240. There Is No Wave That Stays Still (2).
240. There Is No Wave That Stays Still (2).
Orkneyjar, the northernmost part of Britain in the North Sea.
Also called Togeunvalde in Britain, the Jarl of Orkney—known by his true name Rognvald Eysteinsson—was the powerful lord of Kaupang, a staunch ally of Harald, and acted as a bridge linking Britain and western Scandinavia.
The days of fighting alongside the Kingdom of the Isles in northern Britain against that fearsome Scot king Causantín were thus abruptly ended at the hand of a demigod who had appeared out of nowhere, and in the span of barely less than five years, the lands where the Fylkir's footsteps touched and the people who lived upon them had to choose one of three options: accept change, die, or leave.
Naturally, Rognvald—born the eldest son of a prestigious house in western Scandinavia and holding the geostrategically vital land of the Orkney islands—had a sharp mind, and without a moment's hesitation he actively cooperated with Helgi Ragnarsson, who was at that time nothing more than the Jarl of Árós.
And the result?
Now the sea lanes of the North Sea Empire shone gold and silver through all four seasons, from the Kingdom of the Isles in the west to the Kingdom of the Valley of course, and the sea route passing through Orkney—painstakingly built by ancestors over long ages—had grown renowned as one of the three great trade routes, alongside the one passing through East Anglia or Jorvik to the south.
Besides, compared to south of Jorvik where the Fylkir had thoroughly dealt with all who dared to resist, the highlands of northern Britain still held Picts who had hidden themselves away, and Jarl Thorstein of Dublin in Eire to the west was always in need of more warriors.
Orkney's influence, wealth, and prestige—bridging Scandinavia where the Fylkir resided and Britain—were trending ever upward with each passing day.
But oh! Alas!
The lust of men, those crimson and pitch-black emotions!
Sitting in the great hall of Kirkjuvágr—the most tolerable port in the otherwise desolate Orkney islands, best for sheltering from storms—watching the interior remodeling using Marmaros, so fashionable among the lords of the North Sea these days, and the shape of the goddess Hel's statue being raised, a new ambition was sprouting vigorously within Rognvald's head.
'The maritime hegemony of the island of Britain, which should rightfully belong to us Orkney, is being shaken by the rapid growth of Jorvik and Bedericsworth.'
In absolute volume it had risen to a degree incomparable to the past, but in proportion the three cities of Britain's eastern coast were now dividing it three ways.
Though this alone already let him enjoy a prosperity so great he could import marble to this remote island, Rognvald desired more renown. If he could raise his name higher and draw just a little closer to the Fylkir's side.
Because Orkney and his house could gain far more.
As the stark example of that, look at the Jarl of Gotland, who enjoyed every conceivable wealth and glory for the mere reason of being attached to Árós and Uppsala.
To think those goat-herders were now erecting everything in pure white marble and importing the famed high-quality lumber of Árós to carve statues of the gods and the Fylkir.
Truthfully, Rognvald felt jealousy.
However, though Orkney enjoyed unprecedented economic abundance, military control over northern Britain was split between the two Jarls who had been granted the glory of joining the Fylkir in the great war to the south: Thorstein of the Kingdom of the Isles and Uhtred of northern Northumbria.
Therefore, be it the isle of Eire beyond the western sea where tension was rising higher, or the Picts whose king's name changed every time they descended from their high mountains for trade negotiations.
Neither side was easy to attack with Orkney's own strength alone. And it did not accord with the Fylkir's intent, who now sought stability...
Thus Jarl Rognvald of Orkney, wanting somehow to catch the Fylkir's attention, was of late lending an increasingly attentive ear to the tall tales and wild yarns of the North Sea fellows who—with their bellies full and backs warm—were beginning to let loose the adventurous spirits they had kept hidden.
[Far, far out west and north, beyond the endless sea. A great shadow was seen.]
This rumor, born in a tavern in the port town of Kirkjuvágr, clearly began by word of mouth among the fishermen who, on fair-weather days, ventured out into the distant sea to hunt whales or catch great hauls of fish.
And so it reached the ears of the rough, adventure-loving men of this northern Britain—the most stable and peaceful it had been in nearly a hundred years—and they had, naturally enough, set out on a recklessly bold exploration.
As a result, there were cases where birds released from the ships flew toward the position of the brightest star in the night sky and did not return. If only there had been a little more wind, if only they could grasp the sea route a bit better. Amid such regrets, one by one, the conviction that something lay far beyond the sea grew stronger.
'It was worth trying to support it on a larger scale.'
Of course, to the innately level-headed Rognvald, the men of Orkney, northern Britain, and western Scandinavia going mad for the new like children looked nothing but foolish.
Even if there was land out there, what could be done with it right now? There was already an outrageous amount of idle land inside the North Sea Empire—if new land appeared, would people happily move?
To Rognvald this was merely a matter of interest, nothing more. But if he relayed this new possibility to the Fylkir through his close friend Jarl Harald of Kaupang or Jarl Halfdan—who had now firmly secured his position as heir of the Jutes—then Rognvald's own name would be known in Árós, and if the Fylkir showed interest, he could receive considerable support as well.
The people of the North Sea knew it by now, but the Fylkir was a man as vast in his spending as he was in his great frame. The attention of the merchants that southern Britain had stolen away might be turned back toward Orkney's trade route.
Of course, all of this was only Rognvald's own wish. It might well be dismissed as a tall tale, but then so what? Even if the Fylkir simply took it as an amusing story and passed it over with good humor, half the plan could already be counted a success.
The only thing to lose was a little of his own prestige; what he stood to gain was the Fylkir's interest?
'Interesting, let's proceed.'
Rognvald made his decision, and he was one of the seventeen lords who had personally received a Meteor Sword—a green Rune sword—from the Fylkir. There was no one in Orkney who would disobey Jarl Rognvald's command.
This official command naturally became yet another rumor that shook Orkney and northern Britain, and the gazes of the reckless who dreamed of adventure began to gather upon the stern domain of Njord.
Unrelated to the intentions of the Fylkir, who was fervently devoting himself to internal consolidation in Árós, or of Hrolf, his teacher and virtual father.
*****
"Helgi. Could I go and visit the Khazars for a while?"
It was Sunnudagr, the day after bath day.
Having thoroughly enjoyed a family bath with Inga and Sigmarr for the first time in a while, I was spending a family outing with a suitable degree of languor, having pitched a large tent along the eastern road leading out of Árós toward the University of Árós.
Of course, a family outing for the Fylkir could be directly translated for the court servants and the guard as a hellish outing, or a mountain of work, so it drew the attention of the Árós folk who loved to make every possible ruckus, play, and drink.
As a result, the family outing became a procession of the Fylkir, and even now idle people beyond the glaring eyes of the guards craned their necks and shed tears (...) or shouted my name and Sigmarr's name while performing the Grand Bow.
This Grand Bow was originally imported by the Eastern Roman Empire from Persia and then imported by Jarl Haskuldr of Kiev; after Haskuldr demonstrated it magnificently once during the great feast that followed the last triumph and then departed with ease, from that moment on everyone in Árós started throwing themselves flat before me at every opportunity.
The people of Árós were rather full of hipster tendencies—during the last horse-racing event of Árós, they had mimicked the nomadic courtesy of the victorious Magyar rider, who knelt on one knee and bowed his head before me, and now they had abruptly acquired the Grand Bow, the pinnacle of such greetings.
At this rate, if they encountered people from the Indian subcontinent, would they learn full prostration too? Or was it Tibet?
Anyway, by now our family was fairly accustomed to such fervent public reaction and superstar treatment, and we were letting Sigmarr and his animal friends run about, eating packed lunch, and passing a happy time together, when suddenly Ivar appeared and laid upon me this talk of going to the Khazars.
Normally anyone approaching my family had to disarm, but Ivar—a member of the North Sea 17 Swords who was permitted to wear a blade—dangled his slightly curved sword at his hip according to his own taste and tore off a strip of jerky to hand to me.
"The Khazars, all of a sudden. What do you mean by that? The Khazars aren't next door—what business takes you on such a distant journey?"
To begin with, it was hard to get used to the sight of Ivar—the wildest of the free-spirited and stubborn sons of Ragnar—asking me for permission, but thinking that my second older brother, who lived by his own rules, must have had his Wanderlust Fate flare up again, I decided to hear out the circumstances.
"I talked with Damian, and it seems the Eastern Roman Emperor is plotting something with those Khazar friends."
I had expected an answer like 'I just felt like going,' but this was a bit more serious.
[Jilgeong- jilgeong-]
"From the Khazar side too, I heard they asked the Eastern Romans to help them get acquainted with us. They pointedly named me, I'm told, but as I see it they wish to approach the Fylkir of the North Sea through me."
Ivar's eyes as he rolled the tough jerky about in his mouth seemed indifferent, but there were no emotions that could evade my gaze. Clearly, excitement for a new thrill lurked within Ivar's eyes.
That the Khazars knew Ivar's name was no cause for wonder, since the original form of that curved blade he now wore at his hip was obtained in the Khazar city of Attila.
What had he said back then? He had boasted to me that he bought it for forty rams' worth of silver. This time, I was curious to see just how badly this second older brother of mine would get overcharged.
"Who could block the path of the Boneless one? If you want to go, you'll go, I suppose. Only, take Stórolf with you."
"Stórolf?"
[Jilgeong- jilgeong-]
[Ttuk- kkulkkeok-]
Standing beside Ivar, who had been sucking on a single strip of jerky all day, I swiftly put an end to one strip with my large, sturdy teeth.
As the salty tang and the distinct flavor of dried beef went down my throat, my body threw a tantrum, demanding more.
'We just ate lunch.'
"Refil, who fled to Norrland, sent a letter requesting Stórolf's Hugh be sent. It seems in Norrland he's not much help and is busy making some outlandish training regimen while raving about mental strength."
"That really is just like Stórolf."
Huhuhu—
Clearly, I had meant to develop Stórolf into a versatile commander, but somehow the more battles and wars he fought, the more Stórolf seemed to turn into some kind of warmachine pursuing only the direct charge.
What's more, he had a roving eye, to the point that he made himself a lover on every continent he moved to wage war, so his father Orm had come to me to petition that his son should finally come to his senses and settle down with one woman.
"Good. I'll take Stórolf along!"
To Ivar, who was nodding vigorously, I added the essential point.
"Find out what the Khazar Khagan wants from me, and what benefit the Eastern Roman Empire gains by connecting the Khazars with us."
A meeting between the Eastern Roman Empire—masters of the Black Sea—and the Khazars—masters of the Caspian—was not a sight easily seen. And Ivar possessed the ability to reliably carry out such a difficult charge from me.
"All the way to the Eastern Roman Empire? You're working this old and sickly brother hard. Then I'll have to give up the Bulgar River route and raise the ship up the Dnieper. I'll need a strong fellow, so I definitely have to bring Stórolf."
With a broad laugh, our brother pair moved slowly toward Sigmarr—who was laughing brightly and running about here and there with two reindeer, a half-grown great wolf, and two waddling cats—and toward Inga, who was sitting on a chair beside him.
At the moment a similar smile rose on the face of this son of Ragnar as he looked at Sigmarr, Ivar let out an exclamation of "Ah—!" and relayed a fact he had completely forgotten.
"Oh dear! I got so carried away talking that I forgot the important news. Helgi! Both of your mothers are at Fylkir's Hill right now. Halfdan's wife, Botilda, is with child, I hear?"
"What?"
Shouldn't you have led with that?
Having stopped in place for a moment, I quietly stared at the back of Ivar's head as he walked on nonchalantly, then hurried my steps.