163. Suomen laulu: The Song of Suomi.
163. Suomen laulu: The Song of Suomi.
I had never seen the waves stop. So naturally, life wouldn't stop either.
It was a connection of sentences that was all style and no substance, but that was how human emotions were.
The human mind was not as logical as one might think.
'Did I drink too much wine yesterday?'
My body was about 50,000 light-years away from a hangover, yet the hall of my newly built marital home, transformed from a grand banquet hall into a grand council chamber, had the festive atmosphere vanish entirely like droplets of white water, replaced by a heavy air.
I hadn't built a marital home for this.
Somehow, even the new house was being used as an office and court combined. I was utterly ashamed before Inga.
'I'll have to build a new house... a villa. Over in Britain, I mean. And beyond that, was it Iceland? Had it been discovered yet?'
Beyond Iceland was Greenland. Beyond that, another frozen land... Wait, why was I only going left? Toward Örn, there was the Arctic, too.
The Arctic was a land without even penguins, a truly useless place. Wouldn't it be the optimal place to build a villa?
"—the shipment was as stated. If the weather held, it should be approaching Árós by now—"
"—the Norrland warriors were ready. However, in my opinion, we should call the warriors patrolling the Dnieper River—"
"—the battlefield was forming lengthwise to the north, centered on the palisade village at the end of the long gulf (Gulf of Finland)—"
Trade with Eastern Rome was now a routine, not a special event, and thanks to that, candles and lamps, which had become far from precious objects, glowed dimly. In the midst of this, my Konungrs and Jarls, lined up on both sides of the long table, were sharing the situation and exchanging opinions on their respective parts.
I had felt it before, but truly, was this the feeling of a generation passing? Just two, maybe three years ago, I had been out there in the field with Ivar, making judgments and throwing my whole body into the fray. And now I was just sitting here at the head of the table, merely keeping my seat.
'I was happy. This was the perfectly right direction.'
Indeed, casually tossing off work was the best choice of my life. Since I had just thrown it at them from the start, weren't they now handling it well on their own?
"Lord Fylkir."
Just as I was raising my cup of mead with a satisfied heart, Jarl Haraldr, who had been somewhat removed from that chaos with me, drew my attention with a calm voice.
Haraldr Halfdanrson. Lord of Kaupang. A man who could become a major player in the future due to Kaupang's location on the waterway from Britain to Árós. Above all, still unmarried. Among the participants who had been utterly crushed by me in the last swimming competition, he was the only one who had received even a little of the people's attention. The reason was, first of all, because he was dazzlingly handsome!
'Indeed. A face worth being wary of.'
He had looks so fine that bards would voluntarily bring him songs, so I found myself unconsciously aware of him. Was this what a rival felt like? As I casually stroked my neatly trimmed beard and replied, "Jarl Haraldr," the man with bright blue eyes slightly bowed his head and conveyed his opinion to me in a serious voice.
"I had heard there was trouble in the Finnic lands, but I didn't know it was this great."
The ambitious and greedy lords who followed me had long since cast off the festive mood and turned their gaze toward places smelling of blood, steel, and silver. In truth, the common people of Árós were still steeped in the afterglow of the festival. The athletes and winners who had suddenly risen as heroes were being called here and there, and young men and women, thoroughly drunk on alcohol and the festive spirit, were burning with love. When a city fell into such a state, naturally, even a great battle happening across the sea became a drinking snack.
The North Sea was far more involved in the fighting with the Finns than people realized, but at least within the walls of this city, one couldn't even get the slightest clue. It was understandable that the people or Jarl of Kaupang, situated beyond the mountains and deep forests, were indifferent to affairs beyond the Eastern Sea. It was rather strange that he was bringing this up... but as I looked quietly into Haraldr's eyes, I sensed that this young ruler had something on his mind.
"No one would have known that what started as an attempt to get a little marmaros would escalate into war."
I was chiming in with Haraldr's words, but my voice was filled with a sense of absurdity. My honest feelings as I looked at the rapidly plummeting land of xylitol were contained precisely in that sentence. All of this was blowing up so much because of rocks that we needed to learn how to mine and for which we had to airlift special cement from Eastern Rome...?
I took another drink in disbelief.
The astonishing scent of the mead even blocked my nose and took away a bit of the world's dizzying worries, but Haraldr wanted to dig in deeper.
"By any chance... is there a place for Geat warriors in that war?"
What was this now?
Had I drunk too much mead?
"Geat warriors?"
Having been sitting slightly slouched, my posture grew uncomfortable, so I adjusted myself once more and looked at Haraldr. The energy of the mead had already long since been blown away in a single breath. Meeting my slightly tilted gaze, Haraldr also adjusted his posture to sit straighter and added more explanation.
"Recently, as my father stepped back, I became the de facto head of Kaupang and the Thing, but there are still many who sympathize with my father. Mostly the old families. They use adherence to the old laws as a pretext to hold onto land and slaves and continue enjoying their traditional power."
Ah—. There had been people like that in Árós, too. The traditional noble families who had held their ground here since ancient times, and so on and so forth. The old stones of a Norse society that was both liberal and, in some ways, utterly obstinate. As the actual owner of the land, I had smashed, crushed, and cleared away all those stones, but it would be awkward from Haraldr's point of view. My case was the unusual one; normally, they would resolve things by conceding to each other to a reasonable degree.
But in Haraldr's bright blue eyes, I could see not just the image of the dignified gentleman I had seen so far, but also that of a wolf that would bite everything if things went wrong.
'He had no intention of making this easy.'
I had thought a fire had broken out across the sea, but as it turned out, a fire was about to break out right next door. Was it because it was autumn?
"I understood well, Jarl Haraldr. So then, what can I do for the master of Kaupang?"
As if the permission he had been waiting for had finally fallen, Haraldr bared the fangs he had been hiding.
Novgorod, Garðaríki.
The head of the Rus' lands, a kingdom of towns in the literal sense. The capital. The central hub of the Eastern North Sea, recognized by the Fylkir.
Since the end of the long gulf was in the midst of battle, Rurik and Oleg, who had moved along the lower coast of the gulf—nominally the domain of the Eistr but practically empty—were able to enter the town of the Rus', which had accepted them as leaders.
It had been a city where Svíar warriors had crossed the sea in great numbers from the beginning, so culturally it had already been half-Norseman to start with, but.
After they came under the Buksae and the Fylkir, the Rus' people had now begun to recognize themselves fully as Buksae people.
If you ever once saw the Dnieper River stretching endlessly down below, with the merchant ships of the Buksae and Rome plying that great waterway without rest, who wouldn't call themselves one of the Buksae? But anyway, that fervor and energy were far greater than Rurik or Oleg had expected.
"What!? Those bastards dared refuse the generous offer the Fylkir bestowed...?"
"What is the meaning of this? Those ignorant wretches have seized the Fylkir's land?"
"These lakeshore wretches have lost their minds! They dare insult our Fylkir...!?"
The Rus' were a people second to none when it came to innate ferocity.
Why else would they have begged a Svíar warrior to become their Knyaz, just so they would stop fighting among themselves? To establish some law, they had said.
The Fylkir's effort to gradually civilize(?) these people beneath a tide of silver coins and grain had channeled their warlike nature in the wrong direction.
It was now no secret at all for the people of the Rus' to wear silver necklaces bearing the Fylkir's name, or rings carved with the symbol of Hel.
The wholly unexpected loyalty of the Rus' had created an atmosphere that they should punish those insolent Karelians immediately, and Novgorod was seething.
"Konungr Rurik! The will of the Thing is clear! We must chastise those Karelians!"
The people of the Rus', who at some point had begun calling him Konungr instead of Knyaz. What's more, they had even given the name Thing to their pre-existing village chief assembly.
"Calm yourselves. The Fylkir will be grateful for your fervor as well, but we are acting under a larger plan."
"A larger plan...! Konungr Rurik. Is it perhaps that you are drawing back a step, fearing the marshes, forests, and mosquitoes those lakeshore wretches boast of so proudly...!? You should have told the Fylkir more actively that we of Novgorod are eager to fight—"
To point out a warrior's courage was a remarkably rude and challenging statement, but having dealt with the rough and simple people of the Rus' in Novgorod for no short time, Rurik could brush off such words with a smile.
[sururung—]
"Now, look upon this sword. Let all the people of Novgorod assembled here look upon it! The Fylkir has personally bestowed this sky-fallen blade upon the ruler of Novgorod! Let those with eyes see! Let those with mouths spread this fact far and wide!"
They were simply afraid.
That the living hero of this age, who had silenced the mouths of prophets who spoke only gauzy nonsense of ancient tales and myths, might turn his back on them.
They were only afraid of losing the attention of the king who let them eat their fill without the wheat ever running dry, and with the leftover silver coins allowed them to obtain strange objects they had never seen in their lives instead of firewood or emergency rations.
"Ah—!"
"The Fylkir's sword...!"
Leaving behind the people of the Rus', their eyes glazed over before the radiantly gleaming meteoric sword, Rurik and Oleg barely managed to step into the office.
A solid wood table crafted by the high-level artisans of Constantinople, sturdy chairs airlifted directly from Árós. The interior of the office had changed so drastically that it could not even be compared to just a few years earlier.
Moreover, having taken the opportunity to stop by Árós personally and confirm with his own eyes the Fylkir's house, which had been the subject of endless rumors, Rurik had been cozying up to Jarl Leon with sudden warmth.
Harboring the ambition to soon build a mansion on one of Novgorod's hills similar to the place where the Fylkir had once dwelled, Rurik looked at the map before him and began writing down what he would convey to Jarl Miroslav.
The approximate timing of Novgorod's attack, the arrival schedule of supplies coming over from Britain and Árós. A request for information on the current situation of Vehkalahti, the center of the war...
Though outside the air was filled with the sound of voices ceaselessly shouting the names of the Fylkir and himself, Rurik's eyes did not waver in the slightest.
*****
Refil, who had found some free time for himself after a long while, barely managed to settle his splitting head.
This was the jewel of the Buksae. Refil's house, situated on the eastern side of Árós. To Refil's personal taste, the west side beyond the bridge was far more charming than the east where everything was sharply angled like a blade.
But he couldn't exactly run away from a house personally given by the Fylkir simply because he found the surrounding atmosphere awkward.
Having already roamed all manner of places following the Fylkir, Refil knew how livable a city Árós was. He believed it was a stroke of luck to live here at all, whether east or west.
In the end, wasn't it just the petulant complaint of a full belly?
Pressing both hands against his head, still throbbing from the previous night's overdrinking.
Refil roused his body from the bed and moved his heavy limbs.
'Bed, chair. And what else would he make.'
When Refil himself had been young, sleep meant either dozing off sitting up against a wall or, if you truly couldn't endure it, hugging a goat or pig to stay warm...
Now they no longer spent the winter shivering in the cold, and this thing called a bed had been devised by the Fylkir himself. The generations below Refil would surely lose the romance of sleeping while sitting up.
'If you grow up too comfortably as a child, you can't become a fine warrior...'
Refil, having become an old soul at just twenty years of age.
[kiiik—]
"Hwaaa— aahm?"
After the dreadful athletic meet—where he'd truly rather have been tumbling on a battlefield—was over, Refil threw open the door for a breath of rare fresh morning sunlight, only to find a warrior with an awkward expression standing before his eyes.
A warrior who could well have been called 'the Bear of Árós,' had it not been for the existence of the Fylkir.
A comrade leading the Garmr Brotherhood together in Norrland. A fierce commander he could trust to guard his back at any time.
"Stórolf...?"
"Ah— Refil...! Hahahaha! A fine morning, isn't it!"
Just what business did this bastard have here...
A sense of foreboding arose, and Refil, still with his hand on the door, made to whip it shut—
But regrettably, Stórolf was no lumbering ox who merely had size; he was a warrior with lightning-fast reflexes too.
[tat!]
"Agh! Please! Please, help me!"
Shoving his arm through the door, Stórolf immediately began to whine.
'Only three days have passed since we were finally allowed to rest...'
Feeling the headache that had momentarily subsided stirring once more, Refil squeezed his eyes shut.