217. People Dancing in the Meadow (3).
217. People Dancing in the Meadow (3).
While Árpád of the Magyars was meeting Rastislav of Moravia and laughing ha-ha ho-ho as they made a new friend—
Unlike the West Frankia front, which had entered a brief lull after the fall of Rouen and the death of Margrave Robert, fierce fighting continued in northern East Frankia.
"Push! Push them back!"
"We absolutely must cross this hill today!"
"Let not a single one of them climb up!"
"Archers! Draw your bowstrings! Loose!"
"Aagh!"
In Hamburg, the desperate attacks of the East Frankish Saxon army continued against the new Dane Barrier, which was taking shape more and more with each passing day.
"Kill all the Liubice bastards! We shall offer a sacrifice to Svetovit with the blood of traitors!"
"For the four-headed god!"
"Jarl Oleg. Though that circular fortress is an old one, its position is good. Should we not halt the reckless attacks of the Rani?"
"Leave it be! This is the fighting of sweat-drenched warriors! It seems neither the Rani nor the Obotrite bastards are strangers to such fights—we shall strike when it is decisive!"
"Yes! Jarl!"
"Iya-ya-ya-!"
East of Hamburg, in Liubice—the core city of the Obotrite tribal confederation, the Franks' old allies—a massive attack had finally begun, launched by the newly arrived warriors of Novgorod and by the Rani, who already bore deep grievances against the Obotrites over matters of conversion to the Cross and their rise as the new predominant power among the West Slavs.
Yet perhaps the great battle that might prove most decisive to the outcome of those two engagements was unfolding in the rear, some distance from Hamburg.
That was, in short, the fight between Heinrich's army marching out of Verden and the forces of Harald of Kaupang, Hrorek of Frisia, and Hróðulfr.
"They said those bastards are hiding in Bremen? They've certainly got some nerve. Damned Northmen."
Heinrich, the military commander entrusted with all military authority in the Saxon region, spoke while frowning sharply, as if spitting out a spoiled apple.
Heinrich, who had led troops and fought battles great and small for years, knew well that it was important to maintain rational composure at all times and in all situations.
But whenever he saw what those infuriating Northmen were doing, something deep in his chest became utterly unbearable—an anger that made his fingers twitch and well-nigh ground his molars to nothing came surging up.
"Ruler of the Saxons! Warriors of Ludovicus the Saxon! We march on Bremen! We shall deliver our brothers in Bremen from the hands of these lawless heathens!"
Drive out the enemy swiftly, fortify the defenses of the strategic point of Bremen, and then relieve Hamburg.
Heinrich's movement of his army according to this proposition was unhesitating, but the situation did not turn as he wished.
"Kill all those water-soaked dogs!"
"You Frankish bastards! Come on, then!"
"Push forward and up! Their numbers are no more than a handful!"
Bremen, which sat on a hill along the Weser River to the north, had planted its arse upon a hill that—like most strategic points of this period—was just convenient enough for repelling human attacks. And the Northmen, contrary to Heinrich's assumption, were not skilled only at plundering and rowing; they were no strangers to fighting from behind walls either.
"Do not let their reinforcements cross the river! Keep shooting your bows!"
"But the wind is not on our side!"
"Their arrows fly farther and are stronger!"
"We cannot stop them!"
Contrary to Heinrich's expectations, the Northmen scattered all along the long Weser River did not flee at the sight of the Saxon main force; instead, they relentlessly converged upon Bremen, the place of the decisive battle. And the Saxon army, lacking any proper ships or fleet, could only stand and watch.
"These insolent wretches! Do they dare try to hold me pinned here?"
The Northmen defending Bremen fought fiercely against the furious attacks of the Saxon army. By now they ought to have recognized the sense in abandoning this siege, which had begun without any proper plan, and withdrawing—but to Heinrich's mind, if he retreated now with nothing to show for it, these Northmen would grow all the bolder, ravage the entire Weser basin, and in the end, any relief for Hamburg might have to be delayed past the year's end.
Therefore, Heinrich resolved to settle the matter here with those savage tribesmen. For four days he poured a fierce assault upon them, piling the corpses of Saxon warriors and Northmen at the foot of Bremen's hill slopes in ratios of four to one, five to one—but he succeeded in shaking their stubborn resolve.
Just a little more. If he poured in just a little more of the effort and blood he had given so far, he could retake Bremen and drive that pack of fiends from the sacred land and waters of their God!
Beyond the river—which rippled entirely in crimson light, catching the sun slowly rising into the view of Heinrich and his officers as they prepared yet another general assault.
At first it was but a small dot, yet an ill omen could be seen, steadily growing in size.
A great banner, the mere sight of which was profane—painted with the image of their goddess. A large longship, somewhat different in shape from the vessels the Northmen had been sailing thus far.
The sight of a colossal dragon's head approaching, its maw gaping wide, as if bearing malice and dread the way the god of death rows a boat.
The Northman standing at its prow with one foot propped up was exceptionally large of frame, and the moment one became aware of him, his presence was so overwhelming that everything else around him vanished from sight.
[Booooooo!]
Though it was a horn of the Northmen, heard dozens of times before, the horn that now resounded was peculiarly striking. Was it because of the presence of this new foe?
"What are you all doing? Prepare the attack! Even if reinforcements join them, it changes nothing—they are still cornered mice!"
"Yes! Princeps!"
"Understood!"
Heinrich issued a deliberately stern command to steady his momentarily shaken mind and body, and his officers—who had been working in step with him for years now—received the order in unison and spurred on the warriors whose spirits had been blankly sapped away.
The crowd was quickly animated by the bustle of everyone hurrying toward their respective destinations, and for a short while they succeeded in driving out the unknown dread that had descended upon them unnoticed.
Yet for some reason, Heinrich could not tear his eyes away from the vanguard of the newly appeared foe.
*****
[Booooooo!]
Seutorolpeu's skill with the horn was improving day by day. Had his lung capacity increased? Or was there some special secret method?
"Those bastards certainly are generous with their gall! Have they made their balls out of stone? How dare they still think of assaulting the fortress with Helgi beside us?"
The moment Storolfr's thunderous horn blast had barely faded, Ivar's sly voice came floating over the sound of water being cleaved.
With Carolus of West Frankia having handed over Rouen as promised and now retreating to Paris, which was likely the Franks' last defensive line along the Seine, I had already taken everything worth taking from West Frankia. I had installed the reliable combination of Björn and Refil, father and son, along with Guthrum and Djur in Rouen and the port towns of the lower Seine, so even if some sudden situation arose, I could trust them to handle it.
Thus, I had come to inspect this eastern war at my leisure, leading Ivar and Storolfr along with about five hundred of my personal guards.
And yet here I was, finding that a great battle was raging not at Hamburg on the Elbe, where the fighting should have been fiercest, but on the Weser below it.
How had this come to pass? I didn't fully understand, but war was by nature unpredictable and a battlefield could change in the span of a single exhale, so I didn't force my mind to comprehend it.
What mattered right now was the sight of the warrior who appeared to be Jarl Harald, fighting with all his might, and beside him, the men who seemed to be Jarl Hrorek of Frisia and Hrólfr, all shouting orders at the top of their lungs.
The Frankish warriors swarming the typical hill fortress, and their movements to check our unexpected appearance.
As if this battle had not begun just a day or two ago, acrid smoke and an unpleasant stench filled the air in every direction, while the complacent Ivar, as though trying to provoke me into fury, continued in a voice full of mischief.
"Helgi! My Fylkir! It seems your name is not as famous as one might think! What's this? Are they not retreating but actually forming a defensive line? I truly cannot believe it!"
The way he rolled his eyes and spoke with his lips half-pursed forward was truly insufferable. Unfortunately for him, I was a man possessed of steel-like mental fortitude.
Without even a snort of derision, I used my left hand to casually flick the seawater out of my ear. Beside me, Storolfr loosed a rough snort through his nostrils.
"Shhheee—! Shhheee—!"
'Why are you falling for that kind of provocation?'
Storolfr had followed me and fought alongside Ivar in battles both great and small, yet here he was getting caught by such a low-quality and typical Ivar provocation. As I quietly observed, it wasn't just Storolfr—the faces of all my warriors, rowing with all their strength, were filled with wounded pride.
I knew well that the warriors who accompanied me were far more sensitive about my honor and the value of my name than I had thought, but did they have to be this simple-minded?
I briefly scowled at Ivar to signal that he should stop his useless antics, but my second brother, who seemed to have been on fraternal terms with serpents since birth, ignored my gaze and even began whistling.
"Whee~ whee~ wheedle-ee~"
[Swoosh— crash! Swoosh— crash!]
In a way, Ivar's behavior was so consistent that I let my glare fade and allowed a small smile to form on my lips. This, too, was not the kind of action one should take with a fierce battle looming before them, but by now, war and the battlefield were no longer things that stirred up tension within me.
Rather, how should I put it? How could I explain this emotion and mood I was feeling now?
It wasn't fear or that heart-clenching sensation. It was more like... just another thing I had to handle well? Part of my duties, something I had to manage properly to produce a good result?
Fear was no more. This wasn't complacency or some amateur mindset, but rather a sensation close to prescience or certainty, one that kept crying out victory to me. And that voice was so strong that I had reached a point where I could not doubt my own defeat.
If I had to forge this feeling into human language, it would be—hard as it was to believe—comfort.
"Storolfr. Drive the ship straight onto the riverbank. We will contend with them directly."
"Aye! Great Fylkir! All of you! Row with all your might! We will drive straight into them!"
"At maximum speed!"
"Hrrragh—! Huuuull—!"
[Swoosh— crash! Swoosh— crash!]
Storolfr, who did not raise a single question about my command even though one might well have tilted their head at it, stuck to one side of the long oar and rowed alongside the warriors in time with their chants.
Having long since given up rowing due to my unmanageable strength, and Ivar, who claimed he no longer had the strength to row but was still quite handy with a blade—only the two of us stood upon the rocking longship, gazing steadily at the Frankish army's flank, which was in considerable turmoil.
Ivar's low-voiced assessment of the Frankish army's disposition, where our ship might make landfall, the path we should thrust through, and the likelihood of the warriors inside the fortress responding—all of it was carried on the wind that pushed at our backs three times, scattering toward the land.
By then, standing upon the ship and feeling the state of the battlefield with every sixth sense in my body, my physical form knew before anyone else that the longship's graceful curve was about to touch the soft earth.
[Grruuung—!]
"Hup— hah."
[Splash!]
A reckless charge with no regard for the ship's safety, and then disembarkation.
The sensation was always the same—the dampness and chill of the moderately wet ground ceaselessly dragged my nerves, no matter how slightly roused they might have been, back into a realm of profoundly cold reality.
"Norsemen! Hold them back!"
"Drive them off! Smash them right into the riverbed!"
'Well then, let's go.'
There was no one in this place better at fighting than me.
To prove this self-evident proposition, I raised the great sword I had already drawn with one hand and powerfully exhaled the breath I had filled my lungs with.
"I am Helgi Ragnarsson, the Great Warrior of Death! You shall not forget my name!"
[Pa-pap!]
My body, pushing effortlessly through the squelching ground, had already swung the sword, now gripped tightly in both hands, in three great arcs, and the men and steel caught in its path were neatly severed and shattered together, rendered incapable of fulfilling their function.
[Slaaash!]
"Ah— aaaagh!"
A Frankish warrior, fortunate enough to have only lost one arm, made no sound at first. Then, as something flashed—! he stared down at his now empty left forearm and screamed.
The Frankish warriors could never comprehend this situation: something enormous had leaped from the longship, let out a sudden roar, and then flown forward like a cannonball, instantly plunging five, six, perhaps seven—so many warriors—into a pool of blood full of scattered limbs. Every one of them simply stared blankly at me, their eyes swollen to the size of fists.
Behind me as I adjusted my grip on the sword, the battlefield war cries of my warriors, rushing swiftly to catch up, resounded loudly.
From this moment onward, I fully intended to personally cut down every warrior of East Frankia standing between me and the enemy commander.