247. The Dragon of the North Sea.
On that Northumbrian shore, when all my brothers and warriors knelt and beseeched me, I took up the crown of Konungr.
So very much had changed, but the most significant military transformation was the establishment of a systematic military structure that could be called centralization, or concentration of power, or central control.
Originally, a defining trait of warrior tribal societies and one of the reasons Western Europe so feared us Northmen was that small raiding parties came far too often.
For example, after suffering a bitter taste at the hands of Party A from Frisia, you would generously pay Danegeld — literally "Dane's gold" — to Party H from Nantes to catch your breath, only for Party B from Scandinavia to arrive right on their heels.
So now, if one were unfortunate enough to be a Frankish lord of East or West Frankia whose ancestors had bequeathed them riverside or coastal holdings that they must defend — before my reforms, a longship carried at most thirty warriors. They usually sailed in groups of three, so to stop roughly a hundred raiders, you had to maintain a standing army, or it was an immense burden to keep arming the peasants who needed to farm, do labor, and attend church.
And so, what became of it?
What other way was there? They simply had to endure with resilience. One could swing a large hand and kill a few mosquitoes, but if humans wished to drive mosquitoes to extinction, truly great effort was required.
Being bled and swollen, and occasionally losing one's own life trying to catch mosquitoes, had been bearable enough until then. But out of nowhere, the mosquitoes united as one and achieved a species-wide evolution.
The Franks, with extreme rancor and even deeper terror, called me the Dragon of the North Sea.
Having shouldered the entirety of the ancestors' way of life (raiding) and reputation (infamy), I told those who followed me in return that there would be no more combined raiding and trading. Instead, what filled that void was solely trade and expeditions conducted under my approval.
Why did I do this? If I left them alone, they would earn their own income, and wasn't it pleasing to see their vigorous, hot-blooded spirit?
That was not the case.
To put it bluntly, when I secretly concluded a cooperation treaty with Lothar, if a few Jarls who had no knowledge of such details had followed tradition and raided up the rivers of Frisia or lands further below, this war could not have even properly begun.
So I bound my subordinate Konungrs and Jarls tightly. Already the Things of the lands they ruled, the renowned lawmen, the priests, and of course all the people of the North Sea followed me. Even if the lords harbored discontent, what could they possibly do?
In the current atmosphere, if anyone showed even the slightest sign of rebellion, Doctor Guillotin's guillotine might appear at least a few centuries ahead of schedule.
'Hang that wretch!'
'A mere mortal dares rise against the Fylkir? Let us see if he can do so even after his head is cut off!'
'Bylting! Revolution!'
'Unite! All strength to the Fylkir! Let us strike down the corrupt Jarl and return to the Fylkir's cozy embrace!'
Just thinking about it was horrifying. When I sorted through the territories now directly in my grasp, roughly they were Árós, Uppsala, and Norrland in Scandinavia. In Britain, there was Beodericsworth in East Anglia, Tamworth in Mercia, Jorvik and Edinburgh in Northumbria. And newly added to my real estate collection were the Rouen Fortress and Hamburg.
In truth, I directly managed only Árós and Uppsala. The rest I governed by sending my brothers or followers who had sided with me in the war as a kind of agent, in the form of local governors. The reason I had nibbled away at only the choicest lands like this was not some sinister scheme aimed solely at raising property values, but rather to gauge just how far the blessing of abundance I possessed would extend.
When I tallied the results so far, it was about half as effective? I did not quite know what aromatic natural fragrance my body was spraying about, but compared to the lands I did not directly rule, it seemed roughly half as potent. The problem was that even that much turned my direct holdings into a black hole that utterly absorbed all the surrounding area's economic power, manpower, and influence.
At any rate, under these circumstances, to rise in rebellion against me was reasonably seen as either having lost all interest in life or as a stratagem to voluntarily step down from one's position — so well was my prohibition on raiding and slavery observed.
What was the ultimate reason Northmen set out to raid? When you had to sell something but had absolutely nothing to sell, you procured goods or captured people to sell. In the end, it was money.
Then, what was the ultimate reason slavery was necessary in Norse society? Cheap labor to exploit, or perhaps a way to display one's dominance in a rigid social structure? Were not economic factors the greatest of them all, in the end?
Of course, having tasted the cutting edge of 21st-century capitalism, I naturally had a tendency to accept all things in the world through silver-coin universalism. Surely, in this 9th-century Europe, a warrior's honor and faith were values placed above all other trivial things.
Yet the more I peered into it, the more I saw that this 9th-century human world, from the Middle East beyond the Black Sea and the Caspian, to the farthest edge of our North Sea island of Britain, rode upon the flow of money, circulated in silver coins.
Money, honor, and faith.
A ruler who could grant all these things in abundance. And on top of that, the one who fought best and held the highest honor was I, their Fylkir? To the people of the North Sea, who loved money and fighting, this was utterly irresistible.
So, among the North Sea people who accepted the restriction on small-scale raiding with bright smiling faces, those fed up with the ever-growing urban life, or the fifth, sixth, seventh children in a family of ten, and so on — they sought new opportunities and knocked on the doors of Norrland.
The chief god of the North Sea was gradually transitioning from Odin to Hel, but the consciousness of the people below remained the same. The phrase once shouted as "Odin! Valhalla!" simply changed to "Hel! Fylkir!" according to taste. There was no shortage of those who still wished to die honorably, and the logical structure that dying in battle under me, called a demigod, or dying peacefully to enter Hel's domain was the most honorable of all kept the North Sea's military might on an unending upward trajectory.
That snowball rolled and rolled, until at last.
Who could have foreseen that Norrland, which was nothing more than a barracks village in a remote mountain hamlet, would attract the attention of Hrolf, the powerful man who oversaw all administrative affairs of the North Sea? Thanks to that, every time we ate lunch together, I endured Hrolf's passing nagging to pay more attention to Norrland, growing utterly sick of it. So I had given up my entire morning and come to see the Garmr Brotherhood.
Honestly, I had felt lazy and tired and had wanted to play more with Sigmarr, so I had been reluctant. But I felt far more refreshed than I had expected.
From the entrance, the warriors lined up on both sides, their chainmail and helmets polished to a gleaming shine, and even their shields made of solid wood buffed to a dazzling degree.
Following Refil, whose eyes were somewhat hollow, as he personally guided me through Norrland's commercial and residential areas and then into the barracks district beyond the massive gate guarded by sentinels, I almost felt as though I were sightseeing. The touch of Leon or his Roman artist friends had not yet reached this place, so there were no naked stone statues of Tyr to be seen. But a colossal stone statue of the Goddess Hel looked down upon the plaza beside the training ground with a solemn bearing.
When I had visited Norrland with Björn and the others previously, I had only seen the barracks interior under Stórolf's guidance, but it seemed that place had changed a great deal in the meantime.
I soothed the shoulder of Refil, who had fled to Norrland to escape his grandmother Áslaug for a while over this and that, not least his own marriage troubles; and when I had delivered a roughly thirty-minute admonitory speech laced with ancient poetry to my warriors—who had filled the great square to overflowing and then gathered in the training yard beside it—my work in Norrland drew to a close.
Their reaction was, naturally, explosive.
"-Therefore, those who do not prepare shall someday meet with inevitable ruin. The Garmr Brotherhood originally began when I formed my Huskarl (bodyguard) from warriors whose skills I personally tested and acknowledged; thus, all of you here are my Huskarls and brothers. You must strive to hone your abilities. From this moment, the safety of the North Sea rests entirely in your hands!"
"Yaw! Fylkirinn minn!"
"Já Fylkirinn minn!!"
"Yes! My Fylkir!"
"Fylkir! Fylkir!"
"Lord of all seas and rivers! True heir of the old gods!"
As I waved here and there and descended from the podium, behind me the warriors roared—what a sight it was.
A shudder ran through me, the feeling that I must grip the reins all the tighter. Should that power be unleashed, who knew what might happen to this world. I needed to research a stronger seal...
"Fylkir."
"Hm? What is it?"
Just as I was lost in thought, feeling as if I had just witnessed the birth of some new alien, Rune—who normally would ruthlessly stash away parchments full of all sorts of content unless the matter was truly important—this time drew my attention as though it were something he could not easily let pass.
"Konungr Olaf sent a man urgently. Jarl Thorstein of the Isles sent word: the fishermen of Dublin were attacked by strangers in the nearby sea, and they pursued the attackers and captured them all."
"...?"
What in the world did that mean?
*****
Startled by the sudden news that my people had been attacked, I hurriedly mounted Camembert's saddle and, urging on this beast who was beginning to plump up, arrived at Árós.
[Pfuruk- Pfuruk- Pfuruk-]
This fellow. After the war ended, he had banded together with the reindeer and spent twenty-four hours a day lying about rolling around or protesting for food; he waited only for the chance to be put out to pasture with the larger mares brought from Rome, the Khazars, and the Magyars, and in the process had turned into something between a pig and a horse, and now he put on airs of suffering just from trotting this short distance.
"You've worked hard."
[Pfuruk!]
Still, because he was a comrade with whom I had crossed the line of death, rather than telling him to stop eating, I stroked his neck, calling him a good fellow, and as I entered my palace I found not only Konungr Olaf but also Konungr Halfdan, Hrolf, Ivar, and Stórolf all gathered.
"Ah, you were all waiting. Please, sit down."
"Fylkir."
"You have come, Fylkir."
The audience chamber of my palace was impressive, with its long hall and the arched pillars supporting a lofty ceiling. Of the two buildings attached to the wings on either side of that long space, the one on the left, as seen from the great throne, housed the law-speakers from the Eastern Roman Empire, the scholars of the University of Árós, and the lögmenn (lawmen) from every corner of the North Sea who recorded the region's customary laws.
On the opposite side, the building on the throne's Örn side was for the military commanders of the North Sea. Incidentally, the space for the vast administrative staff of the North Sea was not here on Fylkir's Hill: the left hill of Árós, where my old longhouse had stood, had been entirely remodeled and taken over for that purpose.
There was a massive round table with the cardinal directions drawn upon it. On this great round table, which could easily seat twenty, lay maps of various parts of the North Sea drawn from information I had provided, and all sorts of intelligence neatly gathered by the Marmaros Council (the merchant coalition) that plied every sea and river of the North Sea.
"The situation is urgent, so let us first hear the details. Konungr Olaf. What in the world happened? Our sailors were attacked?"
As I sat in a chair that had grown far more comfortable and plush thanks to the ever-improving leatherworking and furniture-making skills, I asked, and not only the surrounding Konungrs but even Ivar and Stórolf burst into rough laughter.
"Yes, I shall speak, Fylkir. The ones who attacked the Dublin fishermen... were those turban-wearing men from Iberia. They are called Muslims, and the Franks call them Saracens as well. They are famed for their ferocity, but this time they chose the wrong opponents. Our brave North Sea fishermen, I hear, killed half the attackers and captured the other half."
Konungr Olaf, who had worn a somewhat sheepish expression when speaking of the North Sea fishermen, soon broke into a smile when mentioning his son Thorstein.
"Jarl Thorstein of the Isles said he is now escorting the captured prisoners and the ship they came on to Árós, so you will soon be able to see them with your own eyes, Fylkir!"
Muslims from Iberia. Had they sailed as far as Éire (Ireland)? It seemed the aftermath of the last war, which had subdued West Frankia, was now making itself felt.
"Well, well. I was going to go up the Dnieper, stop at Cherson in the Eastern Roman Empire, and then head toward Khazar lands. Must I fight the turbaned bastards of the west first?"
The expedition, involving ten longships and a full five hundred elite warriors, was set to depart in two days. The faces of Ivar and Stórolf, who had suddenly been summoned—no one had called them—were flushed as if they were eager to do battle at once.
"As you all know, the sword the Fylkir bestowed upon me was curved particularly after the fashion of those horse-riders of the east. It was modeled after a famous blade I bought from a turbaned merchant for silver worth a full 120 sheep; striking the turbaned men of the west with my Rune sword could be seen as a dispensation of fate."
'So it was 120 sheep, not 40. You really got ripped off something fierce, Ivar.'
Despite being a free-spirited soul, Ivar was usually quite well-mannered before the Konungrs, who were of my father's generation; yet he had suddenly started flaunting his wealth, and all the nobles of the North Sea, who loved shiny things and spending money freely, smacked their lips in envy of Ivar.
But unlike the hopes of Ivar or Stórolf, two faces came to my mind.
"Rune, I must send a man to Björn. Tell him I seek his counsel on this matter."
"Yes, Fylkir. I shall do so."
The acknowledged experts on Iberia. That pair, Björn and Hásteinn, were exactly those faces.