191. The King and the Sword.
191. The King and the Sword.
It began with fog.
Then came the waves, rolling in with unusual force that day.
"What's this? The waves look rather unusual today, don't they?"
"Looks like the weather might be loosening up. Untie those knots there, would you? With waves like this, we might be able to get out."
"Aye, I see."
Those unacquainted with the sea might ask how one sets out on this fog-bound water, but for fishermen whose lives hung on casting and hauling in their nets, it was not a matter of choice.
A gloom. The fishermen who ventured out into the sea, where something ominous and a heavy stillness hung, soon began scrambling back to shore in stark contrast to their earlier light chatter, utterly panic-stricken.
"Ring the bell~! Quickly! Everyone, everyone must flee!"
"The dragon comes! The Norsemen come!"
[Swoooosh— splash swooooosh— splash]
[Dang! Dang! Dang! Dang! Dang! Dang!]
The god-fearing dawn mist soon became a curtain that sealed in terror, and the fishermen arriving one after another spread the nightmare they had faced on the distant sea as though they were spreading a plague.
"Run! Inform the Comes of Rouen! Do not stop until Paris!"
"Yes! Comes!"
"All children, elders, and women, go into the churches or your homes! Bar the doors and do not open them! All those with the strength, come to the walls!"
"Move quickly! Quickly!"
Soon, the people of the village nestled on the gently sloping hill along the shore moved in a frantic scramble, somewhere between urgency and panic, bumping into each other as they rushed about breathlessly.
Mothers cried out their children's names at the top of their lungs, and all the men with families set their faces with grim resolve and headed for the walls, while those without mounted restlessly snorting horses and galloped off toward Rouen, following the messengers who raced ahead.
All those pious and God-fearing folk who had briefly recited their prayers now sought the Lord, and those who could not stared into the mist with trembling eyes in a suffocating silence.
Soon, even the last fisherman was inside the gates, and every door of the port village was barred and locked.
It was a truly God-honoring response, but the brave fishermen who had rowed their boats out the farthest only kept moving their feet, muttering the same words like madmen.
"We must flee from here! There is no time for this now!"
"We must flee, I tell you! We all must go to Rouen!"
"Mother! Wife! Come out at once! We must move now!"
Whatever they had faced within that fog was not entirely known, but the Comes of this fair port village could no longer afford to see the order he had barely maintained be thrown into chaos.
Just as he was about to give the order to quiet those fishermen whose souls had been gnawed upon by fear.
[Bwoooooo~!]
Even those who had been shouting that they must flee immediately, those who had watched them with anxious faces, and the resolute defenders upon the walls.
All turned their heads toward the source of the long, drawn-out horn blast.
[Chuk! Chuk! Chuk! Chuk!]
Soon, the rhythmic sounds drew closer and closer, and a vast shadow, as if pushing aside the very mist, flickered in the distance.
The jaws of the brave Comes dropped further and further, and the defenders who had gripped their weapons with resolute hearts found themselves, unknowingly, straightening their crouched bodies to stare blankly at the approaching tide.
[Bwoong— bwooong—!]
[Chuk! Chuk! Chuk! Chuk! Chak—!]
At the successive blasts of the horns, humans clad in black and grey came to a halt in unison.
Upon their fluttering banners was a figure the people of Frankia had never seen before in their lives. A dark-haired woman, half skull and half human form, fluttered in the wind, her cold eyes gazing upon the men standing upon the walls.
[Dagak— dagak—]
Then, before that army of death, a warrior mounted on a pitch-black horse rode out ahead of the iron-hard ranks.
His mere forward presence erased the overwhelming aura of that entire host, and the giant's two eyes, which seemed to drink in all the air around him, shone eerily even within his face-concealing helm, scattering a green radiance in all directions.
"Men of Frankia! People of the port village! I am Helgi Ragnarsson of the North Sea!"
That overwhelming presence grew even stronger as his voice rang out, seeming to shout right into their very ears. Those who knew the name felt the strength drain from their legs, and they sank down on the spot without even realizing it.
"Helgi Ragnarsson, the Conqueror of Britain...!"
"It is the dragon of Northumbria. The dragon has come himself."
"The Fylkir of the North Sea is here...?"
And this included the lord in charge of this land's-end port, for he, who had resolved to fight the Norse raiders, found himself utterly unable to control his body, which shook like an aspen leaf.
"I have no intention of plundering this place! Nor any desire to burn it! I intend to take Rouen, beginning here! Will you stand against me!? If not, will you depart!? Choose~!"
Choose~! Choose— Choose—
The terrifying final cry of Helgi Ragnarsson left a long echo that shook the walls of the port village, and whether they were seated on the ground or frozen where they stood.
None knew what to do.
Fight against them? Against those standing in ranks that looked longer than the walls, without so much as a twitch?
The shield of faith was sturdy, but that... that host of Norsemen could not be held back by such a thing as faith.
The Comes of the port village, bearing the uneasy gaze of all, refused the rule of righteous God, and by forcing his fear-bowed lips, tongue, and throat to move, he barely managed to squeeze out a voice no louder than the buzz of a flying insect.
"Lord of the North Sea. We cannot fight you."
It was such a low murmur. The Comes attempted to gather his courage once more and raise his voice, but there was no need.
For the Norsemen's lord spurred his pitch-black horse closer to the wall and spoke.
"Then depart, and quickly. I shall not pursue you."
It was not a great shout as before but a low, admonishing voice. Yet that voice, which arrived vividly and drove into the ear, carried an irresistible power.
Afterward, Helgi Ragnarsson turned his horse's head, raised his massive forearm to give some signal, and the horns of the Norsemen blew out powerfully once more.
[Bwoooooong~!]
[Chuk! Chuk! Chuk! Chuk!]
At the same time, accompanied by the clattering noise, something long began to move beyond the slowly thinning mist.
"Qu-quickly, move! Everyone must evacuate the castle! Rouen... no, beyond it. Paris, we must go to Paris! Move toward Paris!"
"Move! Quickly!"
"Everyone come out! Open the bars and come out, I say! We must move now! We must go now!"
"Elder! We must go now! Clear that cart there!"
"Only pack food, some clothes, and silver coins you can carry lightly!"
When the high and low, young and old of the port village, which had instantly fallen into a state of panic, all moved like mad under the consensus that they had to leave this place immediately.
The Norsemen, carrying great ladders and heading for the wall, moved as though they felt no emotion at all, solely to carry out the Fylkir's command.
Soon, the Norsemen scaled the empty walls, and at the east gate, the last Frank wailed as he ran out.
*****
"It worked this time, did it? This is working."
Ivar, carefully combing his hair, wet with seawater and sweat, lock by precious lock, spoke to me.
His voice was still full of mischief, but it carried a heavy dose of admiration somewhere, and I was suddenly reminded of Canterbury of old on the Britannic isle from that voice.
Memories of stepping forward with Ivar, full of confidence that we could do this diplomacy thing, only for an arrow to fly at us out of nowhere.
Since it was a particularly conspicuous failure in my success-filled career, I answered with a smile.
"Canterbury and this place are different situations. Back then, we were at best 300? 400 men. And Canterbury's walls were much higher and broader."
But look at this place now. Four thousand elite warriors trained solely for battle, led by Björn and Ivar, Refil and Stórolf, and me.
And what stood before us was a small-scale wall, a mix of stone and timber.
If a fight had broken out, it would have been over within the hour.
"I am not so sure. To my eyes, it only looks as though the terror you wield has deepened."
Ivar said some unknowable thing as he tucked the comb into his chest. Beside Ivar, who was carefully arranging his precious locks, Björn continued speaking.
"Fylkir. The first stage of the plan is now well concluded. We have secured a foothold without spilling a single drop of blood; all that remains is to rush forward."
Had he entered official mode again? Björn's gaze, now speaking stiffly almost like a robot, rested upon Refil and Stórolf, who were directing the warriors over the wall.
Entrust this port village—which, like Dover or Jorvik on the Britannic isle, was a natural haven in itself—to the rear guard. What I and the vanguard had to do, as Björn said, was press forward.
[Kiiiiik—]
The sound of friction accompanied the noise of my soldiers, now inside the walls, clearing the bar, and the heavy wooden gate slowly began to reveal its inner face to us.
"Right. We must push as far as we can while the advantage of surprise is still alive. Let us advance immediately."
"Good. Very good."
"Yes, Fylkir."
"Let's go, Camembert."
[Purrrreuk— dagak— dagak— dagak—]
At my signal, Camembert moved his legs in a dazzling gait that was something between walking and running. Behind him, Björn and Ivar, Thorbjörn and Run, and my escort moved in a line.
Inside the lightly-entered fortress, the banner of Hel already fluttered from the highest building. I could see Stórolf, confirming any remaining threats, and Refil approaching me.
"My Fylkir. The garrison and people of the castle all seem to have vacated it. This port is now yours, Fylkir."
So I had the father-machine beside me, and the son-machine before me.
As Refil's voice, a copy of Björn's from tone to speech pattern, continued, I was not the only one who thought this; I could see Ivar suppressing laughter.
"Good. It is still going smoothly. We must move right now. Stórolf~! Cease the search, we must move!"
"Yes! Fylkir! Understood!"
After calming Stórolf and the warriors, who had been kicking down the doors of every wooden house inside the fortress looking for signs of life with enough force to knock them all flat, I swiftly ordered the ranks and departed through the east gate, through which the port village people had fled.
What spread before my eyes was a landscape truly a little different from Scandinavia or Britain.
A dirt road of a fresh feeling, as if the color contained much more green.
It may have simply been a mood, but I was gradually feeling that I had set my feet on a new land.
"Now, sound the horns. Let them know we have come. We shall drive them before us, like herding sheep. The objective is Rouen! Advance!"
"Sound the horns!"
"We march~!"
[Bwoooooong~!]
Starting with Stórolf, the long-drawn horn blasts resounded over this land once more from here and there.
Do not beasts fighting over territory gauge each other by their cries?
As no answering cry was yet to be heard, I was of a mind to continue advancing until I heard the horns of the enemy.
Gradually pressing aside the screams and fear-filled voices of the Franks echoing in the distance.
*****
The host of the North Sea and its Fylkir had appeared in the north of Neustria, along the Seine valley.
The rumors took wing, flying over the land of West Frankia at a speed faster than the messengers who rode their horses like mad.
When the Emperor of West Rome finally began to move himself to grasp the truth of the rumors, an ominous report also arrived from the west.
Salomon of Breizh had at last risen up himself and set out to openly deny the dominion of West Frankia.
"These barbarian bastards dare...!"
While the Emperor of West Frankia wielded his righteous fury and roused his vassals, the Fylkir of the North Sea was already drawing near the walls of Rouen.