134.
134.
The northwestern part of the island of Britain.
The Kingdom of Alt Clut, Alt Clut.
'Why the name "Rock of the Clyde" had stuck.
I understood the moment I laid eyes on that rock fortress.
In the middle of a sticky marshland I was almost growing fond of sat the massive twin rocks.
That enormous rock, which seemed to have been one before its center was carved out, had been worked by human hands, and now an utterly impregnable fortress squatted imposingly upon it.
'If we had tried to take it by force, many would have died.'
Climbing those massive, slippery rocks was out of the question, and in the end, there was only one way in, and even that required taking advantage of the midday hour when the current receded.
That kind of defense made the twin citadels of Jorvik or Glasgow seem like, 'Well, at least those were doable.'
There was an old saying that if you defend well, one man can wield the strength of a hundred. That fortress could certainly be seen as proof of it, but—
As always, in the end, war was waged by people.
No matter how much natural blessings provided a fortress, the fact that people were the ones defending it inevitably meant there would be a gap.
"Konungr, you well know that I have spent all my life opposing Alt Clut. Through all those long years, my comrades and I constantly strove to discover the means to bring down that accursed rock fortress... Seeing it now, I can speak with even greater certainty. This war is already won by you, Konungr...!"
Compared to Alt Clut or Glasgow, Peartoc, which was almost embarrassing to call a fortress, surrendered the moment the heir of Alt Clut, Rhun ap Arthgal, did.
After entrusting Halfdan, who was in the midst of occupying Glasgow across the river, with the news of Peartoc and the management of some five thousand prisoners,
we joined forces with the now more stalwart Refil, Oleg, and the army of Paereogeos, launched our ships down the river, and arrived at Alt Clut about three days ago, marching diligently along the riverbank.
The Kingdom of Alt Clut could no longer survive. Every village along the River Clyde except this rock fortress alone had taken up the name of a new ruler.
But changing a ruler's banner like this was probably not so unfamiliar to them.
If we did not finish this decisively, my influence might scatter down that river within a year, so I intended to force Arthgal of Alt Clut to submit—but I could see no way other than a direct frontal assault...
That was when Paereogeos, leading the 'Avengers of Dull Blann,' had scouted around the rock fortress, whose gates were firmly barred, with his comrades, and then said those words to me.
"I have already won? What does that mean?"
Naturally, I could only ask with a question mark floating over my head, and Paereogeos's meaningful smile and answer instantly cleared my mind, which had been tangled with siege preparations.
"Alt Clut is a rock unshaken even by the fierce currents of the River Clyde, yet it has no drinking water. Is that not a truly ridiculous story, Konungr? Though it is surrounded by marshland and river that dare not permit the hand of man, the fact is that no drinking water emerges within that fortress. The place from which the fortress draws its water has not changed in ten years. If you secure that place, Alt Clut will have no choice but to wither and die or surrender."
"Heh—"
As Paereogeos said, it was a truly ridiculous story.
That heaven-blessed fortress, surrounded by river water, had no drinking water.
A rock might not need water and remain unshaken for a thousand years, but how long could people endure without it?
Thus, following Paereogeos's guidance, we truly seized every well outside the fortress, and the Avengers of Dull Blann, who knew the fortress's back gates and secret doors as if it were their own home, kept watch for another three days.
At last, the gates of Alt Clut slowly began to open of their own accord.
[Kii-iiik— grrrng—]
The gate, set between the rock crevices, was made of wood as thick as three of my warriors put together; its hinges suffered under the weight and cried out in a scream.
Even the battering ram that had breached Glasgow's gates seemed utterly insufficient, so I had to think a little more about what reward to bestow upon Paereogeos.
'What on earth should I give them?'
What could I offer these men who had lost everything and dreamed of nothing but revenge for over a decade?
While my thoughts continued, the messenger of Alt Clut, bearing a white flag, cautiously approached.
By my side were Camembert and Örn, and the prisoner Rhun ap Arthgal, bound in ropes. The envoy—a lightly armored warrior like Rhun—cautiously approached.
...I was not sure why Seutorolpeu insisted on personally holding Rune's ropes, but anyway, with the Jarls who had grown even more through this war arrayed around me, a corner of my heart felt reassured.
"O Ríheu of the foreigners! I stand here under the command of Arthgal, legitimate Ríheu of Alt Clut, of the ancient bloodline of the old north!"
"It was the fault of that vile Causantín Ríheu of the Kingdom of the Scots that Arthgal Ríheu marched on Vernika (northern Northumbria)! He has sent me to ask what must be given to avert your wrath!"
"..."
[Pyeolluk— pyeolluk—]
A sign that summer was slowly ending, a fresh breeze blew along the River Clyde, and the face of Hel, fluttering from the banner held by Seutorolpeu—who stood with ropes in one hand and the flag in the other—seemed to calmly contemplate the marshlands of Alt Clut.
In the space where silence had descended, a single bird let out a long cry, and as I watched the color drain further from the messenger's pale face, I opened my mouth.
"Warrior of Alt Clut. Seeing you step forward, I know you are brave and of high rank. Do you recognize this man?"
The messenger, turning his head at my gesture, confirmed the face of Rune, wrapped tightly in stout ropes, and then nodded to me.
"Yes, Ríheu."
"Go and tell Arthgal. I have a mind to discuss matters with you and your heir. If he has the presence of mind to send a messenger, tell him to come forth to this place at once. Do you understand?"
"Of course, Ríheu."
Despite his low, soothing voice, the messenger, trembling as if exposed to midwinter cold, hurriedly ran toward the massive gates.
Rhun ap Arthgal bowed his head, but my warriors, though caked with dirt here and there and soaked in sweat and water, not one of them bowed their heads.
*****
"Hiyaaat—!"
[Hwik! Seuk—]
"Hup!"
[Peok!]
"Argh!"
[Cheombyeong—]
Arthgal was a middle-aged Pictish man. Nearing the latter half of middle age, at that.
Paereogeos, in contrast, was a Scot. His hair and beard showed streaks of white.
The ill-fated bond from sixteen, seventeen years past had left its long, long traces, and at last it had reached even this place.
"Yaaaaah—!"
[Cheombyeong! Cheombyeong! Cheombyeong! Kkwaaak—]
"Uwaaaaak!"
"Why did you do it?! Why! There were children and elders who couldn't even move! If plunder was not enough, you could have taken them as thralls...! Why?!"
Paereogeos's eyes, at last reaching out to grip his enemy's nape, were violently bloodshot, and beneath him Arthgal's carefully tended beard and hair, as he repeatedly swallowed the water of the River Clyde, were already in a ruinous state.
"Keok— Keokeok—!"
"Answer me! Look at this carved stone! This is the land you burned! Still, beneath it, the people of Dull Blann lie buried...!"
"Keok! Dull... Blann...!"
As though he did not care if the man died, Paereogeos continued to shove Arthgal's face into the marsh while squeezing his nape, then drew a stone blackened by fire from his breast and shook it before Arthgal's face.
At that, as if something had returned to him, Arthgal murmured the name of Dull Blann, and at last the strength in Paereogeos's grip seemed to ease a little.
"Keok..! Keoheo— Puheo—!"
Arthgal frantically sought air and sucked in a breath.
Paereogeos's gaze as he looked down upon that sight had now settled so completely that it made the skin of those watching crawl all the more.
Be that as it may, while the Norsemen and the men of Dair, East Anglia, and Alt Clut who surrounded them silently held their breath and looked on.
At the end of this honorable duel, entered into on the condition that his son be spared, Arthgal barely managed to open his mouth.
"Dull... hoo— hoo— Blann...!"
"Has the water of the Clyde at last returned your memory? Do you know my face? Arthgal. Cursed name."
"Curse...? Kulluk!"
Arthgal spat water once more from his nose and mouth, then narrowed his wrinkled eyes and studied Paereogeos's face for a long while.
"...Though I know Dull Blann, I cannot know your face. Warrior of the Scots."
"I am Paereogeos. Son of Dull Blann the blacksmith. Son of the father slain by you and your followers."
A liquid impossible to tell apart as water or tears ran down Paereogeos's jaw and dripped onto Arthgal's neck.
Arthgal let out a small sigh and, still held fast in Paereogeos's firm grip, continued speaking.
"Even knowing this will only stoke your fury, I cannot but say these words. Paereogeos of Dull Blann. What befell you and your kin, the people of Dull Blann, is a sorrow to me."
"Sorrow...?"
"Yes. I would offer any apology for the deeds of that day. It was my fault. A fault even the Lord would not forgive. Yet once one sits upon the seat of Ríheu...
Once one sits upon this ancient throne, choices must ever be made that can only be a great grief unto someone.
Our northern kindred who had been assailing us with Northmen raids grew weak, and when one grows weak one soon becomes prey—was that not our long-held law? Can you say it is not the truth?
Do not you and your own Ríheu, who now grip my neck, in the end only follow that same law?"
The completion of a long vengeance. Having foreseen his inevitable death, Arthgal had joined the duel without a word of complaint, and even under Paereogeos's brutal grasp he spoke with a composed manner.
To me, that figure appeared as though he were protesting against this very world that had driven him to such a precipice.
That it was because he had had no choice.
"I had to show strength. To protect my people, my throne... To those who stood upon that path, you and the people of Dull Blann, I have no words to offer.
But that this is our life—well do you know it yourself. Paereogeos of Dull Blann.
So, you too, do what you must."
With those final words, Arthgal closed his eyes, and Paereogeos looked down upon him.
In Paereogeos's deep-blue eyes, a vortex of all manner of emotions swirled.
The vengefulness that he had thought worn down to some degree over the long years had not forgotten its sharpness in the least; rather, it thirsted for blood all the more.
Yet even in a state where his eyes might have rolled back, Paereogeos raised his head with superhuman forbearance and looked toward me, and I gave him a nod.
"What you say may be right. Arthgal. For that is how we have lived."
[Seureung—]
With a sharp sound from Paereogeos's waist, a well-honed dagger was drawn.
Rune's bowed body trembled faintly, and all the people of Alt Clut held their breath.
"But my descendants, our descendants, shall not live so."
"Can that be possible?"
As if truly curious, Arthgal opened his eyes, and within them there was no fear.
Rather, like one long crushed beneath a heavy burden of responsibility who had at last glimpsed light, an indescribable emotion merely lay coiled there.
"I am impossible. You, and that cursed ancient bloodline of yours, are impossible as well. But if it be not such feeble humans as us, if it be a dragon, then it is possible.
Farewell. Arthgal of Alt Clut. A nameless blacksmith of Dull Blann sends you his greetings."
[Puk—! Euk!]
"...I am sorry."
[Kulluk! Keuk— ... Pungdeong—]
Arthgal's head, which no longer had the strength to lift, sank into the marsh, and Paereogeos knelt as though nailed to the spot.
At last Rune's form collapsed, and Alt Clut too crumbled down.
Though I had gained Alt Clut before summer's end, my heart was not at ease.
☆☆☆☆☆Reference Material☆☆☆☆☆
wikimedia, Para, Creative Commons — Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported — CC BY-SA 3.0
Dumbarton Castle. That's Alt Clut. To take this, you'd really have to endure a tremendous amount of attrition...
User:Dave souza, CC BY-SA 2.5 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5>, via Wikimedia Commons
Alt Clut at low tide.
In a place like this, the best thing is just not to fight at all...
In a mudflat like this, military discipline and everything else all lose their meaning...!