of deep admiration.
I resolved that I must absolutely bestow generous gifts on this Artos of the Cymry. I expressed my thanks to him once more and then told him to go and drink his fill without restraint in my hall.
Only then did Artos slip out of the office, chuckling cheerfully.
The refreshing feeling I had watching him go was fleeting; my mind quickly grew complicated again.
It seemed I first needed to learn just what manner of man this new piece on the chessboard of Britain, Boudewijn of Flanders, was.