121.
121.
"Cú Chulainn means the hound of Culann!"
"...?"
Heh heh.
Did he just call me a dog? That was a new experience.
"This bastard dared—!"
[Sreung- seuk- sreung-]
In response to the sudden personal affront against me, all the guards, including Seutorolpeu and Refil, gripped their weapons with lethal intent.
Even if they couldn't understand the words, were my guards not masters at reading my expression?
Dane axe, one-handed sword, hand axe, club.
'A club...?'
Where had he gotten that from?
Anyway, having finally secured the cooperation of the locals, I couldn't turn this into a bloodbath.
I had to stop the greatly excited Seutorolpeu, who was swinging his massive axe and about to cleave Ailpein—whose already pale face had turned even whiter—in two.
"Stop. Everyone, sheathe your weapons."
"Y-... yes! Konungr!"
[Sreung- seuk- seureung-]
By nature, all the Huskarls guarding my side were masters of weapons.
Skilled as they were with the daggers and throwing axes they carried as sidearms, they were all fierce warriors, yet above all they prioritized my commands.
This tendency had grown even stronger after they had traveled with me to the Eastern Roman Empire and encountered the Emperor's palace guards with their flowing white cloaks.
In my opinion, the overwhelming military discipline displayed by the Eastern Roman army had deeply impressed them.
'It had been a bit impressive, though.'
From then on, they had started saluting with military honors I had never taught them, and they had taken to making the symbol of Goddess Hel in silver or gold and wearing it on their chests, saying they needed their own emblem. Was that not the case?
Truly, regardless of era, the importance of outward appearance was immense.
"I'm sorry...! How could I have insulted the noble Ríheu by comparing him to a hound...! I never meant that at all...! A hound is, to our people, a creature of the highest value— No, I mean...!"
Behold, Ailpein and all the villagers who had come out to greet us were trembling in fear, were they not?
'Our visual was a bit murderous, I admit.'
Even apart from my own enormous stature, my guards were all men of impressive build, and our Northmen helmets looked somewhat... oppressive.
All of this, combined with the symbol of Goddess Hel that hung glittering on each chest—half a woman's face, half a skull—created a tremendous synergy.
It was like a demon legion commander and his followers risen from the underworld, was it not?
"It is alright; rise quickly, Ailpein. Hear me, good people of this place! I have sworn by the name of my god and by the name of your gods that I will not harm you! Do not fear us overmuch!"
Even I thought that last request was a difficult one, but nonetheless, the people began to lift their heads one by one, rolling their eyes this way and that.
Amongst the scattered whispers, words like "geas!", "oath!", "honorable Ríheu!" were heard, but though I understood the Gaelic tongue, I was as good as blind when it came to their culture and mythology, and those were words I could not fathom.
"Thank you, Ríheu! Thank you, warriors!"
I was the only one here who understood Gaelic.
To my warriors, who were still glaring at Ailpein with fierce eyes, I explained that there had been a minor misunderstanding, and I told them that Ailpein was offering thanks and apologies.
Only then did the tension leave my warriors' eyes.
Under my vision and the efforts of Hrolf and Björn, the Northmen host had transformed, with much of its culture changed, its rough bestiality exchanged for well-controlled discipline and an unending fighting spirit, but
somehow my guards alone retained their raw, wild, and beastly appearance.
The things people did were ever unpredictable.
And such unexpectedness appeared before me once again.
While comforting Ailpein, who had been plagued by untimely intruders, and bidding farewell to him and the villagers—who knew little beyond fishing, sailing, and sowing and tilling the fields—a group appeared before us.
"Greetings, strangers! Are you perhaps the Northmen from the east?"
'And who were these people now?'
About twenty lightly armed warriors.
All wore cloth armor and no helmets.
Their hair was red and brown.
Sword hilts were visible at their waists, and their shields were small and round.
They looked exactly like the type to leap about and hurl javelins or darts.
Unlike Ailpein and the villagers we had seen at the mouth of the River Clyde, these were clearly full-fledged combatants.
And as there were no warriors under me who understood Gaelic, communication fell to me.
"We are indeed the Northmen from Edinburgh to the east. Who are you?"
"Oh, well met! Northman who bears the spirit of the ancient heroes!"
The red-haired man with a wrinkled face who laughed heartily seemed greatly intimidated by the abnormally built Northmen warriors, but he feigned overcoming it and stoutly continued speaking.
"I am Fearghas, leader of the survivors of Dull Blann! When I heard that you were moving to exact vengeance upon that cruel Arthgal of Alt Clut, I came straight here. Please, guide me to your Ríheu!"
Behind his bold attitude, I could glimpse the instinctive fear of standing before a fearsome predator, and a desperation born of having no way back.
What on earth was driving this man Fearghas so relentlessly?
His eyes, which met my quiet gaze without flinching, seemed somehow familiar.
'These were the eyes of one who sought vengeance.'
Once, when I had declared vengeance for my father, I had seen my own eyes reflected in the sword blade.
They had been exactly like that. Only, his hatred was far older than my own.
"Fearghas of Dull Blann. Darkness will soon fall; let us share a meal. I am the Ríheu of the Northmen, Helgi Ragnarsson."
At my reply, the brave Fearghas and all the lightly armed warriors behind him drew in a sharp breath.
"You are...!?"
My intuition, which had never betrayed me, whispered once more that they would be of great help in conquering the Gorge Kingdom—Alt Clut.
*****
"Every time a new Ríheu rose in Alt Clut, they held a plundering festival. They mostly stole livestock. Even now, our kinsmen on this land and across the sea raid each other's cattle, so that would have been no great matter. But Arthgal was different."
Even in summer, a chill breeze blew once the sun went down.
The vanguard with me and Stórolf. The main force with Halfdan and Refil. The rearguard with Oleg and Djur.
All of them kept in close contact by sending messengers every hour, so the halt order spread swiftly and my host was granted a sudden bout of Hugh-style time. The sound of their laughter and chatter seemed to carry all the way here.
But in my own tent, where the canvas had been hastily raised and a fire kindled, a heavy atmosphere hung in contrast.
Only the voice of Dull Blann's survivor, Fearghas, flowed low over the dancing flames.
[Tadak- tak-]
"When Arthgal sat upon the throne of Alt Clut, it was a time when the land of the Picts was in turmoil. The Angles of Northumbria were fighting among themselves as they always did, and the Scots were weakened by Norse raids and internal strife. Arthgal saw this as an opportunity."
The eyes of the middle-aged man, shadowed with gloom, were somber and his voice was calm, yet everyone seated here could tell that a fire blazed within it.
Moreover, the tongue this man used was the Angle tongue. It was a speech the Norse warriors could understand to some degree.
"Arthgal wanted something greater than the traditional cattle raids. He wanted to seize the land of the Scots. And the problem was that his target was none other than the homeland of me and my people. Naturally, we resisted, and Arthgal killed everyone and burned Dull Blann to ashes. Those who fled gathered together and swore vengeance, and before we knew it, seventeen winters had passed."
[Tak- tadak- tadak-]
'How like the tale of King Fuchai of Wu and King Goujian of Yue.'
Both were men who had prepared for revenge over many long years and ultimately succeeded.
But the difference between them and Fearghas was that Fearghas came from impoverished Scottish farming stock, while Fuchai and Goujian had both been kings.
'If he has lived seventeen years for vengeance, just how deep must that grudge run?'
As I mused upon grudges, I suddenly felt my own position was contradictory. My hands were stained with blood as well, so surely I too was the object of someone's desperate revenge.
Were grudges and vengeance not staple fare of the Norse sagas?
Such was our life.
Into my mind came the Saxons who had been slain by the Frankish emperor, Charlemagne. Their descendants still dwelled in the lands of the Jutes. Did they still yearn for vengeance?
My idle thoughts soon vanished as Fearghas, who had paused to steady his emotions and calm his ragged breath, resumed speaking.
"But all that is of the past. What I can offer the Rí is not those old tales, but the story of the present. I will give the Rí all the information. You can make use of the territories of the clans that harbor ill feeling toward Alt Clut. And to bring Alt Clut to its knees, I will give you the locations, the sizes, and the weaknesses of every stronghold that must be burned."
Fearghas and the other survivors of Dull Blann, who must have wandered these lands for years thinking only of revenge, kindled a near-mad glint in their eyes.
A deep thirst for vengeance that would not vanish no matter how they suppressed it or tried to soothe their hearts.
Gazing upon the vivid carvings of that emotion, I asked.
"In return for handing all of that over to me, is there anything you desire?"
"Nothing. Helgirígr. If only we can finish Arthgal and Alt Clut. We need nothing else."
'As if that were true.'
I, who had already tasted the completion of revenge, thought differently, but I did not voice it.
These people had already lived far too long for a single purpose. Would not clumsy understanding or pity only be an insult?
I simply had to use what could be used.
"Good. Fearghas. If you and your people agree, come and move with me. I mean to smash Arthgal Rí and Alt Clut to pieces. Can you help me?"
"I have lived my whole life longing only for this moment. How could I refuse the Rí's words?"
Feeling as though long-stored gunpowder was at last igniting, I drank down the ale in my cup in silence.
*****
After a long while, my army's commanders gathered in one place.
Myself, Halfdan, Refil, Stórolf, Oleg, Djur.
The uncle and nephew who had been together in the main force—Halfdan and Refil—seemed to have grown considerably closer, while the ambiguous pair from the rearguard, Oleg and Djur, still looked awkward around each other.
I made a mental note that I would have to hold a team-building rally soon with some drinking activities, then shared the information I had obtained from Fearghas with my key commanders.
"Now, the Scot seated over there is called Fearghas. He is a survivor of the village burned in Arthgal Rí's attack and also our collaborator."
People exchanged eye greetings.
Halfdan even waved his hand and muttered, "What's the difference between Picts and Scots and Gaels?" but no one paid much attention.
I would have to explain that to him later. Otherwise, Halfdan, who had a rather tenacious streak, might pester me relentlessly until he got an answer.
"According to Fearghas, who knows the geography and terrain here well, there is no problem with our line of advance following the river. However, before we can attack Alt Clut, we must first strike three strongholds. Their names are Peartoc—Patrick, Ghobhainn—Govan, and Glaschu—Cathures, Glasgow."
With the objectives now clear, the eyes of the jarls gleamed in unison, and the strange heat that could only be felt on the battlefield began to rise.
☆☆☆☆☆Reference Material☆☆☆☆☆
Phoenix B 1of3 at en.wikipedia, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
Summer of 867. The situation in Europe!
Blue is Helgi's domain and other friendly regions.
Purple is the Eastern Roman Empire and its sphere of influence.
Green is the Muslim powers.
Black is neutral, or potential enemies.
Red is the clearly hostile forces lol
Moravia is the only one in red... there are some circumstances behind that...
ChrisO, some little changes made by Obersachse, CC BY-SA 3.0 httpcreativecommons.orglicensesby-sa3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
This is the situation map of Britain.
The south is in a lull, the north has entered full-scale fighting!
A grand chaotic party has opened where Gaels, Picts, Scots, and Norsemen all gather and mingle together...
The offensive situation of the Norsemen and their friends.
Brianann MacAmhlaidh, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
Alt Clut and the three strategic points. And Dunblane up above is none other than Dull Blann.
The difference between Picts and Scots, why Causantín and his father called themselves a 'Scot' kingdom despite being Picts—background on that will come later... but... it's important if you consider it important, and not if you don't... I'd appreciate it if you just enjoy it...! lol