221. The Snake That Climbs the Tree (3).
221. The Snake That Climbs the Tree (3).
[Buuuuuu-]
Though he had never once flinched before the sound of the Norsemen's horns,
Heinrich, the general (princeps militiae) of East Frankia who had always proudly fought against invaders without flinching, felt a chill run down the back of his neck.
"They are coming!"
"Hold! Any man who disobeys orders will be severely punished!"
"Verden's walls are high and strong! Trust the walls and your comrades! We can survive!"
Survive? Not "We will be victorious, we will slaughter every last enemy"? Not such blood-boiling slogans, but at best, survive? Words so feeble that one could never imagine them coming from the proud warriors of East Frankia.
Normally, Heinrich would have personally drawn his sword and fiercely scolded the warriors for their weak spirit. But in truth, even Heinrich himself was struggling to clear his dizzy mind.
The root of all this trouble was the accursed Battle of Bremen. That battle, in which a single man turned the entire tide of the war, was the fundamental cause.
Heinrich, who had watched from a distance, remembered it vividly: just as the final general assault was launched to decide the siege of Bremen, a dozen or so large longships suddenly appeared along the riverbank, and at their head, a giant leapt out and charged without warning. What they thought was a new method of suicide turned into the helpless collapse of the Frankish shield-wall on the riverside in the blink of an eye. Soon even the cavalry hastily sent in collapsed on itself, and instead, with their momentum fully restored, they ended up presenting horses to the Örn enemy and increasing their mobility.
Moreover, the enemy commander, never satisfied, pressed charge after insane charge, threatening the life of Heinrich who was commanding from the rear, and ultimately leading to the rout of the East Frankish army.
By heaven and God, he swore.
Heinrich had never experienced such a battle. He had never heard of a similar case, nor seen one. If what Heinrich and the East Frankish warriors had witnessed that day before the palisade of Bremen was not a demon's trick—if it was truly a hero from the old stories, the kind grandmothers and grandfathers told their little grandchildren at bedtime, leading those Norsemen—then shouldn't there at least be an angel descended from heaven on this side? Wouldn't that be only just?
But there was none.
The reality was that the East Frankish warriors, who had succeeded in retreating to Verden like miserable dogs soaked in rain, hung their heads after a single battle, brooded with gloomy faces over the voices of their dying comrades, and those who could no longer bear it lost their minds, endlessly muttering the same words or trembling in their limbs with cold sweat.
Heinrich, following the basics of retreat, worked the surviving cavalry hard and succeeded in gathering the routed warriors to some extent, but in truth the East Frankish army at Verden had been annihilated.
They had accepted the death of their spirit before the death of their flesh.
And so, like the rear courtyard of a church where a low funeral dirge echoed, the peculiar atmosphere of a place close to death was choking the men's spirits, binding them tight.
But Heinrich only meant to fulfill the sacred duty that God and the Emperor had bestowed upon him.
In any case, if they did not fight, they would only die or bow their heads.
No Frankish warrior standing on the walls of Breden could ever be ignorant of that fact. For right here, countless Saxon pagans had been killed and made to bow their heads.
East Frankish Saxony and Heinrich would not collapse like that.
He could not let that happen.
"There is no place left to retreat! Do you think they will let us live nicely? There is only one way to survive! Fight and nothing else! Save yourselves! If you want to live, fight! Do not die as cowards! Take up sword and spear! Men of East Frankia!"
The sound of the enemy's steady footsteps drawing nearer, the clinking of chainmail.
Through it, a tearing voice that seemed almost desperate rang out loudly.
The voice that the general, who had suffered a crushing defeat, let out was filled with heart-rending anger, regret, and a still-unquenched will.
At Heinrich's lion-like roar of command, the East Frankish warriors, whose eyes had been heavily shadowed, lifted them again, and once more steadied their bodies that had been trembling with dreadful fear.
[Chk-chk-chk-chk-]
[Buuuuuuuu-!!]
"Archers-! Ready-!"
"Draw the bowstring!"
[Kiiigik-kiigigik-]
Only eyes and ears focused on the order remained where the trembling of hands and feet had passed.
After looking over his proud East Frankish warriors, who had finished every preparation and were watching only the corner of his mouth, Heinrich nodded and signaled the attack.
"Loose!!"
"Release!!"
[Pyung! Pyung! Pyupyung!]
The Örn arrows, flying in unison, filled the sky like a flock of black birds and fell upon the large, sturdy shields of the Norsemen who had halted their advance.
[Swaaa- hududuk! hududuk!]
Arrows that fell with a sound slightly sharper than the rain of days past.
"Aim-!!"
"Draw the bowstring!"
[Kiiik-kiigik-]
As they watched this, just when the thought came to everyone's mind—those drawing bowstrings, those raising spears and shields, those waving flags to relay orders—that this was doable, the Norsemen kept advancing toward the sturdy wall.
"Fire-!!"
[Pyung! Pyupyung!]
*****
[Shwaaak-shwaaaak! Hududuk! Pababak!]
"Forward-!"
"Advance again!"
[Chk! Chk! Chk! Chk!]
Verden sat with a river to the north.
By its nature as a fortress with a river on one side, it ought to have had a moat; but perhaps because it was seed-sowing spring and maintenance work had just begun, the area around Verden's western gate only had faint traces where water once flowed. The ground, dug up here and there, was muddy from the rain the previous day, but it was not an obstacle that would prevent infantry from maneuvering.
"They still have some spirit left to resist."
To the slowly advancing Kaupang thousand-man unit, the East Frankish men gave a fervent welcoming ceremony with countless arrows.
It seemed that, befitting the largest city on the Weser River, they had amassed a fairly generous stock of supplies. But a riverside city with its water route blocked was effectively sentenced to a limited time, was it not.
It looked as if all the residents from the surrounding area had entered the fortress. How long could they hold out? Would Louis of Saxony, the son of Emperor Ludovicus, truly be preparing to march from Paderborn in southern Saxony?
If you're too late, we'll swallow up Bremen and then devour Verden right after, leaving nothing behind.
"Jarl Harald. We need to clear a breathing space for our forces approaching from the west. You will move another thousand-man unit from Kaupang here and assault the western wall. I will move south with the Frisian allies and draw their gaze."
"Yes! Fylkir!"
"Jarl Hroldulfr. Send a messenger to Konungr Hrorek. The Frisian warriors will fill the moat in front of the southern wall together with me."
"Understood!"
"Stórolf! Move out!"
"Yes!"
As abruptly as the flurry of commands had begun, the subordinates and allies around me soon moved busily.
Harald, gleaming in gold, moved personally to support the thousand-man unit at the vanguard that was drawing every bit of the enemy's attention. My direct guard of five hundred and the roughly 2,500 Frisian warriors all stamped their feet in unison and cautiously approached the moat, where the water had risen to a shallow stream across the mucky ground.
[Swaaek- Swaaek-! Tang! Tatang! Hudduduk!]
The moment we entered arrow range, arrows flew from their walls. They were smaller than ours and of irregular lengths. Yet sharp arrowheads were embedded at their tips, so being hit hurt, and a lucky hit could kill just the same. But to the ruler of the North Sea, whose realm had already begun standardized production of all manner of consumables, the sight left a little to be desired.
Stórolf glared at the enemy walls, his eyes narrowing like axe blades, but arrows alone could not inflict any meaningful damage on us.
The Frisian warriors, though not carrying the large rectangular shields of the Kaupang warriors, had their fronts solidly blocked with North Sea-style square shields secured through 'piracy' (?), and above their heads they held traditional round shields turned upside-down like umbrellas.
I could see the enemy's firepower being dispersed by the warriors' turtle-like slow advance.
This would make things easier for Harald in the west, who was advancing with ladders, and the Frisian army in the south, beginning the moat-overcoming operation, would not feel much pressure either.
"Fylkir Helgi!"
[Swaaek- Swaaek-]
Through the space where blind arrows whistled overhead, a deep voice called my name.
Turning my head beneath the great roof of shields, I saw Konungr Hrorek, bent over like me, hurrying forward through the shield wall, his feet stepping nimbly here and there.
"Fylkir Helgi! The southern scouts are still silent! I don't know what has befallen that brat in Paderborn, but it grants us extra time to attack Verden in earnest!"
What I was watching out for was enemy reinforcements that could appear out of nowhere when we were fully engaged in the fight.
Hamburg in the north was already too busy facing Halfdan and Sigurd, and the Obotrites beyond them, who had always supported Saxony, now had to worry about whether their own homes would be burned.
That left the south and the west. Since the west held our powerful allies, Frisia and Lotharingia, I only needed to watch the south—Paderborn.
That was why Konungr Hrorek, who knew the terrain of this region better than any of us, had personally taken action.
Since Konungr Hrorek had been a warrior fighting in this area for decades, I did not doubt his words.
"Then let us fight in earnest. Konungr Hrorek. Stórolf! Tell Ivar to start moving the earth sacks! Guard! Fill the moat! Frisian warriors, provide solid cover!"
"Yes, Fylkir!"
"For the Fylkir!"
My voice, resounding like thunder in the cramped space, resonated fiercely and powerfully shook the minds of the warriors as they slowly sank into the chaos of the battlefield.
At the sound of the booming shouts that answered, the solid shield wall advanced once more, then opened gaps here and there to let those behind through.
Through these gaps, as Ivar directed from the rear, they stuffed earth into the supply sacks prepared in advance and passed them forward.
Beside my five-hundred-strong guard, who were shoveling with all their might, the Frisian warriors sweated profusely and tossed sandbags into the moat with splashes, while next to them my shovel blade dug into the earth with possessed skill, spewing sand at a mad speed.
"Huff! Huff! Huff! Huff!"
[Thwock! Schaaak! Thwock! Schaaak! Thwock! Schaaak!]
"My god..."
"The Fylkir is murdering the earth...!"
"The Fylkir is truly a Great Warrior of Death!"
My guard and the Frisian warriors, who had never seen such a sight since the day they were born, could not tear their eyes away from me even as enemy arrows flew in.
My tireless body had made countless miracles possible, but in a way, perhaps it was in such a field of simple labor that this body displayed its highest efficiency.
Like the diamond-coated shovel blade from some mining game. With each [Thwock!] stab, a square dirt block popped up with a [Pock!] — a wondrous spectacle. The shovel blade moved at a crazy speed, at least five times in the span of an ordinary man's single breath.
[Thwock! Schaaak! Thwock! Schaaak! Thwock! Crack!]
The shovel handle, unable to withstand the agonizing impact any longer, broke in two with a heroic shriek and perished, but I still had several spare shovels left.
"Stórolf!"
"Yes! Fylkir! Here!"
[Tup!]
Without even turning my head back, I firmly grasped the shovel Stórolf handed over.
Then again I repeatedly brought the shovel down with full force onto the earth that had bared its shameful nakedness to me, and flung the dirt away.
[Schaaak! Splash! Schaaak! Splash!]
Like a hydra ceaselessly spitting venom. The fragments of earth flying towards the great pit dug by men gradually absorbed and pressed down the murky water of the moat, beginning to expand the domain of land.
Before I knew it, I had dug as deep as my own height. To change my position, I grabbed Stórolf's hand and climbed out of the excavation site (?), and my eyes could clearly see that the water level of the moat had visibly dropped.
"Hoo-!"
Was this the sense of fulfillment farmers felt?
The fruits of my labor filled me with deep satisfaction and stirred a strong desire to do even more.
'I'll just build a whole mountain...! We'll look down at you and shoot arrows.'
[Kkadeudeuk-]
The sturdy shovel let out a pitiful scream under the grip of my hand clutching the handle firmly.
The men of Frisia and the North Sea simply watched me work another miracle, their eyes filled with awe.
"Come! Let's move quickly!"
Stop watching and get to work, you slaves— my warriors.