111.
111.
Tamworth, Mercia.
This city of the Angles, named for the river just to its left, had been utterly different from the great cities I had seen so far in Britain.
Fundamentally, cities founded by the old Roman Empire—like Jorvik, Lincoln, and Beodericsworth—gave off an unmistakable air the moment one laid eyes on them.
Square, ruler-straight walls, city blocks and inner districts laid out as if measured by a line.
By contrast, places like Tamworth, my hometown of Uppsala, or Edinburgh in the northern part of the isle of Britain still retained something of that primal simplicity.
An outer wall expanded as the population grew rather than being planned from the start, and an interior of irregular, winding lanes.
This Tamworth had even preserved its natural contours without leveling the hill. In a certain light, one might call it an internal layout that was far ahead of its time.
'Fashion really had come full circle, hadn't it?'
On a road where Camembert's snorting was the loudest sound because the people inside the fortress had fallen silent as mice, I found it hard to shake off such idle thoughts.
I only said it because it was on my mind, but I had once seen the warriors under my command imitating my hairstyle. Even now, they all grew their hair long and swept it back...
It probably meant my influence as the idol of the Norsemen was that considerable, and surely it also meant that in their eyes, I looked that impressive.
I was no man lacking next to Inga, after all!
'Everyone must be doing well.'
[shuk-shuk-]
The comb Inga had gifted me. Meticulously carved from deer antler and coated in pure white, it was truly beautiful. With both her name and mine inscribed at the corner.
I had not had a moment to wash for days, and as I combed back the hair that was sticking every which way, a damp wind rushed in to meet it.
A force of nature that blew in along the river and climbed over the walls.
To the eyes of these people, who were one and all bowing their heads to me, I must have felt like just such an irresistible force.
The master of this place had indeed changed overnight, but people accustomed to lowering their heads simply had to accept that change.
Those who hated the idea of a stranger, a heathen, settling over their heads would all be heading for the 'Raven's Hill' where Burgred was waiting, and the two thousand troops standing by there, along with Ubba, would surely give them a fine welcome.
'Raven's Hill. They certainly gave it a grim name.'
They might have called it a hasty battlefield cleanup, but the cunning ravens had already enjoyed their fill of the feast. It was not so strange that it earned such a dreary name.
"Whoa—whoa—"
[purrrruk! purrrrruk!]
Camembert, who I suspected might have grown addicted to adrenaline after fighting several proper cavalry battles alongside me, fussed and chuffed as if to say, 'Why are we stopping already?'
The stablemaster who usually cared for my horse claimed that horses were naturally stupid, but Camembert, as far as I could tell, was nothing but clever... Was this one just special?
'Word came that Haskuldr handed over the merchant ships promised to Árpád of the Magyars at Kiyiu and received several quality horses in return... I should have a few of them sent up here. I must tell Björn to begin planning the great festival in Árós, send Leon back to get the Árós redevelopment project running in earnest... and Hrólfr was definitely lazing about doing nothing, so I would attach him to Leon.'
The runaway locomotive did not stop.
Norse society, centered on Árós, had entered a path of development and prosperity unprecedented in history, so now even I could no longer predict how far I might go.
Now that it had come to this, there was no choice but to charge ahead without restraint.
And since moving alone made it impossible to see any way forward, we would all go down together— no. We would all roll forward together.
[sagak-sagak-]
"...Hm?"
Perhaps sensing a murderous aura of some kind, Leon, who had been scribbling letters atop his horse again, flinched and glanced around, but it was already too late.
'Letters. Letters, he says. Come to think of it, I must overhaul the writing system too.'
Rune script was not an especially difficult letter system, in and of itself. But it had no standardization, and every village used it in a jumbled mess...
By no system, I meant that they wrote leftward in one place, Örn-ward in another. Even basic grammatical conventions had never been nailed down. They even carved letters along the body of a long serpent, for heaven's sake!
A thing like this, once fixed, would not easily change, so a good model was needed.
Not that I had failed to consider Hangul, which one might call the GOAT of all writing systems—(my apologies to the great King Sejong, but I was in no position to quibble over things like copyright, so I meant to take and use everything I could). First of all, Hangul could not fully capture the sounds we Norsemen made.
For example, when writing the name of Hrola, son of Hrólfr. If one simply wrote it as 'Hrola' in Hangul and read it back, the proper pronunciation of Hrollaugr would not come out.
'Hrol' was in reality a sound produced from the throat, and the 'laugr' that followed had that final 'grrrr' feeling of a growling beast.
Could Hangul express that well? No, so I decided to simply recycle the letters that already existed.
'The reach of my domain veers toward Novgorod and Kiyiu, leading straight into the Eastern Roman sphere of influence, so in the end, adopting their language system is the most practical choice.'
What nation in the world right now was the most advanced?
As I stared silently at Leon, the fourth-dimensional scholar floated a question mark above his head and offered me a slight bow.
"Leon, I am always grateful for your dedication."
"I merely do what is natural. Great Konungr."
"Right. And are Michael and Damian getting along well?"
"...They are."
Leon was receiving the title and salary of a Jarl from me, and I was even willing to grant him lands if he wished, but I also knew he was an intelligence asset for the old fox Damian—who appeared to have returned to his post as the confidant of Michael, the Eastern Roman Emperor.
My ability was truly far-fetched... Intrigue hardly ever sprouted within my domain, and whenever something foul arose like this, I came to know of it right away.
At times I even wondered if I could read people's minds; that was the degree of it.
I had already known that what Leon was scribbling down so diligently included not only records about me, but also field reports bound for somewhere else.
I had no mind to fault him for it.
No, on the contrary, I welcomed it.
"You need not worry about a thing. My faith in you has not changed. This is not about such trivial matters—though they may not match yourself, could you find scholars who have developed an interest in working here? Preferably someone with a gift for languages."
"For the time being, I have no way of knowing at this exact moment, so I shall verify it as quickly as possible. Merciful Konungr."
"Thank you, Leon."
"It is simply what one who serves as a retainer must do. Konungr. And if you wish, I will also report on the internal affairs of the Eastern Roman Empire."
Hm?
So he wasn't a spy, just a liaison of sorts.
"Thanks."
I nodded and dismounted from Camembert, who flicked his tail at the flies.
[Chik!]
Seutorolpeu's solid arm and fierce glare blocked the castle servant who hurried forward to take the reins, and I smiled at the stablehand, who was so startled he had gotten the hiccups, asking if he was all right as I handed the reins over to him.
'So much to do. I wonder if the Frankish friends have arrived by now...? Wessex, you devious bastards. I've called in friends of my own, so look forward to it.'
You aren't the only ones with friends.
I took in the strangely familiar sights of Tamworth for a moment, then, following the guide who had long served as caretaker here, I turned and strode briskly toward the office Burgred had used. Refil, Seutorolpeu, Oleg, and Leon fell in behind me.
*****
The coast of East Anglia.
Longships crowded the shore, bustling with preparations for departure.
Their shape was that of Norse longships, but their prows were carved not with dragons but with crosses, swords, and crowns, and, more than anything, the people boarding these ships looked a little different from Norsemen.
At last, the day had come for the former Cyning of East Anglia, now a wanderer—
Edmund, whom most believed dead but who was in fact alive and well, to set out on a long journey with his family, the East Anglian nobles who had remained loyal to him, and the priests.
The summer sea breeze was gentle, and the waves were calm.
As he sat there in a daze for a while, Edmund thought to himself that the superstition the Norsemen and East Anglian merchants endlessly coming and going from the port liked to tell—that no great wave rose on Konungr Helgi's sea—was not so far wrong.
His wife, faced with her husband alive and well, simply held his hand in silence, tears dropping like chicken droppings. His two daughters, still very young, asked where he had been and tugged at his beard this way and that.
He was grateful to be alive.
Paradoxically, it was because his adversary had been a truly honorable man that he had survived like this. And was that not, in the end, the will of the Lord?
Edmund had to feel sorrow alongside his happiness.
Far off in the distance, a woman stood forlornly with an infant in her arms.
The widow of Hunta, his loyal warrior and friend, and his son, lodged themselves in Edmund's heart like a dagger.
'I cannot fall. I must not.'
He had to lead them all.
It was not only Hunta's widow and son.
Even now, though their kingdom had fallen, there were hundreds who still followed him.
Twenty ships alone, just counting those the Konungr had granted him.
As Edmund renewed his firm resolve, he saw a hazy mass approaching from far out at sea, cutting through the gull-gray waves.
'Those are...'
Those preparing for departure all lowered their busy hands and began to tremble with the fear etched into their instincts.
But soon, they exhaled in relief at the realization that they were no longer the targets of those longships.
[Clang- Clang- Clang- Clang-]
The bell rang noisily from the tall lighthouse that the traitor Judas—Sigebryht—had built for the Konungr.
As the merchants' footsteps grew hurried, the Norse longships, which seemed to fill the entire sea, at last slowly closed the distance.
Edmund could do nothing but seek God once more.
*****
A new type of massive longship built in Árós under the special order of Konungr Helgi Ragnarsson.
The enormous vessel, which could be considered a prototype, was so vast that it would take three ordinary longships to match it.
It could carry over 120 men alone.
The one transporting this perfect work, which could truly be called a dragon of the sea, was his brother.
Halfdan 'Hvitserk' Ragnarsson had even set aside the sweetness of newlywed life and crossed the sea with 4,000 elite troops who had graduated from the Árós training camp—the Konungr had named it himself. Björn had become the most infamous demon instructor among the graduates.
These were the forces of the Norse Jarls from all across Scandinavia, who had sworn their loyalty at the wedding of the Ragnarssons known as 'The Three Weddings,' and the warriors under them—trained and reborn as soldiers.
Now, to keep their oaths, those who had looked away from the world and shut themselves in their own small realms had at last put to sea.
More than the fact that 100 longships were crossing the rough and fierce North Sea in a straight line, Halfdan, who had been as delighted as a child by the enormous longship he was riding for the first time in his life, spent the entire voyage wandering every corner of this monster, exhausting the Jarls and crew aboard with him.
So when the nearly three-day voyage ended without incident, all the warriors who had boarded this great longship and rowed and managed the sails cheered inwardly.
"Damn it, the voyage is over!"
'Thank goodness. We've arrived at last!'
'Thank you, Hel. You have heard my prayers...!'
'I never want to move under Jarl Halfdan again...!'
Unaware that his warriors thought the exact opposite of him, Halfdan—who shared a certain odd similarity with his dear brother Sigurd—moved without hesitation and stood with one foot planted on the great dragon's head.
The pose was one he had seen long ago, often struck by his most revered brother Helgi. One foot set boldly forward, his gaze deep as if looking beyond this world.
Taking a great breath, Halfdan, overcome with emotion at being freed at last from the horror of his lovely new bride lunging at him four, five, even six times a day, let out a great shout.
"Britannia—! I have come—! I am Halfdan Hvitserk—!"
Before his eyes, a well-ordered harbor with a clamorous bell came gradually into view.
Along with the ships there preparing to depart.
'What is that...? It looks like a longship... but with that strange thing... wait, isn't that a cross? The kind Ælla and Osberht used...'
Could they be enemies? Surely not...!? This was supposed to be the land of my brother Konungr Helgi...?
'Could I have come to the wrong place...!'
His moment of posturing was brief. As the Jarl craned his neck to peer ahead, the guards standing at attention behind him quietly let out a sigh.