130.
130.
[Buuuuum— buuuum—]
An unfamiliar sound echoed from beyond the church's sturdy walls.
It was a sound like one produced by blowing with all one's might into an instrument carved from a demon's horn.
At the same time, the vibration of countless feet striking the earth in unison could be felt, and the people gathered beneath the church held their breath as one.
Amid the mingled breathing and sighs, the grief and terror, children too young to clearly grasp any of this situation whimpered and tugged at the sleeves of their mothers, grandmothers, and grandfathers.
Are we all going to die now?
No, we are not. God will protect us.
A question unsuited to her age had sprung from that small mouth, and the adults' answer, which received such a question as though it were nothing out of the ordinary, carried a feigned certainty toward God, yet—
The priest knew all too well that they were more anxious and doubting than anyone else.
'O Lord, please. Please grant us your mercy.'
Had he not knelt before the cross for long years, doubting at times, wavering at times, but always returning to You in the end?
Just as a farmer tills his field and warriors sharpen their swords, the old priest had spent his entire life sharpening his faith to a keen edge—and now he felt nothing but resentment and fear toward all of this.
The promised reinforcements from Alt Clut had never come, and the shepherd meant to guard the flock had abandoned his post.
The fact that the hell-sent horn blast and the heavy footfalls like a demon legion were now drawing near meant that one of the walls—whether Glasgow or Govan—had finally fallen.
'Or perhaps both.'
Even an old priest who had served God all his life could perceive that this was no longer a simple raid for plunder.
And that soon, in some way, the world he had lived in would change.
But he himself had already lived long enough. The ones who must be saved were those children, trapped in that stifling, damp space, bursting into tears.
While silently reciting prayers and calling upon the names of the saints who had gone before, seeking wisdom, the noise did not abate, and time passed.
And at last, a great roar like a massive bell crashing down rang out.
Soon after, the old priest could hear the sound of heavy footfalls approaching this very place.
[Chk! Chk! Chk! Chk!]
'Frighteningly well-drilled men...!'
Considering the usual comportment of the warriors of Glasgow or Govan, those regular footsteps approaching now could only belong to the enemy.
The old priest straightened his failing body upright and armed his spirit firmly with faith.
'Lord. My body is old, but my mind and soul I can yet offer to You.'
But not these children.
With that thought, the old priest raised his voice toward the people drawing ever closer to one another.
"Be calm! Hide the children and the elderly within! Let those who still have strength come forward!"
A few warriors who had fled the battle stepped forward, and the people hurriedly sent the old, the weak, and the children to the very rear.
In this cramped space, this was all that could be done, but the mere fact that someone stepped up to lead them restored a measure of calm to the people.
Yet this peace was fleeting.
[Thud!]
At the unfamiliar hand pounding on the church door, the people screamed in unison.
The routed soldiers' faces drained to a ghastly pallor, and the old priest reflexively thrust the cross forward—as if it were some kind of weapon or shield.
[Opnaðu hurðina! við munum ekki skaða þig! Thud!]
The church door that had seemed so sturdy just moments before now appeared wretchedly frail with those rough voices, that rough tongue, and those rough impacts sounding from beyond it.
The shout had been in an unknown tongue, so the old priest could do nothing at all.
The warriors who had fled from the battle at the gate and sought God's embrace inside this place numbered seven in all.
Of these, two wailed and tried to scramble up the church walls, while five, their faces drained to a ghastly blue, clutched the spears and small shields they had brought until their knuckles seemed ready to tear apart.
The people blocked by the priest and the routed soldiers at last released the screams they had held back, and the impacts from beyond the door grew stormier by the moment.
[Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!]
Waaaaah—
It will be all right, child...! It will be all right!
'Lord, please...!'
More than the ending of his own life, the priest feared for the lives of these who had not yet bloomed. Just when his hand, unable to endure the mounting strain any longer, began to tremble violently, the noise of the madly shaking door and hinges subsided.
[konungur...! konungur Helgi...!]
And in its place came the hushed voices of those who had hurled themselves forward like enraged wolves.
Though he could not understand them, two distinct words remained lodged in the priest's mind.
'Konungr. Helgi.'
[—Kwaaang!]
"Kyaak—!"
"Uwaak!"
The silence was brief.
The door panel that had withstood even the fiercest pounding burst apart in an instant.
Amid the great roar and the splinters of wood scattering in every direction, the screams of people cowering with all their might mingled together.
[Pat-patter— pat-pat—]
And the old priest, who had covered his face with both arms, was the first to lower his arms and face forward.
There stood a giant.
"This is a church, and you are the priest?"
A voice as deep as his height was tall seemed to brook the existence of nothing else save himself.
The inhumanly immense frame was overwhelming, as was the greatsword held in those massive forearms and wrists, but more vivid than anything else were the green eyes visible through the helm, blazing as though aflame.
Standing before those eyes, the old priest felt an uncanny sensation as though the deepest depths of his soul were being laid entirely bare, and barely managed a nod.
"The battle is over. Brave priest. I am Helgi Ragnarsson, and I shall be the Konungr—Rí, the king—of this place. Please do not resist. Too much blood has already been shed."
There he was, that Northman, holding a greatsword as tall as a common man in Örn's hand and spreading open his left hand, stained with someone's blood and soil—the very image of a conqueror, that Northman's Rí—no, Konungr—
Yet his voice and tone, and the meaning conveyed in the Gaelic tongue, were akin to an earnest entreaty.
Already overwhelmed by the wave-like onslaught of his presence, the old priest could do nothing but barely manage a nod.
"Good. I shall order this place guarded. If you have need of anything, speak to this friend here... that will not work, will it. Speak my name and seek me out. I am Helgi Ragnarsson."
With those words, Helgi Ragnarsson spoke something to the man standing beside him and then turned his back, yet—
In truth, nothing else had registered in the old priest's sight save that Rí himself.
[Clang— clatter—]
Soon after, as though frozen in place, the priest stood still, and beside him, the sound of weapons dropping one by one was heard.
The routed soldiers, their souls drained of all color, collapsed to the ground right where they stood.
*****
By the riverbank of Peartoc, where the harvest should have been made ready.
The heir of Alt Clut looked as though he might weep tears of blood.
"Break through...! We must break through them, I tell you...!"
"Rhun! Lord Rhun! It is too dangerous to advance any further!"
"How... how can the gap be this vast...! Only because we cannot overcome those...!"
Rhun ap Arthgal.
The sole heir of Arthgal, the ruler of Alt Clut, cried out with desperate fervor.
But that did not change the outcome of a battle that could not be won.
"Throw-!"
[Fwoosh! Fwoosh! Shiiik- Shiiik-]
The Kingdom of Strathclyde, which controlled the lower reaches of the River Clyde, and its central city of Alt Clut.
As befitting the strongest and most ancient power in the region, his father, Arthgal Ríheu, had mustered elite warriors and placed them in his hands...
But the 7,000 warriors Rhun had led were struggling against a foe that seemed to number roughly 3,000 to 4,000.
[Pabak! Pababak!]
"Return fire! Release the bowstrings!"
"Shoot-!"
[Pyung! Pyupyung! Shwaaaak-]
"Arrows! Block them!"
"Block them with your shields!"
[Peobeobeok! Peobeok! Hududuk!]
"Aaaagh-!"
"Urk!"
Setting aside basic combat prowess for a moment, it was the difference in equipment that mattered first.
The disparity in armor and shields was simply too great.
'Our javelins do them no harm at all, but we have no means to block their arrows...!'
Even the weather did not aid the Alt Clut army.
As if it had resolved to dry up entirely every last drop of the rain that had fallen all day just two days prior... there was not a single cloud to be found around the sun.
"Attack...! We must attack...! We must shatter them, I tell you! Let go of me!"
What kind of army was this force?
It was not simply an army to relieve Peartoc, but a force meant to save Glasgow and Ghobhainn beyond it.
The loss of Glasgow and Ghobhainn meant the loss of the middle Clyde and all influence beyond it.
What on earth could be done with only Alt Clut on the lower river and its immediate vicinity?
And moreover, though everyone seemed to have forgotten, these Northmen were, by nature, masters of sailing above all others.
Alt Clut, situated beside the lower Clyde where the river met the sea, could not escape their threat the moment Glasgow and Ghobhainn were lost.
"Rhun! Lord Rhun!"
Thus, Rhun shook off the hands of the guards holding him back and hurried towards the warriors fighting up ahead.
[Shwaaaak- Shwaaaak- Pababak! Hududuk!]
"Aaaaagh-!"
"Kh...! My knee...!"
In his frantic sprint, the air-rending sound of projectiles assailed his ears.
Lifting a shield that felt impossibly small today and crouching low, he heard screams erupting from all directions.
Then, raising his head to check whether he was still alive, whether an arrow had lodged anywhere, he took another deep breath and drove his feet forward with renewed vigor.
The place he reached in this manner was the frontline, where the 7,000-strong army took turns advancing and retreating, hurling javelin attacks at the enemy ranks that were absurdly solid.
"Rhun! Lord Rhun!"
"Rhun ap Arthgal!"
"The ancient bloodline of Alt Clut!"
Voices of warriors recognizing him rose everywhere, and soon, seasoned high-ranking warriors who were leading the battle also came running to behold the heir of Alt Clut.
"Warriors-!"
[Fwik- Fwik- Shwaaaak Shwaaaak-! Pababak!]
With projectiles still flying back and forth at the front and screams unending all around, Rhun ap Arthgal shouted to the warriors who had gathered around him.
"This battle today is not simply a fight to defeat them! Our brothers in Peartoc, Ghobhainn, and Glasgow await our rescue! We shall not be defeated this day! The Lord is with us!"
[Seureung-!]
A weapon that symbolized the high-born.
He drew his beautiful iron sword and raised it high, its blade dazzling in the reflected sunlight.
To the warriors inspired by that light and Rhun's courage, the voice of God seemed to sound in their ears, and they felt an unknowable power surging within them.
"Rhun ap Arthgal!"
"Rhun of Alt Clut!"
"Long live the Kingdom of Strathclyde-! Long live the ancient bloodline!"
Sensing the fighting spirit of the warriors blazing up, Rhun aimed his raised sword towards the godless horde of infidels and steadied his mind with a deep breath.
'Lord, give me strength!'
"Alt Clut-! Charge!"
Then Rhun charged forth with all his might.
Behind him, the warriors of Alt Clut kicked the earth in unison.
"Drive them out-!"
"Kill them all!"
"God is with us-!"
[Dudududu-!]
Passing through the front lines still frantically hurling javelins, the warriors of Alt Clut continued to build speed, roaring the battle cries their ancestors had unleashed across the ages.
[Yiaaaaaa-!]
Their morale soared, the spearheads were sharp, and their bodies felt light as if they could fly.
"Warriors of the Konungr-! Stand fast!"
"Prepare hand axes! Prepare to throw!"
"Archers, keep shooting!"
[Dudududu- Kwaang! Puk! Pupuk! Fwik- Fwik- Fwirik- Puk! Puk! Peobeok!]
"Aaaagh!"
"Yiaaa- Aaaagh!"
"Urk!"
Right before the moment of impact, the hand axes that flew in at an exquisite timing tore their breakthrough momentum to shreds.
After that, the warriors of Alt Clut, clenching their teeth, threw themselves forward, but before the chillingly cold spearheads and shields of their disciplined foes, every one of them was brought to a halt.
Being too light was precisely the problem of Alt Clut.
[Puk! Pupuk! Puk! Yiaaa-! Chaeng!]
Believing they had used their numerical superiority to encircle the enemy, Rhun ap Arthgal, who had fallen to the ground, miraculously struck by the haft of an axe, struggled to rise as he watched his warriors fall one by one at the hands of the foes they recklessly assailed.
'What... what is this...'
"Warriors of Árós-! Advance!"
"Advance!"
[Buuuung- Buuung-]
Soon, a great shout and the sound of horns resounded, and the enemy ranks, which had held firm as solid rock, stepped forward in unison.
[Cheok! Puk- Pupuk! Aagh! Aaaagh!]
As an impenetrable wall closed in, thrusting with spears, the warriors of Alt Clut began to flee, and among them was Rhun ap Arthgal, whom his guards had rushed in to extract.
'This is impossible... It cannot be...'
Blood from his head wound mixed with tears and streamed down his cheek, yet nothing changed.
'Causantín... you were right. We must change.'
Nearly dragged by the hands of his guards.
Rhun recalled Causantín. Causantín, a Pict who proclaimed himself Cyning of the Scots at Edo.