162. Hunter and Prey (4).
162. Hunter and Prey (4).
Not that it was news.
All the land of Áros was mine.
Strictly speaking, it was my mother's... but since she told me to handle it, wasn't it mine now?
I must have mentioned before that my maternal family was a great landed power and an ancient goði household. But I never specified the exact extent.
According to the meticulous, argumentative lögmenn (law-speakers)—those human memoranda—a multitude of kings over the ages had ceded this or that, revoked claims, granted nominally while still using the lands themselves, and then dropped dead... and through that long, convoluted chain of events, the law confirmed the miraculous fact that we could demand a share in practically all the lands of the west aside from Uppsala.
A mighty house that held fast to the land beside the western waterways of Uppsala. That house's sole female heir. And, on top of that, a renowned goði.
That was why you could hardly look at my father and mother's union as a simple love-match.
It was also why my stepmother Áslaug bore no great resentment toward my mother. Though she never said so, Áslaug herself—daughter of the Jarl of Visby—had entered her own marriage to my father for much the same reasons.
Those with money sought those with power, and those with power sought those with money.
These medieval Norse folk, who appeared to live lives of utter simplicity, in truth led exceedingly calculating lives.
Lord knew by what routes they'd trickled into ordinary households, but Arab silver coins and silver ingots circulated openly as currency, my brother Ivar swaggered around proudly wearing a ring engraved with the name of Allah while wielding a single-edged seax.
Under Fylkir, Muslim and Orthodox scholars shared knowledge and advanced civilization. And right beside them, Sigurd vigorously recited his sagas.
A dystopian world where the cross and the crescent became one beneath the raven and the woman of bones.
If 2077 had cyberpunk, then perhaps 867 had Norse-punk...
In any case. I was no mere titular owner—I truly was the master of the broad lands to the left of Uppsala, including Áros, and naturally I did not leave those lands idle.
In the end, Áros, the granary beyond, and even the fishing boats upon the sea—all merely amounted to the leasing of rights to my land.
Owner of the buildings and owner of the land...! Truly, this body of mine, this honored god, touched upon the power of the Creator.
On top of that, without my leave, no one could so much as set foot on the Dnieper River to trade with that insane country with an estimated population of eight million (the Eastern Roman Empire's administrative power is the best in the world!).
Thus, to me, the living incarnation of mobile wealth, the bearer of the 'Midas touch' without its drawbacks, the gifts they were now bestowing upon me were no more than money I could earn in 0.01 seconds.
"Here, take it."
"I am honored! Fylkir!"
Yet the exquisitely crafted golden statues—each sculpted in the visage of the event's respective champion—held a meaning beyond mere monetary worth.
"I shall look forward to the next games."
"I swear I will offer you victory!"
"Not for my sake—prove yourself. All is recorded, so next time aim to leave an even finer record. Can you do that?"
"...Of course!"
Leaving behind Kveldulf, the javelin champion with his glistening eyes, I continued the awarding of prizes.
Along with Kveldulf, there was Vadim, who had also performed splendidly in the javelin, boxing, and glíma (wrestling). And then the winners of the diving and the footrace.
And Guthrum, champion of the pole-leap, and the one and only champion of the swimming—the unprecedented and never-to-be-repeated sole finisher—my own godly self.
For the swimming statuette, they had painstakingly carved my face into the golden figure; it would be an eternal treasure of our house. I would pass it down for generations.
Last of all, standing before me, man and beast: the first-ever champions of the horse race.
The Magyar Barany and his horse, Gold Ship.
Only moments ago, I had called Norsemen simple in appearance but calculating in truth. Dogs, horses, sheep, chickens, and cattle—those animals truly were simple, and they instinctively grew wary when they saw anything large and imposing.
[Puruuk- pururuuk-]
But when they saw a human as overly large and imposing as me, they naturally lowered their tails. So to speak, I possessed a sort of animal-friendly(?) physique.
You'd have to bring one of those big, sturdy bears from Eastern Europe to stand its ground before my aura.
"Whoa— whoa— there, you truly ran splendidly, Gold Ship. The fastest horse I ever saw is you."
[Puruuk- pururuuk-]
The beast's brown coat, quietly nibbling the cabbage leaf I had offered, gleamed sleekly.
The Magyar rider Barany watched the sight with slightly startled eyes.
"You, too, were the finest rider I have ever seen, Barany of the Magyars."
The moment the Magyar tongue spilled from my lips, Barany's eyes went as wide as his mouth and he hastily bent one knee, bowing his head to show me deference.
'Now this is an unfamiliar custom.'
"Great Khagan! Accept the courtesy of this lowly one!"
"..."
Khagan, he said.
[Asak- asak-]
The master crouched and offered his respects, while the horse, wholly absorbed in the cabbage, worked its pitch-black lips.
I, who had briefly spaced out at the unexpected title, hurriedly raised Barany to his feet amid the Norsemen who were watching the nomad's salute with intrigued eyes.
They wouldn't go copying this because it looked cool, would they.
'Khagan, is it? Is this Árpád's scheme to drive a wedge between the Khazars and the North Sea people?'
Having been so put through the wringer by the Eastern Romans, dark schemes were the first thing to spring to mind, but looking at Barany, trembling as he rose to his feet under my hand, it didn't seem like that.
Most likely he was just terribly nervous.
Amid the generally tall folk of Áros, Barany looked even smaller, like a pitiful lamb before a bear like me, and I hastened to put an end to his agony(?).
"Here, take it. Captain of the Golden Drakkar. Your race, yours and Gold Ship's, was fine enough to warrant a saga of its own. Would you consider staying on under my command, by any chance?"
I placed the splendid golden ornament upon the head of the docile Gold Ship, and likewise presented Barany with the golden statue of the galloping horse and rider, asking the question in a low voice.
The still-bowing Barany raised his head just a little and answered.
"It is an honor, and again an honor...! This lowly one shall do whatever the Khagan desires."
"Good, thank you. I'd like you to teach my riders well. You can discuss the details with Torgny. And if you have family or kin, tell them Áros's doors are always open to them as well."
"Yes! Khagan!"
With Barany, who loudly answered as he held the golden rider's statuette in both hands, the awards drew to a close, and I ascended the high dais once more, flung my arms wide before the people encircling the arena, and shouted:
"Behold! People of the North Sea! These are the heroes of this contest!"
[Yaaaaah-!]
[Helgi! Helgi!]
[Kveldulf! Vadim!]
[Gold Ship! Gold Ship!]
At my proclamation, the people roared as one, shouting the champions' names with all their might.
Overwhelmed by that colossal honor, the winners each raised their golden statues high, waved, and shed tears of pure emotion.
Emotion, by nature, is contagious, and among these North Sea folk, for whom such a contest was a first, there were those who wept as well.
'It was a magnificent competition.'
It wasn't the flower-petal-strewn reception I had received upon first entering Constantinople, but the straightforward, splendid scene brought an involuntary, gratified warmth to my heart.
This sight, I thought, I would surely never forget.
A mix of lingering attachment, relief, and anticipation. Feeling that inscrutable blend of emotions, I stood behind the champions and sent them off with my applause.
*****
When the massive movement of goods began in Britain and Áros.
The Sámi chieftains, together with Jarl Miroslaw, had crossed the sea and were meeting with the chieftains of the western coast of Suomi.
"The bastards have seized Vekaralahti?"
"They have, Jarl Miroslaw. The warriors of Vekaralahti fought to the last, but they departed to the side of Ukko."
Ukko—the god comparable to Thor. To have gone to his side meant, in short, they were dead.
'Things have gotten troublesome.'
The southern and northern routes leading toward Lake Ladoga. Thanks to the wet season, the northern route had virtually turned into a skirmish-ridden bog, so the only way was to advance along the coast.
And the enemy had seized the very middle of that corridor.
"See here, Chief Gáktu—"
While my head was busy with other thoughts, I called out to Gáktu, the chief of the great Sámi clan situated directly above Jarl Eret's reindeer farm. For some reason, Gáktu's expression was somewhat sullen.
'Ah!'
"Jarl Gáktu!"
"Hmph. What is it, Jarl Miroslaw."
When I addressed him as Jarl instead of chief, Gáktu broke into a smile and answered.
The figure was, somehow... a little incongruous. His armor and helmet were fine Áros-made iron, riveted chainmail, with a sword at his belt and a large square shield, looking every inch like a member of Fylkir's household troops.
But behind him on the opposite hip hung a long quiver, and over his right shoulder was slung a bow crafted by joining two pieces of wood in a peculiar fashion.
His sturdy frame seemed to bear all that armament with strength to spare, yet every gap in his armor was trimmed with costly furs, making him look a little lumbering in motion.
However, Miroslaw, who knew full well just how astute this chief—no, this Jarl—was, addressed the commander-in-chief of the Sámi expeditionary force, who wore the pleased smile.
"The enemy has seized the favorable ground first. How would it be best for us to move?"
Miroslaw's own godly self was a man of sharp calculation, but he was well aware that he was no exceptional hand at leading warriors or fighting in the thick of it.
In that case, the solution was simple: leave it to one who knew battle. Was it not, after all, Miroslaw's sole desire to deliver this Marmaros to Fylkir?
... And, while at it, to explore the waterways beyond just a little, perhaps to launch a few ships if luck permitted and visit the place Jarl Ivar had spoken of called Atil... and earn some coin...
At any rate.
Fylkir had entrusted him with a great task. Failure was absolutely out of the question. Therefore, Miroslaw resolved to do only what his godly self did best.
That was to coordinate the Sámi-Suomi expedition with his long-honed eye for people and the uncannily quick wits he'd been born with.
The rest would be done as they wished.
"When a stag that would pass meets a stag that would bar the way, only one thing can be done, Jarl Miroslaw."
Drawing a comb of antler to smooth his whiskers, the Sámi Jarl Gáktu peered down at a crudely drawn geographical chart.
The coastline and everything else were wrong, drawn so simply it could barely be called a map at all—a mere diagram. On the fine-quality parchment, which had become far easier to obtain of late, were marked the landing point, the major villages of Suomi, and Vekaralahti, now occupied by the foe.
And beyond that, Lake Ladoga and the strongholds of the Karelians.
'Takala, was it...'
The name of the enemy's leader. Unlike the more rational Miroslaw or Gáktu, the completely enraged Suomi chieftains longed to chew that name's living flesh.
"They will clash their antlers to decide who is superior, and one will retreat. Do you not think so?"
As the half-Norse, half-Sámi Jarl obliquely broached the subject, the seated Suomi chieftain, struggling to contain his own bloodthirsty vigor, spoke without concealing his scorn.
"Chief Peura is already fighting them, and Chief Leto has agreed to descend from the north. We do not mean to clash antlers—we mean to cut them off. Chief Gáktu. When this battle is over, the Karelians and Takala will exist no more. I will string their heads up in the trees to comfort those who have fallen."
'Bloodthirsty men.'
Is this what the Norsemen of old looked like? They had once raided together, they said. That rage-swollen face was just like a boar gone blind with fury.
"Of course, Chief Hapala. Is that not precisely why we have come here?"
With a gentle voice, Miroslaw soothed Hapala's anger, then immediately began to enumerate the goods that would be arriving from Britain and Áros.
Wheat from the granaries raided daily by the Rat Demon King's army; high-quality iron weapons and armor produced for the last war but locked away in Britain's warehouses before they could see use; consumables like arrows; salt meat that was easy to carry and eat; dried fish.
And even fine wine for the chieftains and the leadership.
Fylkir's words were always right, and his will was vast.
Those fools, the brothers Rurik and Oleg, might think to do the fighting themselves... but a true leader must think and act like Fylkir.
With surplus goods, you gain influence more valuable than coin, and you put these simple yet dangerous chieftains in your debt. At the same time, you yourself would obtain the Marmaros you desired.
"I still wonder whether High Chief Helgi may be overexerting himself. Truly, you mean to say he gives us all of this?"
"That is correct. Fylkir is generous. Chief Hapala."
"I shall surely repay him."
Oh— you really didn't need to.
Miroslaw did not trouble to say the words aloud.