193. The King and the Sword (3).
193. The King and the Sword (3).
The rivers and lakes, marshes and forests of Britain were beautiful.
Those born there and living their whole lives, and even merchants from far-off Rus lands, all gathered their voices to say that Britain's weather was dreary.
Yet that did not diminish Britain's beauty.
'The grass and wildflowers are already coming up here.'
However, Leofric was a man who would rather die than speak empty words.
No, to put it more precisely, he was a hunter who would rather die than speak empty words—except in front of Fylkir.
To this trusted tracker from Hjaltland, this place, the Frankish land, the Seine river basin was honestly more beautiful than the Britain he had seen—but not by much, and certainly not beyond compare.
"Captain, feel this soil...! Isn't it as smooth as a woman's flesh!"
"Stop talking nonsense...! We're infiltrating right now! And what does a man who's never held a woman's hand know about such things?"
"Nonsense! No, more than that—you say I've never held a woman's hand! Did you see it!? Did you see it, I say!"
And it seemed Leofric was not the only one having such thoughts, for the whispers of his reliable(?) subordinates crawling through the grass alongside him reached his ears.
Listening quietly, the content seemed liable to drive away all holy spirit, but in truth, it was a kind of verbal sparring to ease the tension.
No matter how much grass and wildflowers had come up in the fields, unlike the hills of Britain, this land stretched all the way to Rouen's castle, making it a dangerous mission where the enemy could discover them at any moment. Leofric, like his men, threw a pointless remark into the air to relax.
"Be quiet now. As I see it, you lot are hopeless when it comes to marriage. The women of Britain and the women of this Frankish land surely have eyes and noses, don't they? It would be best if you gave up."
[Shashashak— shashak—]
Leofric crawled with practiced movements. His subordinates following behind jabbed at Leofric's ears, this time with a slightly more earnest voice.
"Oho, our Jarl is one to talk. Who was it that got rejected by the mill girl last time?"
"Hey, stop that. No matter how ugly our captain is, how foul his temper, and how he chases women yet lacks the courage to even hand over a single flower like a bashful bachelor, it's not right to keep picking on him like that."
'These bastards really...!'
[Sasasasak!]
In that instant, a surge of temper rose in Leofric, and while still in crawling posture, he used both arms and legs to spin 180 degrees on the spot. Then he fiercely rapped the heads of the two subordinates in their round leather caps.
[Tak! Tak!]
"Ugh!"
"Ack!"
Since they could not make a loud noise during a stealthy approach, Leofric glared seethingly at his men who swallowed their screams while holding their breath for a moment.
As he barely reined in his trembling body, convulsing with uncontrollable rage, Leofric's instinct suddenly tugged at his attention like something pulling a thread far away.
'What is it?'
"It feels like a hole has been drilled in my head...!"
"This crazy captain...!"
Leaving his subordinates airing grievances about his cruelty, Leofric spun his body back 180 degrees with a hover-turn on the spot and slowly raised his head, staring intently at Rouen's castle dyed in twilight and the horizon beyond.
'What's that now?'
Beyond the scent of grass and earth pushed into his nostrils from lying flat, between the wildflowers swaying here and there, the shadows of several men moved.
"Enemy."
In an instant, Leofric's mood shifted.
His eyes locked onto the target without a flicker of movement, like a beast preparing to hunt, and those who had been cradling their bruised crowns and rolling in the grass, including his deputies, and even the warriors of Grantebridge who had been watching with smirks, all corrected their posture and eyes.
"Twenty, thirty... no, there are more behind them. Where did those bastards come from?"
"Probably the north gate, or the eastern postern. At any rate, it's confirmed that they have a way to cross the moat. They clearly know a spot."
"There's no particular movement on the gate or walls. Those bastards are likely all of them."
The deputies, whose eyesight and observation were as fine as Leofric's, quickly spat out what they saw and what came to mind.
As Leofric gathered that information, the deputy who had been rapped on the head asked.
"What will you do, Jarl?"
It might be different from his days as a free-spirited hunter from Hjaltland. To a warrior of Fylkir, discipline was as vital as life itself.
Leofric checked the wind direction and the direction in which the shadows fell.
"The wind comes down toward the riverbank. The sun has not yet fully set, so we must approach from their south. Two squads remain here, two squads move with me. Understood?"
"Understood, Jarl."
"We shall do so."
"Good, let's move at once."
"Yes!"
Immediately, Leofric rose slightly and the two squads, fifty scouts, all crouched and ran as if skimming the grass.
An average man would have collapsed clutching thighs that felt ready to burst long ago, but Leofric and his scouts, each with a kill score well over three, were excellent hunters and scouts.
Already accustomed to moving silently while concealing their presence, these hunters spread wide to maximize the advantage of having spotted first, and soon closed the distance to a satisfactory degree.
In the meantime, time passed a little more, and now the sky was a mix of red and purple, the shadows gradually fading.
'Now.'
"Whiik- whiiii-"
Leofric checked the bowstring, wiped the mud from the arrowhead with his fingers, and let out a long whistle.
Naturally, the Frankish hunters whipped their heads around at the sound as if their necks might snap, but their every position had already been identified.
"Th-!"
"Dodge-!"
Before the Franks, whose tongue was something like the Norsemen's speech, could even fully raise their voices, Leofric and the warriors rose as one and loosed their bowstrings.
[Pyung! Pyupyung! Pyung!]
The arrows soaring into the darkening sky flew straight into the enemy without casting a shadow, and then again with screams came another flight of arrows.
[Shwaaeak- shwaaeak! Puk! Pupuk! Pabak!]
"Guk! Kureuk-"
"Ugh!"
[Pyupyung! Pyung! Pyupyung!]
"Let's go!"
The moment the second bowstring was loosed, Leofric rose to his feet and dashed out.
Following behind their Jarl, the warriors of Grantebridge drew their blades—longer than daggers, shorter than longswords—as one and ran across the field tinged with the last reddish glow.
"Hoo-! Hoo-!"
"Over there-!"
"Enemy!"
[Shwaaeak- shwaaeak- Pababak! Peobeok!]
"Keok!"
"Aaaagh-!"
Leofric closed the distance in an instant. The Frankish scouts, having spotted the Jarl of the North Sea, screamed and aimed bows and spears, but arrows flying in from the left just in time thwarted the Franks' response.
Thanks to that well-timed support, Leofric plunged into the enemy ranks, which had to number twenty or more.
He slashed one man's leg as if passing by.
[Seogeok-]
"Aagh!"
He hurled the sword in his right hand to obstruct the one trying to aim a bow at him.
[Hwirik- hwirik- hwirik- Puk!]
"Guk!"
Quickly, he drew the dagger from his right waist and pressed it to the enemy's neck.
[Chaeng- seuyeuk-]
"It would be wise not to draw right now. You're a hunter, you understand well."
The Frankish scout, with the thrown blade lodged in his left shoulder, let out rough, cold breath through the pain.
He had picked the one with the neatest attire; this one would know something.
The blade embedded in his shoulder and the other blade pressing firmly against the creases of his neck.
Beneath pain and chill, the Frankish scout was gripped by terror and dread, his whole body shaking.
"You, me. Go. You, live."
[Chaeng! Taeng! Puk! Aaaagh! Aagh! Seogeok!]
The clashing of metals, the sounds of something being cut and pierced around them gradually faded.
As Leofric spoke, recalling the basic Frankish taught to officers ranked 'Captain of 100' and above before coming into Frankish lands, the Frank in his grasp slowly nodded his head, feeling blood start to seep from his nape.
"Good. Someone tie this one up! Bring all the survivors! Move quickly!"
"Yes, Jarl!"
"Hurry!"
Cognizant of a possible pursuit, they did not knot the ropes properly but rather crudely fashioned them around the torsos of the seven Franks taken prisoner. Yet the Franks, wounded all over, did not think of fleeing, and no reinforcements came from Rouen's castle.
Thus Leofric and the warriors of Grantebridge brought the first skirmish to a clean victory and were soon able to enter beyond the palisade, which had already taken a decent shape.
*****
"Not only winning the first skirmish but also bringing back prisoners? Hahaha! Jarl Leofric. You never cease to amaze me."
The hunters who used to catch animals in Hjaltland (Former City Lord) had returned as hunters who catch men in Grantebridge (Present).
In truth, when breaking through the hellish forest of Mercia, I had subtly hinted that because of the ability they displayed there and the need for more professional scouts, they should focus more on tracking, stealth, bows, and short swords—abilities like 21st-century rangers—having been given a much larger castle than Hjaltland.
Yet the result was this splendid?
"Thank you, Fylkir! I do not know whether those bastards came directly from Rouen's castle or from the surrounding villages, but they clearly seem to have a way to cross the deep, wide moat."
"They must. Perhaps they use small boats, or there may be a small bridge... I will look into that from now on; you and the warriors may rest. You have done truly well."
"Thank you for your consideration, Fylkir! My men are the kind to rest on their own, so I will observe what that Frankish scout has to say!"
"Then do so."
At the perfect answer, Björn and Ivar and Ubba's faces grew satisfied.
Guthrum, Stórolf, and Tostain, who had ambition for martial glory, were burning with zeal as they watched me and Leofric.
At my glance, Leofric led the prisoners inside, and soon the Franks, smeared here and there with blood, dirt, and blades of grass, knelt before me.
"We captured seven, but one lost consciousness from too much blood loss."
Listening to Leofric's supplementary explanation, I leaned my body forward slightly from where I had been resting against the chair.
My eyes, as you know, were eyes that read falsehood.
[Kkigigeek-]
Was the chair that screamed every time I shifted my heavy frame helpful at such a moment? In the space wrapped in silence save for my movement, the Frankish prisoners flinched as one.
'Should I torture them?'
The thought suddenly occurred, but I soon shook my head. Judging from their attire and complexion, none seemed like some precious young master hiding his identity.
Seeing their eyes quivering with unease, such methods did not seem necessary either.
"Frank. Raise your head."
I spoke lowly before the Frank whom Leofric had placed in the very center.
"Ugh- Huk!"
The brown-haired Frank, his left shoulder seeming uncomfortable, lifted his sweat-drenched face with difficulty.
He shook his bushy beard and eyebrows once, then stared up at my face with eyes wide in shock and a blankly open mouth.
Soon, what filled the place where shock had passed was extreme terror.
Like black ink spreading across a pure white space, the agitation of that emotion was vividly revealed before my eyes.
"S-spare me! I am merely a dull fool who lives by hunting! Spare me! King of the Northmen! I will do whatever you command!"
Shuddering all over, the Frankish prisoner, unable to even weep or dribble tears and snot freely, laid out reasons why he must live as if the suffocating silence were his death sentence, employing desperate effort.
That the lord was nothing but a foul-tempered son of a bitch, that he himself was not a man of Rouen and cared little who ruled this land, that he had heard the bishop was bringing an army from Rheims, that his aged mother awaited him in his homeland—
"Wait, what did you just say?"
"My mother is in my homeland!"
"No, not that."
"I heard that the Bishop—no! That the bishop is bringing an army from Rheims!"
The Bishop of Rheims was bringing reinforcements?
When the warrior in charge of Frankish interpreting/translating (...) brought from Frisia rendered it into Norse, my subordinates let out a chorus of "Hoo—" "Ohho—" "Euhheum—" as cheering interjections.
"Tell me everything you know about this bishop and his reinforcements."
"Yes, yes!"
Like a man who had just grasped a lifeline, the prisoner desperately wracked his brain, and my mind, listening to his voice, began to spin tautly.