159. Hunter and Prey.
159. Hunter and Prey.
Was it true that doing something many times led to mastery?
It felt as though Árós's brewing skill was getting better and better.
Seeing Rurik, who had been summoned out early in the morning and was acting giddy, it seemed he had truly eaten and drunk his fill. Since I had set the stage for that very purpose, I felt no regret.
Still, because he was before the Fylkir, I felt a little sorry for the Konungr of Novgorod, who was struggling to pull himself together both in body and mind, and I handed him some of the chicken I had lately taken a great liking to.
They were not the huge ones I had seen in the 21st century, but being small and springy made them all the more precious, organic(?) chickens. Perhaps because they had been raised naturally, they tasted a bit better, I had to admit. Of course, since frying techniques had not yet developed, roasting was all we could do, but still, chicken was always right.
"Thank you, Fylkir."
"No need for thanks. Treat my house as your own, Konungr Hrørekr."
"Those words alone seem to sober me up, Fylkir."
Rurik, whose breath reeked of alcohol, grinned [sik—] and took a large bite of the chicken I had given him. Perhaps because it was the breast, the part they call dry, tough meat, the Konungr of Novgorod promptly washed it down with water.
Beside him, I bit into a chicken leg, moistened my throat with clean water, and gave Rurik a rough summary of the Finn situation that the blacksmith Randi had passed on to me.
Though it was said one should not discuss business while eating, the Konungr of Novgorod, more than anyone, needed to know the details of the Finns who were right above his head.
As expected, as soon as the subject of the Finns came up, his ruddy face and eyes changed in an instant, turning as cold as a winter wind slipping through sturdy stone walls.
"I did not expect the Finns of Karelia to resist so fiercely. What on earth were they thinking..."
Rurik, unable to bring himself to utter a vulgar word before me, merely furrowed his brow deeply.
"There has never been a raiding war on this scale. Fylkir, this is... not simply raiding between villages, it is war. If the damage on both sides grows, more and more heads will join the fighting."
The hallmark of the tribal system. If necessary, every last one of them went out to fight. The age range was roughly from fifteen to the elderly just shy of death.
"There is no guarantee that Novgorod will be safe, so I believe I must go, Fylkir."
"Of course. Who knows the situation there better than Konungr Hrørekr? It would be best to move as soon as your preparations are done."
"Yes, Fylkir!"
"Ah, and one more thing—"
I caught hold of Rurik, who had hurriedly tossed the last morsel into his mouth and was about to rise. He sat back down, sending me a look that asked why.
At my gesture, Guard Captain and Cavalry Captain Thorbjörn stepped forward, his every footfall excessively careful, holding a wooden box wrapped in purple cloth.
"Fylkir, what is this?"
"It is a gift, Konungr Hrørekr. Here, take it and open it."
From Thorbjörn to me, and from me to Rurik again.
Since the Norsemen had never performed such a ceremony before, the case, made largely with the help of the Eastern Roman court master Damian, looked quite convincing.
The image of a black dragon with great wings roaring toward the sky lay upon the purple cloth, and as Rurik's touch unveiled the wooden box, it had no decoration at all, yet the fine timber of the kind used for shipbuilding brought joy to anyone who could recognize it.
Like a child receiving a wholly unexpected gift at Christmas. With trembling hands, Rurik carefully found the notch of the wooden case and lifted the lid.
His gaze, as he looked down at the sword that soon revealed itself, was filled with complex emotions.
Awe, delight, gratitude, longing, desire.
At his glance seeking permission, I gave a light nod, and at last Rurik stretched out both hands, grasped the sword, and slowly slid his fingers around the grip and pulled.
[seureureureung—]
With a soft sound, the body of the sword revealed itself.
The sword, tinged with a subtle greenish luster, bared its shy bare body, and Rurik's fingertips, brushing over it, trembled faintly with excitement.
"Under normal circumstances, I would have bestowed this sword at a far grander occasion with a much more elaborate ceremony, but the situation is urgent, so I must present it to you like this."
"This... what on earth is it, Fylkir?"
The man who had not blinked at talk of Finns or war, his voice now trembled before a warrior's toy.
Of course.
Considering that toy was a meteoric iron sword that defied any price, it was a natural reaction. For treasure always revealed its true form only to those who knew its worth.
To a fine warrior like Rurik, the worth of this sword must have been plain to see.
"It is a sword, Konungr Hrørekr. It was forged from the same iron as the one I carry. A masterpiece wrought by the hands of the finest blacksmith, Randi."
"This—this is too great an honor, Fylkir. May I truly receive this sword?"
Rurik, who exercised restraint even before the obvious desire in his eyes, was truly a warrior of exceptional self-discipline.
"Of course, Hrørekr. This sword will henceforth be the sword wielded by the lord of Novgorod."
Hrørekr fell silent for a moment at my words, then with a face grown even sterner muttered a fearful oath.
"... Novgorod will henceforth obey forever before the name of the Fylkir. The Konungr of Novgorod will be the first sword wielded by the Fylkir of Árós. He will cut down the designated enemy and shatter whatever stands in the way. Whoever breaks this oath shall die torn into a thousand pieces."
"... It is only a single sword. Do not lose it, and keep it well."
Rurik did not kneel, nor did he bow to me like in the scenes I had seen on TV.
But all such formalities were nothing but needless ceremony before Rurik's two blazing eyes.
He had merely not cut out his heart stained with blood, yet his eyes, no different from having already sworn a blood oath within, seemed to gleam with an eerie light.
"There is only one thing I desire. I shall give silver and luxury, so I pray that the Konungr will pursue only honor. See that the people of Novgorod eat the same food and drink as you, and that they may sleep in a house as warm as your own.
... Though, of course, my house is a bit large, so they cannot all live in a house like this."
"Haha! I will surely do so, Fylkir."
It was impossible to give everyone in Árós a manor as large as my house. At my troubled expression, Rurik had burst out laughing. Yet his posture had not changed one bit from when he had first seen me. It was the same self-restrained bearing.
"So long as Novgorod keeps this oath, the Fylkir of Árós too shall fulfill his appointed duty. Your enemy will be my enemy, so I pray you always protect honor and your people. Konungr Hrørekr. Knyaz Rurik."
"I will keep it in my heart."
It was an unseemly covenant ceremony held over a meal. But the weight of the words we had spoken was far from small.
The mood had grown far heavier than I'd expected, and it felt like I'd done something pointless from the morning on. I was the first to rise from my seat.
Rurik remained seated awhile longer, gazing down at the sword beautifully adorned with the distinctive patterns of the North.
*****
[Pyung! Pyupyung! Shwaaak- Peok! Peobeok!]
"Urk! Kugh—"
"On the left! Return fire!"
"Watch between the trees and shoot!"
[Shwaaak- Peok! Pabak!]
"Both sides! Fall back!"
[Shwaak- Shwaaak- Pabak! Peok!]
"Damn it! Get back— cough!"
At that very hour, while the people of Árós were drowning in their vats of ale and barely in their right minds.
Across the sea, in the deep forests of the Finns, the beasts and trees of the woods were glutting themselves on the blood of men scattered here and there.
No matter how seasoned a hunter, in an unfamiliar forest he was little more than a blind man with his eyes open.
The ground here was half lake and half forest, and the fighting had continued in that same fashion. They would dig pits and wait; if the enemy stumbled in, they swiftly loosed their bowstrings, and if not, they moved on.
Each movement route led toward the place where the other side lay in wait. The path to the enemy's village.
The Karelian Finns had already struck first, burning the villages to the west and north. Once the families and kin trying to exact blood-price retaliated, the Karelian Finns' own villages around Lake Ladoga stirred to exact vengeance in turn.
As the grudges and vendettas of the Finns coiled around one another like snakes in a midwinter serpent pit, Takala had been receiving grim tidings: whose second son in which village had been killed, which village had been burned to the ground. Now, with only the end of the fifth month of summer.
At a time that could well be called autumn, beside a shore that had turned entirely to mire, he gathered the most elite warriors he could muster and prepared for a decisive fight.
The target was Vehkalahti. A village on the western side of Lake Ladoga, a gateway at the mouth of the long gulf that led out to the Baltic Sea—the Gulf of Finland.
In any case, up here the lakes had not yet fully frozen; they barred the way, so the enemy could neither launch ships nor cross on foot.
Judging by the situation, which was escalating into a great plundering war drawing in all the villages of Karelia and western Suomi, it did not look likely this blaze would subside easily. This was a village that had to be seized without fail.
'Above all, if it comes to it, I could negotiate with the Eesti south of the bay.'
As a fight grows larger, a man needs many friends.
Takala had already crossed the line beyond stopping, and he was fully resolved to set the whole world ablaze if necessary.
"Chief! Their resistance is fierce!"
"They know it as well. Is this not the only passable route, if you leave aside the treacherous lakes and swamps? Today, we take that place by any means. I shall lead myself."
"... Yes, Chief!"
He pulled a warm fur cap, reinforced with thick leather, over his head.
Takala rose from his spot with his loyal guard. The ground was sodden and sticky from the previous night's rain, but to the Suomi who had lived on this very land, it was utterly familiar and no cause for complaint.
"Are you all ready?"
"Of course, Chief."
"O Kuu, watch over us."
His low question was met by the warriors' vigorous response. Not rabble, but men who had hunted and fought alongside him through long years.
Warriors one could truly call the very finest.
'Kuu...'
Hearing Kuu's name amidst their familiar and reassuring reply, Takala thought this fight much like a hunt. A great hunt where men were the quarry instead of beasts.
'Whether we win or they do, in the end, the one who truly triumphs will be Kuu alone.'
Even at that moment, between the land of Suomi and Karelia, countless offerings were dying, spilling their blood.
Letting the thought drift aside that perhaps all this unfolding chaos was nothing more than the sport of the gods, Takala silently moved forward.
'Haven't we always been the gods' playthings? There is nothing new in that.'
The direction in which branches and undergrowth lay pressed down. Alien scents spreading faintly here and there. The dense moisture and heavy air pressed upon a man, but Takala—who had not won his chieftainship by mere endurance in the sauna—soon picked out where the enemy was likely to be.
'That place and that one. They hit our warriors from both sides, then moved. Follow the trail. I take the right, you the left.'
He signaled with his hands to the warrior directly behind him, and after a brief interval, confirmed with nods that everyone had understood.
Soon, as Takala crept forward, several warriors fell in behind him.
About the time it took to empty a cup of ale, something caught in Takala's senses, which he had heightened to the utmost—sight, hearing, and smell.
Into the vision of Takala, who had been moving as sluggishly as a snail, came a place perfectly suited for a man to hide. The enemy had cleverly set their trap where the forest ended: just past a wide clearing of felled timber, where the hazy outline of the harbor village emerged.
'Enemy. Between the brush. Draw your bowstrings.'
Swiftly indicating the position with a jab of his fingers, Takala rose carefully from his prone position and drew his bow.
[Keegeek- Keekeegeek-]
He deliberately ignored the bow's creaking protest, which, though drawn slowly, sounded like thunder to him. Calmly steadying his breath, Takala fixed his gaze intently upon the target spot and smoothly released the string.
[Pyung-!]
The shot arrow vanished in an instant beyond the thicket.
[Shwaaak- Peok! Urk!]
The sound of something striking home mingled with a man's scream. At once, Takala drew the blade from his belt and charged forward.
[Pyung! Pyupyung!]
[Shwaaak- Shwaaak-]
[Pyung! Pyung!]
[Agh! Keok! Kugh-! Kreuk-]
Right after, arrows flew from everywhere. Along with dull thuds, screams and the gurgling of blood filled the once-silent forest.
Takala, who had moved ahead of any other man there, heard arrows hiss past his head and body. Then he brought his sword down with full force onto the head of the enemy who appeared before him.
"Kek— kreuk—"
"Kill them all!"
[Whoong— Peok!]
The head of the enemy, who had already taken an arrow to the collarbone and was vomiting blood, was mercilessly hammered into the ground by the descending blade. Without pause, Takala's warriors rushed in and began pitilessly stabbing and hacking at the foes with axes and short knives.
"No need for slaves! Cut down every last one of them!"
The gloomy forest was instantly overtaken by the madness of battle, and the warriors, answering their chief's command with fervor, did what they did best.