201. The Warm Season (3).
201. The Warm Season (3).
868 AD. Spring. Northern Saxony.
"Brothers of the Cross! Believers in the Lord! Attack—! All of these heathens— gack!"
"Attack—! Attack! Do not fall back!"
"Drag down all those who believe in God!"
[Iyaaaaaa—!]
Like the endlessly cycling seasons, this narrow corridor between the Norsemen and the Saxons saw no end to conflicts great and small.
In the past, and in the present.
It was as if the frozen earth had to thaw just enough for men to walk upon it, only so that someone's blood must be spilled in satisfaction.
Long before Charlemagne, and even earlier than that—when the northern peoples, now all bundled together under the name of the North Sea, first crossed into this land—blood must have flowed here as well.
Yet in a way, that was only natural.
This place, sodden but reasonably fertile and able to seize control of waterways on all sides in a single grasp, was, to speak frankly, far too desirable a land.
And so, in the end, the Saxons—who could never know whose turn it was to be master here—were slaughtered to the last, and Charlemagne, the great Emperor of the Franks, became the most recent master.
It had been 54 years since that Charlemagne closed his eyes.
Here, Hamburg was confronting a threat from a vast empire the likes of which had never once appeared in the north before.
[Pung—! Pyupyut! Shwaaaak— shwaaaaak—!]
"Shields—! Shields!"
"Arrows! Arrows!"
[Pababak! Peobeok! Puk! Keuk! Aaaagh—! Peok!]
"Keureuk— keuk—!"
"You damned bastards! You wretched bastards! Kill the heathens!"
"Climb the hill, quickly—!"
But the shape of the battle was different from what one might imagine.
The side attacking with tears of fury was the Saxons. The side defending, looking down from a hill they had labored to build up over several days, was the Norsemen.
[Shwaaaak—! Hooduduk! Pababak!]
"Agh!"
"Keok!"
"We must loose arrows as well! We must aid the vanguard!"
"Loose arrows!"
[Pung! Pyupyut! Shweeek— shweek—]
The Saxons' bows, made of sturdy wood, diligently released their strings and loosed arrows skyward, but the truth was that these arrows lost all their power before the great shields and the thick cloth armor worn beneath chain mail.
Moreover, those Norsemen even held the high ground. As a rule, the side that holds the high ground has the advantage—a concept as immutable as a mathematical formula that would hold true even in the distant future.
Naturally, the fire from the outnumbered Saxon archers could make little impression on the solid defensive wall of the Norsemen positioned on the hill, while conversely, the arrows of the Norse army, raining down in volleys, struck only the most painful parts of the Saxon force.
[Hooduduk— hooduduk—]
"Aagh!"
"Keep your bodies as low as possible!"
There, unlike the elite heavy infantry of the Saxon army struggling to climb the hill at the very front, the reserves and archers, whose armament was not nearly as good, screamed every time an arrow fell. And Bruno, the Dux of the Saxons, who could only watch that sight, had to vent his fury with bloodshot eyes.
"This cannot be! In what way are those barbarians! O God! Grant me strength! Crush them!"
Otto, the younger brother who was barely restraining his elder brother—who looked ready to draw his sword and charge forward at any moment—cried out to his brother and the rightful Dux of Saxony with a heart that felt as if it were bleeding.
"My Dux! Calm yourself! If the Dux wavers, everyone wavers! Think of the warriors who look only to this place! Think of the people who are beyond the walls of Hamburg!"
This ridiculous situation had all begun when those Norsemen swarmed in and, instead of attacking, started doing some kind of digging.
Indeed, soil that is soft and of good quality is land that is easy to dig. Besides, for the Norsemen of Jutland, who had already built and maintained a great defensive wall called the Danevirke once before, it was not a difficult task at all.
Only the location was something that, even they might admit to themselves, made little sense.
"It is so close that if the wind blows just a little stronger, arrows from each side's walls and palisades might touch! This is a provocation and a threat! If it is completed, Hamburg cannot function as a fortress! We must drive those barbarians out, without fail!"
"Trust in the warriors under your command! Louis of Paderborn will surely send reinforcements soon as well!"
"Attack! Attack!"
As Bruno, the wailing Dux of Saxony, said, granting those Norsemen—who held absolute supremacy on the sea and rivers—a fortress within sight of Hamburg was extremely dangerous.
No, danger aside, his pride would not permit it.
How dare they carry out preliminary work to build a wall so brazenly in Hamburg's front yard?
In Bruno's heart, lightning had already struck that hill of theirs, which they had shaped into a low slope, several times over, and he had cut down Bagsecg, the Konungr of the Jutes—who had vied with Saxony since his father's generation—countless times.
Regrettably, however, Bruno was no swordsman who had reached the realm of the Heart Sword, and so it remained only a thought.
"Die—!"
"You die!"
"Push them back—!"
"Kick those bastards in the arse! Send them back to the ditch they crawled up from!"
[Chaeng! Taeng! Hook— puk! Agh! Keok!]
The Saxon warriors, having crawled up the already sodden earth, already looked like demons, but the Norse warriors looking down with cool gazes showed no agitation.
Just as there was a great difference between arrows shot uphill and arrows shot downhill.
Naturally, a man's strength was far greater when striking down from above than up from below.
Even a simple spear thrust from the Norse warriors was a far too brutal attack for the Saxon warriors, and soon the screams and dying gasps of the fallen and wounded sliding down the slippery slope, and of Saxons tripping over them and slipping, filled the incline.
The irony was that the faces of the warriors gathered from southern Jutland, near Ribe and Hedeby, and the Saxon warriors crying out to God in fury, swinging their swords and axes by any means, somewhat resembled each other.
It might be a great leap, but in a way, the descendants of those who fled north and those who remained in Saxony when Charlemagne of the Franks slaughtered the Saxons were now meeting on a single battlefield.
A generation had already passed; their speech and names had become a little different, and now that the name of the one they served had changed, they were simply enemies to kill one another.
The only being who could feel such a sentiment, Konungr Bagsecg, sat atop the hill upon a soft leather saddle, watching the gruesome battle unfolding below.
"Those fellows are rather hot-blooded. Had they been just a little later, we might have ended up fighting on flat ground."
"Does Konungr Bagsecg perhaps feel regret?"
It was Sigurd who answered Bagsecg's muttered words. He looked more at ease than Halfdan, who was immersed in directing the battle a little ahead.
But to Bagsecg's mind, Jarl Sigurd was a man always full of ease. There was a certain air about him that made one feel pleasant whenever together, and Sigurd was a person who possessed that.
"Regret? How could that be? Is it not true that a battle is best won without spilling a single drop of blood, and that the best drink is free drink?"
"Hahaha! Konungr Bagsecg's words are true."
Sigurd laughed and let Bagsecg's jest pass, but his eyes were sharp, as if piercing through to Bagsecg's inner thoughts.
'There is not a single lacking man among Hrolf's brothers.'
The only relief was that one of those brothers was his heir and the husband of his precious daughter.
"The enemy falls back. Do not pursue them on any account!"
"Aye! Jarl Halfdan!"
[Buuuuung— buuuuung—!]
The sound of the horn, signaling the end of engagement and pursuit, rang out long two or three times, and Halfdan, who had been out in front, exchanged various words with his lieutenants before soon turning his horse's head and beginning to approach where Bagsecg and Sigurd were.
That sight was just like his past self—no, perhaps even like Ragnar himself—and Bagsecg felt full though he had eaten nothing.
'This alone is enough, but now, depending on what you do, the fate of Hamburg shall be decided. Son of the Black King.'
Bagsecg's gaze crossed the river and turned south, where it seemed veiled in fog.
*****
[Cheok—!]
"Huuu—"
At dawn, when a chill still lingered and the air felt desolate with the settling fog, I slowly drew the air deep into my lungs.
[Tuk— kkuk—]
I retightened the helmet strap that had been made to fit the measurements of my head without discomfort, adjusted the angle of the face guard, and inspected my armor and belt once more.
The most important among them was the sword hanging at my left hip.
A sword that Hrolf had crafted from steel fallen from the sky. According to the song of Jarl Sigurd, they were masterpieces that Randi, the greatest smith in the North Sea, had created by swinging his hammer for seven days and nights without eating or drinking.
This sword, bestowed upon the Jarls responsible for each region and upon Hrolf's brothers, symbolized the very power of the North Sea.
Behold, the fate of my past self, who had to see the blood of kin, obstructed by the petty internal politics of Kaupang. Even the old man who weaves the threads of fate could not overcome Hrolf's power. No, perhaps Hrolf was the fate of all Norsemen.
All that remained now was to live up to the trust Hrolf had shown.
Harald of Kaupang steeled his heart once more and moved his steps with vigor.
"Jarl Harald! Everyone has arrived safely. The warriors are ready to depart."
[Cheok—!]
As Harald's golden hair, which not even his helmet could conceal, shone brightly, a giant of immense stature approached, offered a military salute, and spoke with deference.
"Is that so, Ásvald. We have truly set foot upon the land of these Franks."
Before reaching Hamburg along the beautiful and rough Elbe River, the warriors of Kaupang, who had beached their ships at a midpoint, had all come aboard 22 great longships. Tall and sturdy vessels, their number had increased from the previous 40, and could easily carry 50 to 60 men.
Therefore, the number of warriors waiting now in this land for Harald's command alone was 1,100.
According to the North Sea's new organization, that was 11 centuries.
These men and Harald had but one purpose: to lure out Louis of Saxony, who was to reinforce Hamburg.
And if Louis of Saxony did not budge an inch, then at the very least, to sever their supply lines.
"Let us move quickly, Ásvald."
"Aye, my Jarl. Kaupang—! We move—!"
A great voice, contrasting with Harald's calm tone, burst from Ásvald, and the fierce warriors of the North Sea, who had been checking their equipment and provisions here and there, began to form ranks.
'Was it called the sowing season? The land is fertile, so there will be no worry about things to eat.'
Thinking of how best to carve up the pork belly now laid bare, the warriors of Kaupang, who alongside the warriors of the Sodor Kingdom were considered the most ferocious of the fjord coast, began to move toward Verden.
However, Harald and the warriors of Kaupang would never have known—that another Norse force also aiming for that very place existed right beside them.
*****
"Captain, what should we do?"
After giving a sharp glance to his infuriating subordinate, who only ever showed courtesy when it was inconvenient, Leofric lay flat on his stomach and quietly surveyed the front.
[Cheok—! Cheok—! Cheok—!]
[Kkiririk— kkirik—]
[Pureureuk! Puryuk! Dagak— dagak—]
Though the Norse army had simply let go of the east gate of Rouen, it was not as if their scouts had been idle. Tostig's fleet was on the Seine, and Leofric's scouts were keeping a close watch on the movements of West Frankia here on the eastern road.
And Leofric had been able to confirm it.
That the enemy commander whom Hrolf had been waiting for had finally shown himself.
"What do you mean, what should we do? Look at the number of those bastards. The moment we poke our heads out, we'll be trampled under the hooves of their cavalry."
Having heard well of the disaster that befell the Reims army, which had suffered greatly at Hrolf's hands before, West Frankia had come with a truly brutish method.
Namely, crushing them with sheer numbers.
It was a column that moved stretched out long in the open, as if daring them to try something if they could, but simply put, the numbers were far too great.
Furthermore, they had placed cavalry on the right side of the column heading toward Rouen, and stationed what were clearly archers toward the coast. They seemed ready to charge out at a moment's notice, making it impossible to reveal themselves carelessly.
"We've seen all there is to see here. Let us return to Hrolf."
"Understood! Jarl! ... However, we cannot go standing up, can we?"
"Is that even a question? We crawl."
"Damn."
"Damnation."
Leaving behind the resentful grumbling of his subordinates, Leofric diligently crawled across the ground.