199. The Warm Season.
199. The Warm Season.
To lump them all together and speak of them as Celts, their history was far too divided and fractured.
This was the tale of the Bretons, the last Celts remaining on the continent, and of Kernow and Cymry, barely clinging to existence on the fringes of the island of Britain.
[Dagadak- Dagadak- Dagadak-]
"Throw!"
"Eat this!"
"How's it taste!"
[Hwing- hwing- hwing-]
"Scatter!"
"We'll give you something even tastier next time!"
"You bastard, let's get out of here quick!"
[Ihihihing-! Dagadak- Dagadak- Dagadak-]
If one had to make a distinction, the Bretons, who bordered the Franks and mimicked their ways, leaned somewhat toward heavy infantry. The Gaels of Kernow and Cymry, having witnessed the North Sea's fighting with their own eyes, had cast their greedy gaze upon the cavalry that the Fylkir of the North Sea wielded like his own limbs.
Like distant cousins who, when gathered at a great clan house on a feast day, are shy and awkward with each other.
Wary yet familiar, keeping a respectful distance yet still managing to work together rather well—was this the Pan-Celtic Alliance? The army of this tripartite alliance of Breizh, Cymry, and Kernow met the forces of Margrave Robert of Neustria and fought bravely.
"You cowards! Fight with honor!"
"Don't get agitated! Their javelins aren't endless, and our shields will not fall!"
"Stand and hold your ground! Do not give chase rashly!"
This was the northern part of Neustria, a low plain situated between Rennes in Breizh and Le Mans in Maine.
It was the space between the two largest powers in northwestern West Frankia, so naturally it had no clear owner, a space where the stronger asserted their influence.
There, Salomon of Brittany and Robert of Neustria were gauging each other's strength.
"Salomon. You have cast aside even the last shred of honor you had left."
To Robert, who had spent long years gripping sword and shield, the army Salomon had led forth numbered roughly five thousand.
The overwhelming majority were heavy infantry, the core strength of Breizh, but it was the savages who had crossed the sea that were the problem. These men who rode what looked like yearling foals—wherever they had gotten them—and repeated attacks and retreats endlessly.
Their numbers were roughly one hundred to two hundred. At first, the sight of them moving about with no armor and only a horse and a few javelins drew a scornful laugh, but the javelins those bastards threw were no laughing matter, and Robert's prized elite heavy horsemen could not match their speed.
"These dirty, petty bastards...! How long do you intend to keep up this childish game?"
If one was to fight anyway, taking the offensive was the preferred course, for it meant seizing the initiative of the war. Robert, with Maine and Anjou—many places to defend—wanted to quickly break Salomon's flank and see the end of Hestein of Nantes, who had long tormented him by serving as Breizh's blade.
But to speak coldly, that was merely Robert's own problem.
Not far from where Robert was stewing in his frustration, in the Breizh camp, Salomon sat mounted atop a pure white horse, a pleased smile on his lips.
"Indeed, so it is possible to fight in such a way?"
As the old saying goes, the enemy's pain is a friend's joy.
Though the role of such skirmishers would be limited in a pitched battle, in a stalemate like this, where both sides were coiled on low hills, the part played by quality skirmishers was more vital than anything else.
Armed with ghost-like intuition and a degree of caution so extreme it would horrify a donkey—those cowards, no—the skirmishing cavalry of Cymry and Kernow spurred their mounts, creatures of tremendous endurance though small of stature, racing back and forth between their main camp and the enemy's to constantly deliver gifts of javelins.
"Tell them to throw to their heart's content, Artos of Devon, Dungarth Ríheu of Kernow. Their javelins will not cease."
With a generous laugh, Salomon swept a hand over his handsomely grown beard, his gaze turning to the column of supplies that was pushing up ceaselessly from his home ground of Rennes.
The massive supply effort, shouldered by Uhtred and Ecgberht of Northumbria and Torgenvald of Orkney, proceeded without delay, and the nobles and warriors of Breizh, the farmers, and Salomon were all experiencing the incomprehensible phenomenon of wartime being more abundant than peacetime.
They had literally laid out a board and told him to fight without reservation, and with the distribution rights for all those supplies falling into Salomon's hands, his standing rose even higher, and nobles who normally wouldn't listen to him even if it killed them were now offering every manner of flattery and joining Salomon's army with all the human and material resources they possessed.
So how could he not be pleased? Even if the war ended like this, Salomon had nothing to lose. He had firmly carved the presence of himself and Breizh into the mind of Emperor of West Frankia, and had given that wretched Robert a solid smack on the backside.
But if he had intended to stop at an appropriate place, Salomon would never have rebelled against the Emperor in the first place, nor would he have made the bold decision to place the North Sea above West Frankia.
"With the warriors of Breizh providing a solid foundation, the warriors of Kernow and Cymry can run wild. Is this not a fight one would wish for, even if it meant paying for it?"
It was Dungarth Ríheu of Kernow, whose rank was higher than Artos, the lord of Devon, who answered directly, and Artos silently nodded as if in agreement.
As Breizh's power was the greatest, they had to yield a step, but that did not mean Salomon could handle them carelessly.
No one here wanted to stir up pointless conflict and vex the dragon of the North Sea.
"I thank you for saying so. I shall firmly remember the valor of Kernow's warriors."
Of course, that 'valor' was really just dashing in quickly, hurling javelins with a round of insults, dodging arrows raining down overhead, and promptly dashing back.
In Salomon's mind, Hásteinn, who would be moving in the south, came to the fore.
'That you fight well is something I know better than anyone, Robert. But in the end, you are nothing more than one man. If you stay put there, Anjou will be smashed to pieces under Hásteinn's hand. What will you do?'
"In the end, they will have no choice but to attack us. Let us prepare for battle in readiness for that moment."
Salomon's generous laugh and hearty voice shifted in an instant to a low, somber murmur, and the King of Kernow and the lord of Devon, revealing similarly cold looks in their eyes, nodded in agreement.
[This is your father's prick-!]
[Catch it well! Son! Here comes another one!]
[Hwing- hwing- hwing-!]
[Swaaek- swaaek- pababak! pabak!]
[Eek! Run away!]
[See you again! Son- ugh!]
[Bring that one back! Stop taunting and retreat!]
Against the backdrop of a battle that rang out like a comedy, Salomon was sketching Robert's end.
*****
"Everyone get back! Firing-!"
"All materials used meet standard specifications, arrows also standard specification. The weather is—fairly clear. What else did he tell me to record— uh—"
"Alright, alright, everyone move back a bit!"
"This much seems sufficient, let's try firing once!"
"Damn it, if you die it's not my problem! Firing!"
"—Ah yes, the string was drawn with roughly two and a half twists—"
Before the western gate of Rouen castle.
The palisade the Northmen had begun constructing was, at some point, turning into a military town complete with plausible drainage ditches, spacious five-man tents and food storage facilities, a commander's tent, and even arenas for javelin throwing and wrestling.
Between Britain and Árós, large ships constantly came and went. They kept unloading timber and the like, and now they had finally begun to assemble siege engines as well.
"One-! Two-! Three-! Yaargh-!"
[Hwik! Teong! Hwiririk-! Hung-!]
The warrior who had been constantly shouting to retreat, and who was actually the most frightened himself, grimaced and pulled the rope with all his might.
And then the large, round stone that had been drawn back by the mechanical device shot powerfully into the sky, just like a bolt loosed from a crossbow.
"Ooh-"
"Ah-"
[Hwiiiiii-! Peok!]
"Oooh-!"
"Yaha!"
[Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!]
The stone, which had soared powerfully into the sky, touched Rouen's thick and sturdy walls after a brief flight, and with a sound like several full sacks of wheat dropping to the ground all at once, it kicked up a cloud of dust on the ramparts.
"A hit!?"
"Definitely! I saw it!"
"Tyr's mercy...! It would be truly terrible if a thing like this appeared on the battlefield!"
"Beautiful! Beautiful! This is Thor's lightning! This is Odin's Gungnir!"
The North Sea warriors, who at most had handled only small catapults, marveled at the range of this giant ballista, and the warriors who had never even handled a catapult marveled at the power of this novel device they were seeing for the first time in their lives, worrying about whether their jobs (?) might disappear.
"Look here, 25-man squad leader. You aimed for the middle of that wall, correct?"
"Yes! Lawman!"
"I am no Lawman, I am a Hypotrofos (υπότροφος, scholar)."
"Hypo- Hypoto-"
"Hypotrofos. No, the name doesn't matter. At this range, accuracy drops abysmally. Let us aim a little higher this time."
"Yes! Hypot!"
The onlookers clapped their hands in excitement or not, but the hand of the North Sea scholar, who was recording all of this according to the orders of the greatly wise Jarl Leon who was directly favored by the Fylkir, moved ceaselessly over wax tablets and parchment.
"Let's see if they'll fire another one!"
"Magnificent! Is there a bigger stone!?"
"Look here! Can't something be carved into that stone!? I want to carve Thor's seal!"
"Oh-! Thor's lightning! Mjolnir!"
Hehehe- hahaha-
The mood among these immature warriors shifted in an instant the moment the Rouen garrison, which had been still until then, suddenly opened the gate to stop this threatening (?) attack after taking a hit out of nowhere.
[Grrrrrng-! Kriiik-]
With a racket, the gate opened beyond the brimming moat, and the North Sea warriors, who had stopped their jokes that had been steadily declining in quality and level, all frowned in unison and craned their necks forward to get a better look.
"What the hell, those bastards? Why are they suddenly opening the gate and making a fuss?"
"Hey! People of Rouen! Go back into the fortress! We have to shoot Thor's hammer!"
"Yeah! Don't spoil the mood, go back in nicely!"
Utterly ignoring the North Sea warriors who were shouting all at once, the Rouen garrison quickly lowered a few small boats from the open gate and began to cross the moat.
"Those clueless bastards!"
"1st Squad! Rendezvous!"
"2nd Squad! Move quickly!"
"3rd Squad! 3rd Squad! Forward-!"
"4th Squad! Hurry-!"
The four 25-man squad leaders who had been watching the entire situation with cold eyes moved like machines simultaneously and positioned themselves before the siege engines. The leader of the 1st Squad, who was also the captain (Karl) of this Hundred, soon shifted to the center, raised Hel's flag, and blew the horn with all his might.
[Buuuuuuuuuung-!]
[Kung! Kung! Kung!]
As soon as the horn sounded, the warriors beat their shields with the swords, javelins, or hand axes held in their right hands.
Unable to endure that murderous sight and daring to approach no further, the Rouen defenders drew their bowstrings from as far away as possible and loosed their arrows in a volley.
[Hwi- Sswaeaeaek-!]
[Hududuk! Hududuk! Pabak!]
[Hwi- Sswaeaek! Hududuk! Pababak!]
When the shooting showed no sign of stopping after two or three volleys, the North Sea Hundred decided to advance.
"Norrland 47th Hundred! Prepare to advance-!"
"Prepare to advance!"
"Shields up-!"
[Kung! Kung! Kung!]
"Tho-r-!"
"O-din-!"
"Hel-!"
On the enormous shields that could cover their whole bodies when they ducked their heads, images of lightning, a skull woman, or a one-eyed old man were all carved, and the identical helmets and armor made them seem not like men but something else.
"2nd Squad Leader! Sound the horn! 47th Hundred! Forward- march!"
[Buuuuuuuuuung-!]
[Cheok! Cheok! Cheok! Cheok!]
[Hwiii- Sswaeaek- Sswaeaek!]
"Shields!"
[Hududuk! Hudududuk!]
"Forward-!"
"Forward!"
[Cheok! Cheok! Cheok! Cheok!]
[Sswaeaek- Hududuk!]
A chain of advancing and shielding. The arrows raining down. And then advancing again.
The moment the Rouen warriors realized that those mad Northmen were not simply trying to intimidate them or push them back, but were truly coming to fight them with their backs to the wall, their already uneasy morale collapsed in an instant. One by one, they fled toward the little rowboats they had arrived on, and the Hundred soon ceased pursuit and quietly withdrew back around the siege engines.
This meager resistance of Rouen and the reckless advance of the North Sea army's Norrland 47th Hundred was, by their own standards, and even by the standards of Jarl Stórolf who later received the report of this incident, a trivial matter of little significance.
But to the citizens and warriors inside Rouen, it left no small ripple.
"Now, firing-!"
"Go! Thor's hammer!"
"Oh Thor-! God of lightning-!"
[Hwik! Teong! Hwiririk-! Hung-!]
[Hwiiiiii-! Kung!]
"Oooh-!"
"Ihya-!"
"Once more! Let's fire once more!"
"No, how strange. Why did it land in the same spot...? Are you sure the aiming angle was raised?"
To the point one could hardly believe this was enemy territory, the morale of the North Sea army with the Fylkir was not disturbed in the slightest.
☆☆☆☆☆ Reference Material ☆☆☆☆☆
Vissarion, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
A ballista that shoots a 1 talent (26 kg in Egypt, 30 kg in Rome) shot-put (?) stone...!!!
In front of the west gate of Rouen, which has become the test firing range for North Sea siege weapons...!!! It is becoming the flesh and blood of the North Sea...!!!
Still, even with a monster like this, it's hard to break down walls...! Fundamentally, the characteristic of any Germanic wall, whether Frankish, Angle, Saxon, or Danish, is that the earth is heavily rammed...! So in the end you have to shatter the earth with projectiles, and that's no easy feat...!!!
Until the king of cannons, the god of artillery makes its appearance, breaching walls is really, really difficult...!!!