168. Before the Snowflake Arrives (2).
168. Before the Snowflake Arrives (2).
What was the scene that a warrior faced before dying?
He had thought he was prepared, but the thought that came to him in that fleeting moment was that he would definitely survive.
A rough voice, which he could hardly believe came from his own throat, burst forth, and his body, lunging forward, channeled all gathered kinetic energy into the tip of his thrusting sword.
Just a little more.
If he could just reach him, he would tear open the belly of that Rus madman who smiled before death. He might even win.
[Fwoong- Puk!]
It was good that he had slipped inside the axe's range, but the Rus warrior struck down Takala's desperate effort with the haft below the axe blade.
Though he should have been flustered, merely rushing into his embrace could not shake this seasoned warrior.
His helmet had been knocked clean off by the axe haft to the side of his head, flying far away. He heard ringing in his ears and his limbs didn't move properly, but Takala absolutely did not let go of his sword.
Even as he slumped down heavily, he urgently turned his head to glare at the enemy, but all he saw before his eyes was Oleg's solid fist.
Takala, who had lost consciousness for a moment upon being hit, fell backward, and it took a little time for his blacked-out vision to return.
Words couldn't properly form in his head and wouldn't come out of his mouth, but Takala struggled somehow to regain his senses.
Though he couldn't clearly perceive beyond his blurry vision, the dull screams of warriors from all around reached him faintly, as if through water.
And things resembling human shadows were collapsing here and there.
'Huff- Huff- Huff-'
As he gasped for breath, the returning senses brought with them a terrible pain.
It felt as if his eye sockets and face were being torn apart, as if bugs were eating through his skull, and it was hard to lift his head.
Yet, with superhuman will, Takala eventually raised his body and, aware only that something was running from his nose, mouth, and head, dazedly watched what was unfolding before his eyes.
[Seogeok! Tuk-]
The warriors who had fought alongside him were all already long fallen. The face covering, which felt especially chilly today, made the Rus warriors' emotionless actions appear even more dreamlike.
Yes, this could not be real. Had I already entered the land of the gods? Even in this place where Ukko and Kuu walked, death was strewn about.
Forcibly lifting his continuously drooping eyelids, he spat out a handful of hot blood that was coming from his nose.
Though the expensive iron armor was stained dark red with blood, Takala didn't care at all.
[Puk- Jeobeok- Puk- Aak! Jeobeok- Jeobeok-]
"Takala, is that the name? Chieftain of the Karelian Finns."
The man who had come amid the screams stood before the kneeling Takala and removed his helmet.
The leather glove on his left hand, which had likely battered Takala's head into this state, was stained with someone's blood so dark it was nearly black, and the hair that hung down was dark brown.
Amusingly, the sides were shaved while the top was left long, and Takala, who had no way of knowing that this hairstyle was currently fashionable in Árós, found himself smiling for some reason.
"To be so calm in the face of death, you are truly a splendid warrior. Takala of Karelia."
The Rus warrior Oleg, who had shoved his face right up to Takala's nose, nodded as if in admiration and then slowly straightened up.
"Valhalla awaits you, Takala."
The sound of Oleg, standing at an angle beside him, raising both arms could be heard.
The sound of armor scraping.
'I serve Ukko and Kuu, Norseman. Valhalla is a place for your kind.'
The valley of death awaited him. Today he was going to his god.
Takala's head, which he had lifted with all his might, lowered, and Oleg's axe traced a light line.
The child's eyelids, unable to overcome gravity, fluttered down and finally closed.
Looking at the child sleeping peacefully in his father's sturdy arms, Sigurdeu's eyes seemed as if the serpents in his pupils would dance at any moment.
"He's no ordinary child, falling asleep so soundly in all this commotion."
Just as Ivar joked, Sigurdeu Junior, Hardaknut, slumbered in his father's arms with absolute peace. In the midst of the uproar of the banquet taking place in my great hall, no less.
"He must take after Æthelthryth. When Sigurdeu was little, even a monster couldn't compare to that monster. If a breeze so much as touched his finger, he'd wail and throw a fit."
At Björn's words, recalling Sigurdeu's infancy, everyone burst into hearty laughter, but Sigurdeu himself seemed utterly unconcerned. No, it was as if he had shut out all the surrounding noise entirely. Normally at such a banquet, he would have insisted that the self-proclaimed Konungr of Bards couldn't miss it and would be playing some instrument, but ever since Hardaknut was born, he had stayed by the child's side all day. According to my stepmother, that was common with a first child. Still, there was something unusually intense about Sigurdeu's reaction.
Originally, in our Norse society, there was a kind of grace period before a newborn was recognized as a member of the parents, family, and tribe. About a week? After observing the child for a week, if they judged there were no problems with its body or mind, they accepted it as a member. Then a banquet would be held to introduce the child to the tribe. 'This child is mine~! This child is Somebody's-son~!' So what happened to a child who was not recognized? If there was a visible disability or it showed no normal response, unfortunately, the child was usually abandoned. Harsh, but this was reality. The strong survived—the great principle set by nature. Of course, after I came onto the scene, such terrible things had lessened, but they were surely still practiced somewhere. It probably wasn't unique to Norse society. The world of 867 was brutal to everyone, humans and animals alike.
That was why Sigurdeu's action—declaring right after Æthelthryth gave birth that he would hold a banquet immediately because Hardaknut was his child—looked eccentric in Norse society. Naturally, Æthelthryth needed time to recover, and a banquet didn't just appear with a snap of the fingers just because he wanted it, so Sigurdeu's runaway enthusiasm was lightly reined in.
That stubbornness was utterly invincible, and consequently, Hardaknut was being formally recognized as a member of the Ragnarsson tribe(?) just three days after his birth.
The women of our family—consisting of the two mothers, Inga, and Botilda—were keeping watch beside Æthelthryth, who had not yet fully recovered, and directly across from them, the men were laughing and making merry.
Amidst the faint strains of music, the sound of laughter, and the clinking of cups, Hardaknut, soundly asleep, was so small and adorable that it was hard to believe he was Sigurdr's child.
'Family. Family, huh.'
My gaze naturally drifted over and landed on Inga, and her eyes, bright with laughter at something amusing she had heard, came to rest on me as well.
They say husband and wife come to resemble each other—perhaps we had been thinking along similar lines.
I smiled at her as she winked playfully, and Inga, sticking her tongue out briefly in a comical expression, turned her attention back to the women's conversation.
On one side of the long table, Hrolf was exchanging some words with his late-born son Hrolaugr, and beside them, Maria was wiping something from Constantine's hair.
Björn's two sons, Erik and Refil, were talking and laughing with Ivar's son Baldr, and for some reason, the trio of Konungrs seemed to have no intention of leaving. Olaf, Bagsecg, and Black King Halfdan were conferring amongst themselves with sullen expressions.
'The old boys seem to be getting along quite well lately.'
As long as it didn't end in drawn blades, it was fine.
My brother Halfdan was glued to Sigurdr's side, pulling ridiculous faces at the baby, while Ubba watched quietly. Was that fellow finally starting to feel the urge to marry as well?
As I was tilting my mead-filled cup while lost in these thoughts, the sound of hurried footsteps reached my keen senses.
Turning my gaze instinctively, I saw a warrior who had been speaking in low tones with a Huskarl at the hall's entrance now striding hastily toward Hrolf.
After flicking the crown of young Hrolaugr's round head and downing his ale, Hrolf listened as the messenger whispered in his ear, then immediately whipped his head around to where I was sitting.
'Looks like something has come up.'
Hrolf, making eye contact with me, raised his bushy eyebrows, now threaded with a few white strands, and I gave a slight nod toward the inner chambers.
*****
"So, this news is from two days ago?"
How remarkable.
I was genuinely, purely surprised.
"That is correct, Fylkir. Konungr Rurik bade me convey a great victory to the Fylkir and then departed immediately for their main encampment. By now, another battle may already be underway."
The messenger who had answered my question to the best of his ability looked haggard, yet still brimmed with vigor. He must have been riding nonstop and sailing for two full days—though he likely traveled mostly by ship. Regardless of the era, it seemed only men of iron could serve as couriers.
"You have done well. I have ordered warm food and drink to be prepared for you, so eat well and rest thoroughly."
"Yes! Fylkir!"
[Thwack—!]
The messenger's retreating back, marked by a crisp military salute, looked exceedingly reliable. And the news he had brought satisfied my heart even more.
"Two days. Two days."
"It seems the Fylkir is paying more attention to the courier's speed than to the beheading of the Karelian chieftain."
Hrolf, who had entered the inner room alongside me, picked up an olive and spoke while eating it. One could also press that for oil, but since it was fundamentally a fruit, eating it raw was fine.
However, after gulping his ale, Hrolf quietly shifted his hand toward the wild raspberries instead. It seemed the warm fruit of southern lands did not quite suit the palate of a warrior born and raised on this cold ground.
"Nothing much can be hidden from you. It is true. I am more astonished by the fact that it took only two days to reach here from Novgorod."
If this was possible, could we not truly build it?
I would subtly issue directives to Stórolf, Stórolf would inevitably draw Refil into the matter, and Refil seemed to be considering using the Marmaros trading network that crossed the North Sea.
The picture I was ultimately sketching was a sort of relay station system.
Since the North Sea merchants were already moving along the waterways of Britain, Scandinavia, and Eastern Europe as if they were their own backyard, if we could somehow utilize that properly, couldn't we dramatically improve military and administrative efficiency?
Anticipation welled up.
"I am more interested in the matter of the Finns. It is said that Jarl Oleg personally scaled the wall. Does that not bring anyone to mind?"
"I never ordered him to fight like that."
Oleg's face came to mind. 'The Conqueror of Huntadun.' He had disliked it, asking what honor there was in a title earned without a fight, but it seemed his protests had not been entirely sincere.
"We will have to hear the precise numbers from Konungr Rurik and Jarl Miroslav later, but I have heard the losses among the Sámi and Suomi were heavy. By their custom, the harm suffered in a fight must be paid back to the opponent. Blood will flow in Karelia."
"That is most likely."
Vengeance dyed in blood was not something that could be simply stopped. Moreover, since they had displayed the head of Peura, the chieftain of the Suomi, at the very least, Peura's tribe and all their kin would be beside themselves with fury. This was the reason feuds between tribes never ceased.
For even they themselves could not know exactly how many generations deep that accumulated hatred ran.
Therefore, one could only hope that those hot and cloying flames of revenge would meet the coming winter and subside on their own. This was truly something that no amount of iron and grain I could offer would ever resolve.
I was no god.
"To be honest, I believe the most important thing for us is that we can finally secure Marmaros. Jarl Leon is going around singing that if he only had that marble, he could make this city as large and magnificent as Miklagard. To silence that voice, we'd better secure it quickly. I shall have a word with Jarl Damian."
[Gulp—]
Though he had outwardly expressed concern for the affairs of the Finns and Karelians across the sea, Hrolf's voice as he drained his wine was perfectly lighthearted.
"Yes, let us have a word with Constantinople."
The pozzolana that Leon was singing about like that. I really needed to import some of that cement.
☆☆☆☆☆Reference Material☆☆☆☆☆
Jebulon, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
This is pozzolana from Mount Vesuvius in Italy...!
When you mix this with lime and sand in a golden ratio, unbelievably amazing cement is created...!
It even has waterproofing capabilities, so you can build structures that will still stand strong even after 2,000 years...!
And as a bonus gift for bulk purchase, crane technology including a hoist will be included...!
The Colosseum of the North!
I'm going to build it...!!!!!!