189. Hooves and Horns (3).
189. Hooves and Horns (3).
The advancing warriors were fierce, yet they possessed discipline.
Discipline?
That was not a word overly familiar to Bagsecg.
For an old warrior like him was more accustomed to direct things.
Things such as courage, charges, plunder, arson, flight, mead, feasts, and death.
Had there been no Helgi Ragnarsson, Bagsecg himself would likely have died somewhere in that nameless land, by a sword, a spear, or from his wounds. He would then have knocked upon the gates of Valhalla.
A Valkyrie, her golden-feathered helm upon her head, would have come riding a white horse with snowy wings to gather my neck.
And then I would have continued unending feasts and battles at Odin's side.
How dreamlike a tale that was...
Surely such things could not be true. When the godly trees of the Saxon lands blazed beneath the hands of the Franks, Odin and Thor were nowhere to be seen, and the songs of Valhalla and the Valkyries fell silent.
That was why Helgi Ragnarsson mattered. That was why Hel was unlike the other Norse gods who were gods in name only.
Those who witnessed this change with their own eyes and still could not understand, who felt it upon their very skin and still could not perceive it—they would be hopelessly dense fools far beyond mere dullness.
Behold. Here marched the army of Helgi Ragnarsson.
Behold the power wielded by the ruler of all Norsemen who chose to die fighting rather than bow before the harsh northern winter.
[Stomp- Stomp- Stomp- Stomp-]
Though Norsemen delighted in song and feasting, perhaps it was because their ordinary disposition was so heavy as to be called somber.
The warriors of this gray-filled world were familiar with death, and thus became accustomed to a discipline stronger than anyone else's.
For there was no discipline in this world stronger than death.
The season when winter ended and spring arrived was the time when all frozen things thawed, a season squelching and sticky, damp and clammy.
Though the sun was up now, it was a place where rain could fall and fog could roll in at any moment and no one would think it strange. Bagsecg looked upon the fortress situated right before the nose of the marching host, the earth-shaking footfalls all around him.
'Hamburg.'
The forward stronghold of the Franks, staring across at the land of the Jutes blocked off by the Danevirke.
Just as the Franks had never crossed the Danevirke, the Jutes had likewise never crossed that Hamburg.
Now that they were no longer Jutes but men of the North Sea, only a fight would tell what would come of it.
"We shall halt here."
"Aye! Jarl Halfdan! The whole host—halt!"
"Halt—!"
"Stand fast—!"
[Bwoooong— bwoooooong—!]
Anyone could see that Halfdan was Ragnar's son, and his low voice was swiftly relayed here and there. And soon after, when two blasts of the godly horn, the signal to halt, echoed across the plain tinged with a chill air,
Bagsecg, deep in thought, gently pulled on his reins.
[Prrrruk—]
'The fight of the Jutes and the fight of the North Sea are different. Bagsecg's fight and Helgi's fight are far too different.'
In Bagsecg's mind rose a conversation with Helgi Ragnarsson, who even eyed the glory of the gods.
'Konungr Bagsecg, Halfdan has his eye on Hamburg. It won't be easy.'
'You mean to say Halfdan spoke such words? Hahaha.'
Bagsecg himself had been a konungr, so he knew well how sensitive those in the position of 'the one who leads' became to the ambitions of nearby followers or brothers.
Had not even that Ragnar himself felt burdened by the growth of Björn and Ivar and so taken to the sea?
But Philkyr's expression held not wariness, but rather a shining wisdom mingled with the satisfaction of a father gazing upon his son.
Indeed, he had already built achievements in Britain, Rus, and Miklagard that others would need to live three lives over to match. Who would dare challenge him? The bloodline of Helgi Ragnarsson may have already entered the realm of the gods.
'You must not rashly charge at deeply crouched prey. All the more if that prey is a foe of Francia's caliber, you must be more careful. A well-built and well-defended castle is difficult to bring down, so there is a need to shift your thinking. In this war, Konungr Bagsecg, you must firmly guide the hot-blooded Halfdan and Sigurd.'
'Hehehe—'
It seemed Philkyr expected from Bagsecg something of the seasoned and rational Hrólfr. But in truth, Bagsecg's head was fuller of thoughts of swinging an axe than anyone else's, and he could not bring himself to say, 'You've misjudged the man. My blood runs hottest of all, you know?' So he merely kept silent and smiled.
'While wading through the mire of Britain and facing the strongholds beyond it, I had a thought. Conquering such fortresses comes down to time, silver coins, and terror. Konungr Bagsecg.
Let us exploit our advantages. We can continuously bring in necessary supplies by longship, so what we will do is build a new wall in front of Hamburg.'
'Pardon?'
'Do we not already possess all the necessary materials? The Danevirke. Let us tear it down. And build anew. If we clear the Obotrites in the east in the meantime, they will have no wall whatsoever at their rear. Does the sea not belong to us?'
The fighting of Philkyr and the North Sea was far too different.
For a while, Bagsecg could do nothing but keep his mouth silently agape, and Philkyr wore a faint smile as his green eyes glittered and he taught him this and that measure besides.
Could there ever be a hunter so fiercely relentless as that?
"Where has Sigurd gotten to?"
"His longships continue moving along the waterway. Jarl Halfdan."
"Is that so? Then let us begin at once. That old Frankish Carolus truly picked his land well. It is sturdy, good land."
Halfdan looked upon Bagsecg with green eyes similar to Philkyr's.
"Konungr, what do you think?"
To the old warrior, no matter how their numbers had swelled and changed, having come to the same battlefield was the same as having boarded the same longship.
Once a man had boarded the ship, he had to prove his worth.
'Let me see.'
He silently swept his gaze over the surroundings, and just as Halfdan had said, the ground where the horses stood was stout enough. The distance to Hamburg was such that they could feel the enemy's bustling, yet no arrow could reach no matter what trick they tried.
Looking at the moat they had made by drawing in river water, the thought of a direct assault did not even occur to him. But that very river water would soon become their weapon.
Beneath Philkyr's leadership, the longships of the North Sea, growing ever larger, would come and go within this width, and just below lay the land of the Franks.
"The Jarl has seen rightly. To my eye also, this place is perfect. Let us begin."
"Understood. Konungr."
His son-in-law nodded firmly and vigorously spurred his horse forward, heading toward the riverbank where Jarl Sigurd was approaching. His appearance could not have been more reassuring.
He did not quite know why, but given Philkyr's nature of having little greed for territory, all newly conquered lands would belong to the child within the womb of his beloved daughter Bothilda.
"We have changed this much, yet you remain the same. No, you have only grown weaker."
He had expected a bloody battle against his old foe, the Franks, and the glorious song of Valhalla. But the world did not wait for Bagsecg; it had run far ahead, alone.
What was fortunate was that Bagsecg was not the only one left behind.
Though the war had not even properly begun, Bagsecg could not shake the thought.
*****
Kent of Wessex. A small city in the southeast, Dover.
Ealdorman Eadberht greeted his guest with a heart that had now reached a state of detachment.
"Hahaha—! Ealdorman Eadberht! How in the world long has it been!?"
"...Jarl Ivar. My name is Eadberht."
"Ayy! What does a thing like that matter? What a relationship we have, you and I!"
'What relationship?'
With the thought of how living long enough let you see all sorts of strange things, Ealdorman Eadberht recalled the orders of Alfred Cyning, the new master of Wessex.
The Ealdorman of Dover was to cooperate with the North Sea.
The Archbishop of Canterbury had frothed at the mouth, calling this the last remaining hope of the Catholics on the island of Britain, which was a fine thing. But unlike Eadberht's own thoughts that they were all about to die soon, the new Cyning, Alfred, fortunately seemed a man whose head turned to some degree of sense.
However devoutly the people of Canterbury held their faith and however diligently they obeyed the words of the Pope far across the sea, in Eadberht's experience, he had never seen a blade divert its path to spare a monk or a bishop.
'If anything, the blades only struck more true.'
And not to mention, those blades did not belong to mere Norse raiders, but were those of the monster called the North Sea, which had united all the Norsemen and Britain.
In his heart, he wished he could scream at them to immediately scrape together all the crowns of the Saxons and Angles and bring them to offer to Philkyr of the North Sea. But Eadberht was now nothing more than a powerless, aged little ealdorman of the borderlands.
He felt the thought: 'Should I have instead followed Edmund Cyning or Burgred Cyning, settled my assets, and departed together?' But abandoning his homeland was no easy matter.
So minor lords like himself had no choice but to follow whatever they were told.
Fortunately, putting on the ring gifted by this gruff and hearty Jarl before his eyes had proven quite effective—the terrifying host of Norsemen that had come to Dover committed no outrage whatsoever.
"There is not much prepared, but will you head to my home? Dover shall welcome the guests of the North Sea."
"Oh-ho! Why so stiffly formal? Call me Ivar comfortably! Now then, Eadberht! Let us go inside!"
Just like that time several years ago, Ivar led Eadberht along once more with an arm draped around his shoulders.
Beside him stood two men who resembled Ivar—one somewhat more dignified, the other more desolate—and Eadberht could immediately tell that these were the very ones of high renown, Björn and Ubba.
'I shall have to bring out all the precious meat and wine.'
Alfred Cyning had also sent support, urging him to put effort into receiving the guests, so he must not anger them under any circumstances.
Almost lifted off his feet as Ivar practically dragged him along, Eadberht entered his own longhouse and soon began the prepared feast.
Bread and salt, wine and pork were brought out, and he had given orders to the hunters to catch a deer or a wild boar as well. Even if they came back empty-handed, the salt meat hanging from the rafters would keep the food from running short.
"There, there! Truly, nothing has changed here! Eadberht! How many years ago was it already...? I remember entering this place together with Helgi! At that time, Helgi gorged himself so wildly he nearly devoured all the food in your house! How laughable your expression was back then!"
"As if I could ever forget. Those who have once laid eyes on Philkyr can never forget."
Back then, Eadberht had thought for the first time in his life that a man could truly win a bare-handed fight against a bear.
When they had heard the talk of him shattering a boulder with his bare fist, everyone from Canterbury to Dover had sneered, calling it a preposterous tale. But Eadberht believed that if it were Helgi Ragnarsson, such a thing might actually be possible.
Because it was the first time he had ever been so shocked by looking at a person.
"That Helgi is coming here now. In addition to the Mercian soldiers I have led here, Guthrum of East Anglia, Leofric of Grantebridge, Uhtred of Northumbria, and Tostig of the Scot lands will join us."
Huh. Was the island of Britain truly that vast? No, wait—did he mean the lord of all those lands was Philkyr of the North Sea?
'Catholicism on the island of Britain, my foot. It has truly been brought to its end.'
Though the weather was mild, he felt a cold sweat trickle down as he nodded his head.
"Is that so? The power of the North Sea is truly formidable. But Jarl Ivar, I am sorry, yet with Dover's food stores, I do not think we can feed so many warriors."
Should he ask Canterbury for help? Would those men readily offer food to feed heathens?
'No, they would unquestionably lace it with poison.'
Then, should he borrow a hand from the Cyning of Wessex?
"Let not the Ealdorman of Dover worry."
Just as Eadberht's innards were beginning to burn black, a voice carrying a different sort of power from Ivar's seemed to fill the longhouse entirely.
"We could not possibly cause trouble for a friend of Ivar and Philkyr, now could we. The North Sea shall feed the warriors of the North Sea. If the Ealdorman of Dover would guide us to a suitable land to establish a garrison, we would be grateful. We will compensate you adequately."
It was courteous, yet held a quiet dignity that one dared not refuse.
To Eadberht, it felt like a heavy atmosphere, much like seeing Æthelwulf Cyning in the past.
'Philkyr has many men of talent beneath him.'
Eadberht bowed his head lightly and offered words of gratitude.
"On behalf of all the people of Dover, I give thanks for the great mercy of the North Sea and Philkyr."
Was it said that their destination was Francia?
Eadberht knew little of war, but even in his eyes, the warriors of the North Sea did not look as if they would be defeated.