160. Hunter and Prey (2).
160. Hunter and Prey (2).
Not everyone needed to know everything.
A journalist burning with a sense of duty might foam at the mouth and raise a revolution over the right to know or whatnot...
But Europe in 867 was a world full of people getting mauled by beasts because they had nothing to eat right now.
For people seeking a strong leader, stability mattered above all else, and for the sake of that sense of stability, they were fully prepared to throw away their lives.
The great upheaval of the Finns unfolding beyond the Eastern Sea was, in truth, a story that felt largely irrelevant to the people of Åros.
It might have been an exceedingly urgent and important matter from my position, with my seat as head of the eastern jarls just below Lake Ladoga, or from Rurik's position, with his own domain exposed to danger.
But for those with no stake in it, it was nothing more than gossip to bring up at a drinking table when there was nothing else to say. "By the way, did you hear that story?" "What story?" "You know, the one. About the Finns beyond the Eastern Sea fighting each other." "Ah, that one?"
Stories of roughly that sort.
Thus, the schedule of the Great North Sea Athletic Games proceeded without a hitch, and while the events thus far were being recorded by the hands of Leon and his disciples, only the final event remained.
[Puhihihing- purureuk- pureuk- ttakttak- ttakttak- pureureuk-]
Something that didn't quite fit the cold snowfields of the north—the vigorous snorting and teeth-grinding of a horse, even the sound of its front hooves stamping the ground, reminiscent of a grassland.
Like dogs and cats, most animals—pigs, sheep, goats, especially livestock—were quick-witted and each had its own personality, so their favorite foods or hay differed, and where they liked to lie down differed too.
From the standpoint of someone who had raised a horse and even ridden it into battle on a saddle, this animal called a horse was, I could say, the ultimate boss of personality.
A body that lightly surpassed a human's height when it reared on its hind legs, a lofty pride in direct proportion to its capability.
I had occasionally heard tales of one or two rare ones that would run like the wind while also listening well to people, but I had yet to see one with my own eyes.
[Pu-hihing-! Puhing!]
"You beast, please...! Let go of it, please...!"
[Pureuk- pureureuk-]
However, as exchanges with Roman or Magyar horse breeders gradually increased under a sort of state support policy(?), skill and experience had begun to attach themselves to our Norsemen's horsemanship.
In truth, my contribution to this could be said to be immense. The fact that I had always, without fail, led a cavalry force whenever war broke out had been a great help in its own way.
Particularly, according to the cavalrymen's recollections, the Valley Kingdom, where you couldn't find solid ground even if you washed your eyes and looked, had been the hardest.
At any rate, such hard-won, flesh-and-blood experience combined with the trinity of aid from nomads and an empire that had fought nomads for long ages—our North Sea horse culture was developing so rapidly it was changing day by day.
So to speak, in accordance with my intention to champion the slogan 'National power is horse power!', the final event of this grand athletic competition also became a horse race.
[Pu-hihing! Pureuk! Pureuk!]
"Let go of it! Let go of it, I said!"
[Pureureuk!]
Likely a cherished belonging, a leather glove in the horse's mouth, a battle of wills between man and beast refusing to let go. While all the surrounding horses and people alike watched this commotion with amusement.
Behind this peaceful scene, I was stroking the back of Camembert's neck and spoke in a low voice to those arrayed behind me.
"I have already told Konungr Hrørekr to depart as soon as matters are settled, but I could not lay all the burden upon that one man, and so I have called upon all of you here."
[Huk- huk-]
After socializing with the reindeer friends in my front yard, Camembert—having reduced his teeth-grinding and increased his nostril-puffing—fluttered his ears with an expression of contentment.
The competent military horse manager from Magyar, who also served as head of North Sea horsemanship and quality controller of Fylkir's pasture, had said upon seeing Camembert's condition that he could remain active in the field for at least five years, but I was not certain about dragging this fellow around anymore.
Shouldn't he now rest comfortably and enjoy retirement? This fellow had wandered through too many battlefields in a short time.
I handed him one more cabbage leaf and turned around. Before my eyes stood the members of the so-called 'Marmaros Conference.'
Ívarr, Ubba, Sigbrith, Leon, and the ones I had added—Uhtred, Thorgny, and Tosteinn.
... And Stórolf, for reasons unknown.
Miroslau, the de facto host of this conference, was surely busy acting as mediator for the Anti-Karelian Alliance alongside my father-in-law and would have no leisure for this.
In the end, the situation had taken the shape where I had to step forward again.
"As you all know, the situation beyond the sea is growing ever more serious. The forces of Novgorod, as I understand it, number around fifteen hundred from the city alone. Combined with Polotsk, twenty-five hundred. If we mobilize all the able-bodied men of the cooperating villages, it would surely amount to five thousand. This is more than enough for defense, but insufficient for attack. Is there anything incorrect in what I have said, Jarl Stórolf?"
"You are precisely correct! Oh, Fylkir...! If Jarl Haskuld of Kiev joins as well, the number would swell further, but it would take far too long."
Further below lay Cherson of Eastern Rome; to the left of Kiev were the Magyars, and to the right, the Khazars. At this point, all were friendly to us, so if we truly pushed it, we could perhaps concentrate all the warriors of the east, but...
Even if we drew them together like that, once they entered the marshlands, they would all be useless. Troops that could not maneuver were nothing but baggage.
"Oh, Fylkir! If you would but give the command! I shall lead the Garmr brotherhood from Norrland this very moment...! And cut down those deer-blood-sucking savages in one fell—"
"Stórolf. You have not already forgotten the Valley Kingdom, have you? That place did not even have trees, but the land of Suomi is filled with forests no less dense than our own. I have no intention of pushing you or the warriors into such treacherous terrain."
"—Aye! Fylkir!"
The utility of heavy infantry or cavalry ultimately covers plains, hilly lands, or even mountainous terrain, but... against the insane combination of marshland + forest, nothing could be done.
No, you can't even advance? Can you win a fight by taking off the W key? And if you do that, the A, D, and S keys don't work that well either.
Having thus lightly sunk the bloodthirsty Stórolf, I passed the baton to those whose minds were more calculating.
"To state the core of my plan in advance, I intend to end this conflict within the Finns with silver, iron, and grain. What are your thoughts?"
Silver, iron, grain.
As long as cavalry was not yet included, these were the three greatest reasons the North Sea could dominate the northern hemisphere of Europe.
As these were all individuals capable of casually ruling a region or so (except Stórolf), the eyes of everyone gathered here flashed, and each wore a somewhat sinister smile at the corners of their mouths.
"To bestow golden arm rings and swords upon the warriors under one's command—that has been the ancient prerogative of a Konungr. The chieftains of the Sámi and Finns will be grateful, and Karelia will regret it."
"... Jarl Ubba. I have no interest in dominion over the Sámi or Suomi. I merely wish to support those who are favorably disposed toward me, so see to it that a path is arranged to supply iron and provisions from Britain and Scandinavia. Since we are at it, it would be even better to turn it into a permanent trade route."
I nodded toward Uhtred, Thorgny, and Tosteinn.
Konungr Tosteinn and the two jarls, who had grasped my signal to seize a share by muscling into international trade at this opportunity as if they had godly ears, vigorously nodded back.
"Jarl Ívarr shall take charge of leading the Marmaros Conference for the time being—"
"Me!?"
"—The sooner the better, but we must not work at cross purposes with Konungr Rurik of Novgorod and his course of action. Jarl Stórolf, please ensure that messengers may move swiftly between Beodericsworth in Britain, Lincoln, Aberdeen, here in Åros, and Novgorod. I shall grant leave for the messengers to bear my banner, so none must block a messenger's path."
"Aye! Fylkir! Leave it to me!"
Stórolf puffed out his chest with a menacing air, as if he would personally dispose of anyone who dared block the way.
At this display, Camembert laughed [pureuk- pureuk-] as if looking at an amusing human, but Stórolf did not notice.
'Oh, Finns of Karelia. It appears you have taken action trusting in your land. I shall correct that notion. There are places a man cannot enter, but money is a different story.'
I would beat them down with money.
*****
'Ee-yah!'
The life of Constantine the Roman had been luxurious but unstable; he had had a father, but could not see his mother.
In contrast, the life of Constantine the Northman was simple but stable; he no longer had a father, but he had a mother.
Constantine was still young, as his mother said, and he could not know the exact circumstances of the events unfolding around him, yet he possessed the keen intuition peculiar to a child.
Most likely, he thought, he would never again set foot in Athens or Constantinople, where he had been born and raised.
Because Father had ultimately not returned, and he himself had been led by the hand of some giant hero to this strange land.
[You must survive, Constantine. Survive—]
His father, who had grown increasingly stern and fearsome, had on the last day they met spoken to him incomprehensible words. Those eyes and that voice hinted at a parting, as if between people who would never meet again.
Constantine had steeled himself for a harsh scolding and had buried himself in his father's chest, crying his eyes out.
But his father, far from scolding him, had embraced him instead, and so Constantine grew all the more certain of the parting from his father. And he could never see that face again.
However, life snatched away even the leisure for young Constantine to act spoiled. Once he reached this place, Åros, there was no one to scold him, yet he grew increasingly withdrawn—until he made a friend with whom his heart connected.
That friend was Hrolfgeir.
"Hrollo! It's starting soon!"
[Tak! Tak!]
"Wah- It's starting! But I told you not to call me Hrollo!"
A Norseman older and bigger than himself. If there existed such a thing as a brother, which he had never had, Constantine wondered if it would feel like this. Since Hrolfgeir was the son of Jarl Hrólfr, an old retainer of the giant hero—now Fylkir—Helgi Ragnarsson, he naturally had frequent dealings with Constantine, who ate and slept at the Fylkir's house, and the two soon became friends who went everywhere together.
"The Fylkir himself called you Hrollo! Why don't you just change your name while you're at it?"
"Well, that's true, but... doesn't it feel like he's just shortening my name?"
"I don't know! From now on, you're just Hrollo!"
"... It's Hrolfgeir."
A reliable older brother figure who was good at fighting and shared tasty things. Beside this pure-hearted Norseman brother who never said an ill word no matter how much he was teased, Constantine stood on his tiptoes and looked down below.
People shouting the name of Fylkir Helgi Ragnarsson, eating and drinking like mad before this 'horse race' that he was seeing for the first time.
Even normally, the Fylkir was a beloved Basileus, but after displaying that... miracle, two days ago, Constantine felt he had ascended another level entirely.
'I, too, shall definitely become such a warrior...! And then, without fail, my mother and the people of my house...!'
The mother he had thought he would never see again, who had abandoned everything of her house and homeland and rushed here solely for his sake. Constantine took in the sight of her with both eyes, her face bright as she conversed over there among the noble ladies, and then turned his head again.
[-!!! -!!!]
As if about to begin soon, horses of white, black, brown, and even dappled patterns entered their designated positions at the starting line, and a man in a blue cloth who had climbed onto a high platform—the one called the judge—shouted something.
'That man has a quiet voice. Jarl Stórolf had a really loud voice, which was nice.'
Perhaps he had some busy matter today, for Jarl Stórolf was nowhere to be seen.
But it didn't seem to matter much. The Fylkir, who had been seated in the very center of the VIP section, personally rose to his feet, extended one arm, and spoke: "Begin!"
The savior. The hero of the sagas. The strongest warrior.
Heracles in the flesh, none of it mere childish fantasy, spoke lowly with a faintly held smile. Yet, so immense was the power contained within that the heavy voice flew and lodged itself even here, far away.
'Begin—!'
Constantine surreptitiously mimicked the Fylkir's posture and voice.
But soon, the gaze of everyone, including Constantine, converged upon a single spot.
[Buuuuuung-! Bung- bung- buuuung!]
[-!]
[Pu-hihihihing-! Pureureureuk-! Duguk- duguk- duguk- dageudak- dageudak-!]
With the sound of a vigorous horn, horses surged forward as one with dynamic power, and those witnessing such a scene for the first time in their lives let out a collective roar of cheers.
The image of the horses and their riders stretching straight forward against the wind was branded upon young Constantine's heart like a red-hot iron searing into flesh.