164. Suomen laulu: The Song of Suomi (2).
164. Suomen laulu: The Song of Suomi (2).
"So Fylkir said the situations in Suomi, Novgorod, and Britain must be known to one another swiftly and accurately. And surely for that to happen, roads, ships, and horses that can move with special purpose at any time must always be ready — would you not agree?"
[Hororok—]
An uninvited guest.
Refill, who could not bring himself to drive Stórolf away and instead brought him into the house and offered him a glass of clear, cool water, steadied his reeling mind and silently focused on his fellow Jarl's voice.
It was a voice that rang out sonorously even on the battlefield, so indoors its power was amplified, making it seem as though someone were blowing a horn right before one's face. But compared to the clamor of battle, this was truly nothing. It posed no real problem.
'If there is a problem, it's the task Stórolf has brought with him.'
Refill himself knew Stórolf well, and he was not a man with the wisdom to conceive of such a concrete plan.
Jarl Hrólfr or Ivar, or perhaps his father, must have tipped him off. Maybe Fylkir himself had dropped a direct hint. Fylkir was always assigning this or that task to those around him, yet when one watched closely, he always seemed to possess the best answer himself.
The fact that Fylkir held great expectations for Stórolf was known to any reasonably perceptive close aide.
"But trying to actually do it, I tell you, it's utterly baffling! What should I start where, and how should I do it? Hel has veiled my mind!"
'Is it not perhaps because Hel looked after you that you can even think that much?'
Not uttering words that might wound the heart, the thoughtful Refill likewise drank down the cool water.
[Beolkeok— Beolkeok—]
As the clean water passed down his throat, the throbbing headache remained, but his vision cleared.
'In any case, it was a matter that had to be overturned someday as the Fylkir's direct warrior band, the Garmr Brotherhood, grew ever larger. He wanted to use this Finnish war as a pretext to set the system in place before it grew any further.'
The Garmr Brotherhood.
Fylkir's elite. The finest fighting force in the Northern Sea, daring to use the symbol of the goddess Hel as their standard. In tracing their history, it was a name with deep roots, originating from the guards Fylkir personally accepted through the 'Duel of Árós.'
Its numbers had already reached ten thousand. They could double those numbers at will, but they accepted warriors through a process far more stringent than the infamous 'Árós Training Camp.' Thus, the honor and pride of each individual member soared to the heavens.
Warriors who had laid down their lives solely for Fylkir. Haughty souls who felt no need to follow the orders of other Konungrs or Jarls.
Five thousand were always stationed in Norrland for refit and training, while five thousand patrolled the Dnieper River basin, the core trade route of the Northern Sea.
Their strongholds were naturally Novgorod, Polotsk, Kiev, and Cherson.
They were already in a cooperative relationship with the Varangians of the Eastern Roman Empire, and recently, one by one, they had been employing the horse-riding warriors of the Magyars who had joined the trade as mercenaries.
If that force moved in concert, they could likely sweep away any desired region in an instant, but Refill, who had accompanied Fylkir on frequent campaigns, knew well that there was a vast difference between winning a fight and occupying the land.
'What would Fylkir have done?'
Refill's teacher in his childhood had been his father, and his teacher from his youth until now was none other than Fylkir Helgi Ragnarsson.
Every strategy and tactic of Fylkir, who seemed to know only victory and triumphed greatly in every battle he undertook, had surely been studied by any Jarl of the Northern Sea, losing sleep in the process.
Of course, such agonies always ended in shuddering before Fylkir's unbelievable, irresistible power. But as his father had said, Fylkir, contrary to public perception, had always sought stable fights.
'He was always charging out first, which was a problem, but even those reckless-looking charges were within the realm of calculated action for Fylkir.'
The first principle of war. Supply.
There was no second principle. The rest was determined by ordinary training and the competence of the commander. So, if one viewed the task Fylkir had given to Stórolf as a vast battlefield, from the west to the east of the expansive Northern Sea,
it meant that unimpeded supply lines for messengers had to be established.
"—It seems I have been neglecting the temple of Hel of late, and she is punishing me! My father says the goddess Freyja is angry because I go around seeing this woman and that woman, but—"
"Stórolf. This task is not something we can do among ourselves."
"—The gods, anyway, hmm?"
"That, what was it called, the Marmaros conference you entered?"
He said it was a secret, and yet here he was telling him. Then was it not a secret? As expected, Stórolf was a straightforward man, far removed from secrecy, privacy, and confidentiality.
"That's the one! It's a gathering created by Fylkir's direct command to Jarl Miroslu...! The roster of participants is no ordinary thing! In my view, that Marmaros gemstone is far more costly than one would think—"
"We must seek help from all the Jarls belonging to that place. Did you not say merchants would be moving? It seems unlikely to be a one-time movement. We must revise our warriors' movement routes and create places along the way to rest and to change horses or ships."
"Something like watchtowers?"
Stórolf's eyes, which had been hiding his embarrassment at having to seek out a colleague enjoying his leave with pointless chatter, changed.
"Building towers would be even better. Watchtowers, the sort that can be abandoned at any time. The important thing is to create an environment where a messenger carrying Fylkir's banner can move without stopping."
"I'll have to give Torbjörn an early heads-up about this."
Torbjörn, currently the captain of the guard and cavalry commander for Fylkir and his family. He had heard that Torbjörn had lately been incredibly busy managing the horses sent from the Eastern Roman Empire, the Magyars, and the Khazars.
It would likely make a busy man even busier, but Refill was not particularly sorry.
There had been a subtle, unspoken rivalry of pride between the cavalry and the Garmr Brotherhood, each considering themselves the true elite.
Of course, Torbjörn was a good man and an excellent warrior, but the common thought of the Garmr Brotherhood, including Refill, was that the cavalry could stand to suffer a little more.
"The warriors of the cavalry could stand to be a little busier."
"Heh heh! Don't be like that, Torbjörn has been looking quite pitiful lately. Anyway, thank you, Refill! I must go and tell Fylkir of the plan you have conceived immediately!"
Just as he had descended without warning, Stórolf strode out of the house with a hearty laugh.
Refill, who had seen Stórolf off while still holding the half-empty water cup in one hand, felt a premonition that his own month-long leave would soon be over.
*****
At the deepest part of the Gulf of Finland. A village situated not far from Lake Ladoga, Bekalati.
On a shoreline where an open view touched by human hands over a long time, so very rare in the land of Suomi, a battle was taking place.
[Shwaaaek— Shwaaaek—! Pak! Pabak!]
In a sense, it almost seemed that men were mere tools, and that the long shafts of wood flying through the air were the true agents of the fight. To such an extent, the Finnish way of battle was a fight of rampant projectiles.
[Pabak! Pababak!]
'These bastards. They shoot damned much.'
Both Finns and Karelians were people with a flair for hunting. First, they planted an arrow in some part of the prey, and once the game had bled a little or its organs were damaged, only then did they approach and finish it.
Thus, waging war exactly like a hunt, the warriors of Suomi continued to fling killing intent at one another across the stockade and the shield wall.
[Pyupyup! Shwaaaek— Shwaaaek— Pabak!]
It was now the second day since they had entered direct combat with the Karelian warriors who had taken cover behind the stockade of Bekalati. After spending exactly one full day in a shooting battle, the casualties on both sides were fewer than expected.
The advantage for the Karelians, who were in a defensive position, went without saying, and the besieging Suomi coalition had large shields perfectly suited for just this kind of siege warfare.
The supplies that had begun to push up via the waterways allowed them to use consumables like shields and arrows without stinting, making such brute-force but certain methods possible.
Having felt through the shooting battle that, while the Karelians' arrows were spicy, the fight was quite manageable, the Finnish chieftains now decided to sample a little of the Karelians' knife work.
"Empty your quivers completely! Shoot with your souls poured in! With such devotion that Kuu himself would be moved!"
[Kki-ik— Pyut! Shwaaaaek—]
Contrary to what he had shouted, Hapala had roughly gauged by eye and let the bowstring go, but the arrow traced a precise path and grazed past where a Karelian warrior's head had been just moments before.
'You. You're a lucky one.'
[Pyut! Pyut! Shwaaaek— Shwaaaek— Pyut!]
Thus, kneeling on the squelchy ground, watching for an opening, then raising his head to shoot an arrow when the sounds grew quiet. Then waiting again and loosing the half-drawn bowstring.
To Hapala's ears, completely immersed in the fight and focused only on dodging and shooting, sounds like "All emptied!" "All shot!" "Give me more arrows here!" began to be heard from all around.
'Hwoop—'
This, too, was soon Hapala's last arrow.
He drew the bowstring carefully, confirmed through the gaps in the shields that the enemy's arrows were dying down, and then quickly released the string.
[Pyut! Shwaaaek—!]
The arrow flew exactly along the path he had envisioned, piercing the shoulder of a distracted Karelian warrior on the other side, and at the sight of the man falling with a pig-like scream, a deep smile spread across Hapala's face.
[Seureung—!]
Feeling the weight at the end of the hilt, distinctive to the swords of the Norsemen, balance the weapon, Hapala firmly grasped the handle of the shield he had planted in the ground with his left hand.
"Followers of Ukko! Raise your shields! Advance!"
"Grab shields! Grab shields!"
"Advance! We advance!"
[Shwaaaek— Shwaaaek— Hududuk! Hududuk!]
Arrows falling like raindrops. In other words, amid enemy arrows now as familiar as always-falling rain, Hapala's tribesmen, armed with the Norsemen's large square shields, swords, and spears, followed their fierce chieftain's command.
For cowards and those who did not submit to the tribe's social structure were either cast out or received the meanest part of the game.
Somewhat differently from the Norse tactics of forming a single mass and slowly advancing like a moving castle,
Hapala's warriors, moving at scattered intervals with paces born of self-preservation, seeking their own ways to survive, appeared chaotic at a glance, but in any case, they were executing the chieftain's order to advance.
Perhaps this was a pure expression of the very nature of a tribe. A part where the difference from the Northern Sea, united under a powerful Fylkir, was clearly visible.
[Shwaaaek— Shwaaaek— Pak! Pak!]
"Ugh!"
"Aaaagh!"
No matter how well one protected their body with a large square shield, on a battlefield, there were always arrows flying on unexpected trajectories.
Though some warriors were unlucky enough to be struck in the toe, or were glancing over their shields and caught an arrow in the face, collapsing on the spot, Hapala, who had arrived beneath the stockade and raised his shield overhead, gestured frantically toward the allies in the rear.
[Hwik— Hwik—]
"Ladders! Bring the ladders! We have secured the base of the stockade!"
[Shwaaek— Shwaaek Pak! Pabak!]
The force behind the arrows whizzing right before their faces was naturally stronger, and while Hapala and his warriors groaned, drawing all manner of aggro,
another Finnish chieftain watching that sight gave the order to attack.
"Now! Blood of Ukko! Go! Run!"
"Yiaaaaa!"
"Goooo!!!"
Sturdy ladders made from overflowing timber, per the advice of the Norsemen who had delivered the supplies.
They had been made by roughly gauging the height of the stockade, but the ladders, crafted exceedingly long, were most reliable.
Chieftain Reto and his tribesmen, clinging to either side of them, soon began to sprint madly, a shield in one hand, a ladder in the other, with swords, axes, and hammers slung on their backs.
[Tadat— Tadadat!]
[Pabak! Pababak!]
"Agh!"
"Ugh! Keep— keep going—!"
"Edo! Edo! Damn! Keep running!"
[Shwaaaek— Shwaaaek— Hududuk!]
"Aagh!"
Naturally, Takala of Karelia was not so stupid as to stand idly by at the sight of Sámi men dashing forward carrying ladders that looked perfectly suited to scaling a stockade.
The arrows that immediately flew in pierced Reto's warriors, who had become relatively vulnerable in defense while running with all their might.
But thanks to that, the warriors of Chieftain Peura, who had followed right up to the base of the stockade and the space immediately behind where Reto and his warriors were charging, were diligently drawing their bowstrings.
As the Karelian warriors, stubbornly resisting from behind the high, sturdy stockade, began to fall one after another, Reto and his warriors, having finally reached the base of the stockade, set up the ladders with the help of Hapala's tribe, and soon a thunderous battle cry rang out from behind.
"Geuaaaa—! U-KOOOOO!"
"KUUUUU!"
"Vengeance! Vengeance!"
The tribe of Chieftain Peura, who had lost their kin and close ones in Bekalati overnight.
Those who had been the first to receive the Norsemen's quality armor and arms, their eyes bloodshot, threw their lives aside and dashed toward the ladders bearing only weapons in both hands.
Watching it all from atop the stockade, Takala could only mutter curses under his breath.