149. Fylkir and the North Sea (2).
149. Fylkir and the North Sea (2).
Norðuland. After confirming the military strength of the North Sea, I immediately returned to Árós.
From the mountains to the river that crossed between Árós and Uppsala, the vast fields bustled half with grain and half with harvesters, and on the hills, shepherds who had greatly contributed to wiping out wolf packs herded livestock like goats this way and that.
On well-maintained roads, wagons carrying people or goods passed by, and the riders tasked with road patrol often saluted me.
If I went a little further up, the borderland between the Finns and the Norsemen, my father-in-law's reindeer farm, would appear, but I decided to stop by there this winter and had to pour every ounce of my energy into the colossal undertaking that loomed before me right now.
Namely, the 2nd Árós Grand Games. No, should it be the 1st North Sea Athletic Competition? Should I just call it the Olympics?
"So we'll expand the existing circular arena and set it up so people can sit spread out and enjoy the event with the VIP seats at the center—"
"At least three hundred guards must be on standby at all times, and the warriors that each region's Konungr or Jarl brings with them must be briefed on the main travel routes and danger zones—"
"Food? We'll have to dump it into the sea again this year, so there's no worry."
"Has the guest list all been confirmed?"
In the longhouse situated on the Konungr's Hill in the left part of Árós' city center, my capable slaves—no, my subordinates—were hard at work before the city's supreme ruler.
On a table that was decently put together, scraps of parchment lay scattered about, and here and there you could see the Arabic numerals and runic letters that I had strongly insisted on using.
Countless pieces of information recorded in a mostly simple manner, like 'high personages 87, seating 100 spaces.'
The writing styles were all different and it was a mess, but this control tower, which shared progress through constant communication, was being led by Hrólfr, who had been directly granted authority by Fylkir himself.
Having seated me in the highest place of honor, Hrólfr waged a staring contest with the parchments to his right and occasionally tossed out a question, at which the working-level people—like Leif, Erik, Oleg, and Dir—would rummage through the papers scattered everywhere again or furrow their brows and battle their own memories.
'Horrible. Just horrible.'
Who in the world had started this insane undertaking?
[Gulp—]
No, not that they were rolling around like mad—the sight of my subordinates working so hard was so pitiful and wretched that I was about to down the wine in my cup when Hrólfr, with his horns sticking out somewhere, addressed me.
"Fylkir, thank you for visiting us in the midst of your busy schedule."
So this is what it meant to have a barb in one's words. Each word and tone seemed to prick my skin, but this much would not leave a scratch on my thick skin.
"What do you mean? I am merely doing what must be done...! Seeing you work so hard for the North Sea, I believe my judgment was right after all. The right people for this grand and great undertaking are none other than you gathered here! Hahaha!"
At my praise, the expressions of those present darkened even more.
Hrólfr, however, smiled as he responded.
"You are too kind, Fylkir. Since you have graced us with your presence here today, I will inform you of the progress so far and the plans going forward."
Why bother?
"Oh. I was just curious, this is perfect. Please do."
Hrólfr's faint smile held a determination not to die alone—no, an even more base intention. The nasty resolve to absolutely die together with me.
"First, I will tell you about the honored guests who have expressed their intention to participate. There is no Konungr or Jarl of the North Sea who did not respond after receiving Fylkir's message.
To begin with, Konungr Tostein of Dublin and the north of the island of Britain informed us that he would depart at once. He will come leading two hundred warriors and participating athletes, and he will probably move together with Jarl Uhtred of Northumbria and Jarl Thorfinn of Orkney."
Tostein, Uhtred, and Thorfinn? It seemed the resistance of the remaining Picts in the highlands was not as fierce as I had thought. They were probably flustered by the sudden power vacuum, just as I had anticipated.
'Moreover, places like Aberdeen, Moray, and the Hebrides are defensible strongholds. Uhtred in Bernicia could also support them if needed. There would be no problem even if both lords left their posts.'
Orkney was an island to begin with, so the Picts who had lost the coastline had no way to approach.
In a way, the one who gained the most from this northern British war was Thorfinn of Orkney.
"Olaf would be pleased. And next?"
"Jarl Egbert of Jorvik, Jarl Leofric of Grantebridge and Huntandun, and Jarl Ubba, who rules Mercia from Fylkir's direct territory in Tamworth, have all expressed their intention to attend personally."
What, all of them were on the move?
Indeed, I had gone around the entire island of Britain crushing all resistance. There was no force that could rise up even if my key generals left their posts like that.
If I had to name some, it would be Æthelred of Wessex, or perhaps Áed Findliath, the High King of Ireland (Ard Rí na hÉireann), who had been holding his breath across the sea.
"What about Sigfrith?"
"Jarl Sigfrith sent word that he will come with Jarl Guthrum after concluding the trade agreement currently underway with Wessex. As expected, warriors and athletes will move together."
"I see. The merchants would be constantly on the move. Especially Tostein, who said he would depart immediately—judging by his temperament, he might already be at sea. Tell the harbor master of Árós to clear a space—"
No, wait.
Why was I doing work right now?
"Of course, Fylkir. We shall follow your orders."
Beyond Hrólfr's voice, all the subordinates whose expressions had been dark were now looking at me with sly, somber smiles.
'Really now.'
Anyway, wasn't the theory of innate human evil correct? Just look at those expressions. Weren't they expressions that said they were so happy to be able to die with you?
'You weak humans. I am a demigod born with endless vitality. Let's see you try.'
"Good. Then the British side seems settled. Just in case, tell Sigfrith not to rush. If necessary, it's fine if only Guthrum comes over; it would be better to focus more on the agreement with Wessex."
"I shall relay that, Fylkir."
Hrólfr nodded and, with a quiet instruction to one of the guards waiting behind him, handed over a scrap of parchment with something hastily scribbled on it.
The gesture was so natural that it even exuded a certain dignity.
Was this why the kings of old granted offices like Chancellor to outstanding talents? Prime ministers and the like.
"Next is Kaupang. The effective ruler of Kaupang must now be seen as Jarl Haraldr. It is understood that since Philkyr personally... parted the swords of two Konungrs, Konungr Halfdan has retreated into the background. Still, we must remain vigilant."
The final words were directed not at me, but at Refil, Erik, Oleg, and Dir.
Meeting that stern gaze, the jarls all straightened their backs and nodded, tension coming back into their expressions.
"Konungr Halfdan and Jarl Haraldr will come in person, and the elder houses of Kaupang are also said to be moving, so we must commit more manpower to the large-scale construction underway on the eastern side of Árós."
It was the height of harvest season, but there were still more than enough hands. Was not aid to the people the army's long-standing tradition?
Moreover, there were slaves gathered for various reasons—mostly received as gifts. It would be a tight fit, but if all the buildings being constructed for official purposes were turned into lodgings, accommodating the honored guests would be no problem.
As for the warriors and athletes accompanying them... the barracks grounds at Norland were so vast and huge that there were many empty spaces. A reenlistment, of sorts, seemed inevitable.
'I should send word to Stórólf.'
"I'll have to discuss that with Jarl Stórólf in Norland. Jarl Refil knows this part well, so I entrust it to you."
"Ah— yes! Understood, Philkyr!"
Refil, who had been sitting quietly only to receive yet another load of work, seemed to endure all this oppression and suffering with a steel-like mental fortitude, just like his father. Something like transparent liquid seemed to trickle down his cheek, but all of us, myself included, pretended not to see for the sake of Refil's honor.
Hrólfr, who looked at me as if I were some kind of cruel brute, pressed on with the matters I needed to know.
"From Roskilde and Ribe in the south, Jarl Halfdan and Konungr Bagsecg are expected to come in person. Of course, since Konungr Bagsecg is in Uppsala with Jarl Björn, in practice Jarl Halfdan will likely handle most matters."
"Heh— ah. Continue."
The thought of Halfdan, that fresh son-in-law, toiling away endlessly drew a laugh out of me before I knew it.
Hrólfr, looking at me with eyes that said 'this man has neither blood nor tears,' gave a small shake of his head and continued his report.
"From Novgorod across the Eastern Sea, the delegation sent by Konungr Hrørekr (Rurik) has already entered Árós."
I had raised Rurik's rank from Jarl back up to Konungr. It was, after all, his own decision to take the title of Jarl in the first place, insisting that overlapping in rank with me was absurd.
Now that I had become Philkyr, returning him to Konungr-Knyaz was more fitting to the eye.
However, Miroslav of Polotsk and Haskuld of Kiev were kept as jarls, creating a kind of hierarchy.
They said the rivalry among the three lords of the East was fierce, but after coming under my wing, they seemed to feel even more competitive toward the lords of the West—the Scandinavian mainland and Britain—by their own standards.
It was these very lords who showed the most enthusiasm for this tournament. They had the painful memory, after all, of being utterly defeated by the warriors of Árós at the first tournament.
'Árós. We shall be victorious...! Today, and tomorrow...!'
"They have already been training fiercely for the events, and our own Árós must not fall behind. Is that not so? Jarl Oleg? Dir?"
Hrólfr shot them a look that said 'you potential spies.' The two jarls, breaking out in cold sweat and watching the reactions of myself and Hrólfr, raised their voices like warriors who had just entered boot camp.
"We shall make every preparation and utterly crush Novgorod!"
"The fools of Polotsk and the weaklings of Kiev shall be left to compete for last place!"
"Hmm—"
Hrólfr's satisfied face and the resolute expressions of the two vassals.
Refil, his soul clearly drained by the weight of his duties, and Erik, who was at least one level above his younger brother in administration, diplomacy, and politics, busily calculating something.
I thought back to the events of this tournament.
Throwing spear and stone. Glima—Norse wrestling. A boxing competition to honor 'Helgi's Proof'... and lifting heavy boulders, which Stórólf had argued for vehemently.
Sprinting, obstacle running, and leaping across oars on a rowing ship. Long-distance swimming from Uppsala to Árós. A diving competition off Monsø Island.
And horse racing, which I had insisted on including.
Since it was combined with a festival from the start, the tournament was planned to run for roughly one to two weeks of endless eating, drinking, and competition.
Naturally, the matters discussed and decided here today would soon be conveyed by dispatching personnel: the priests of Hel, volunteers, and members of my standing army—the master keys—as event staff.
It would be difficult, but with a goal of zero mishaps, we were forging this great festival, the first of its kind in the history of the Norsemen.
"Well then, everyone's heads must be spinning, so let us wet our throats and take a break."
"As you will, Philkyr."
So much for endless vitality... In less than an hour, my head was throbbing, and I declared a rest. Still, they say everything is hardest the first time, so from next time it will get better.
Probably.
*****
"So, what is it that His Holiness, Beatissimus Pater, wishes of me?"
Imperator Augustus. At a time when the entire city was abuzz with rumors that the Roman Emperor intended to raise his army once more next spring.
At last, Edmund, resting in the heart of the Catholic world, received a visit from an unfamiliar guest.
The man, who identified himself as a close aide to the Pope, presented the Papal lead seal and asked for a private moment.
"His Holiness bid me ask whether the rightful Cyning of East Anglia still holds steadfast faith in God within her heart."
So the commotion surrounding the Roman Emperor was, in truth, the work of His Holiness the Pope.
Edmund silently gazed down at his own two hands.
Unlike in the past, his thick hands had grown rough from ceaseless swordsmanship training, and they still held strength.
If he were told to turn that strength against Helgi Ragnarsson once more, he would gently fold his heart away. But if it were here.
For those who had followed only him, who had settled on the outskirts of the great city of Rome to scrape out a living day by day.
Could he do something for those good and honest people?
"I ask once more. What is it that His Holiness wishes of me?"
Unlike in the past, a firmer voice flowed from Edmund's lips.