250. The Dragon of the North Sea (4).
250. The Dragon of the North Sea (4).
Three would come.
I felt a reverberation as if I ought to go hunt down a Diablo (Shaitan) right this moment.
Hásteinn, Björn, and I. Perhaps the three warriors who might fight best in all the North Sea were gathered together, so it felt like we ought to have been sitting sprawled out with fishing rods, drinking mead and recounting past battles.
Unfortunately, fishing with a rod—commonly called fly fishing—was hard to find in the North Sea and not popular compared to net fishing, so I had to content myself with roasting fresh herring that I had paid a local fisherman extra for.
[crackle- crackle-]
For an island lying at the entrance to Uppsala and Árós, it was a decent size, but like most of Scandinavia, it was covered with thick trees and puddles everywhere, forcing those who walked to always keep their eyes on the ground.
Sitting in front of the longhouse that my father had built with his own hands long before I was born, and lighting a campfire, I suddenly noticed the Muslim pirate prisoners trembling behind our trios backs as we chatted idly about recent news.
"Lord Fylkir! Don't you think we can eat this now?"
"...Jarl Hásteinn. The herring hasn't been on the fire for even the time it takes an arrow to fly."
"Ahaha! Fresh fish can be eaten after just a little taste of the fire! The Fylkir must have been too fussy about the children's food, that's why! Pickled herring, leftover animal marrow, properly aged and salted meat—those were the winter foods of us Norsemen! Haha! The ones born now surely won't believe we used to suck marrow!"
The herring was browning nicely. As Hásteinn spoke, his eyes wide as if he could not bear the smell any longer, Björn, who was drying his wet body by the fire, likewise seemed to be lost in reminiscence.
When I had asked Hrólfr, who was from an even older generation, he said he never wanted to go back to those times. Perhaps Björn, the son of a noble house who had likely suffered less hunger than Hrólfr, and Hásteinn, who had grown up beside him, remembered the past quite fondly.
But no matter how much Hásteinn and Björn smacked their lips, the fish was still a long way from being cooked in my judgment, so the two would have to abandon any thought of touching it.
'Come to think of it, weren't there parasites in meat and saltwater fish too, not just in freshwater fish?'
The staple foods of the North Sea people were meat, bread, and porridge, with plenty of alcohol. But how did they deal with parasites?
'Truly, there is no end to the work.'
'Should I feed them lye?'
As my thoughts kept running on like this, the limitations of the 9th century always appeared in the most unexpected places. The 21st century—what a wonderful place to live that had been!
"Rune, the warriors who came with the two Jarls are resting well, I trust?"
"Of course, Lord Fylkir. I prepared the encampment in advance, and after washing in the nearby stream, they can eat and drink to their heart's content."
"Good, well done. Bring me that prisoner over there—the one who fainted."
"Yes!"
Rune answered at once and ran off, and suddenly feeling sorry for him, I skewered another herring and set it by the fire. No matter how they rotated shifts, guarding the Fylkir was never an easy task.
[thwack!]
"Agh!"
"Move it!"
"Spare me! Spare me!"
Perhaps because of accumulated work stress, Rune's handling of the prisoner had become quite deft and unhesitating. Compared to his first appearance, when some traces of an immature prince still lingered, he now bore himself with the air of a proper warrior.
'It's about time to send Rune back as well.'
I could not leave the Gorge Kingdom and Alt Clut in the hands of ambitious proxies forever, so I would need to send someone to Uhtred to ask his advice on the matter.
"Hwaaak!"
"Stay still!"
[thwack!]
Rune dragged over the pirate who had dared to faint before me at our first meeting, hauling him along, and soon the Muslim pirate, forced to kneel before the three Norsemen huddled around the campfire, immediately plunged his head to the ground and trembled like an aspen leaf.
"Spare us! We are not tasty! Spare us!"
"Lord Fylkir! This bastard is spouting incomprehensible words! Daring before the Fylkir...! I will beat him senseless until he speaks Norse!"
No, beating a man would not make an unknown language spring forth.
More importantly, did this Muslim pirate view us as real devils? It seemed he thought we would roast him over the fire like the herring on that skewer.
"Jarl Hásteinn, it is fine. Prisoner, raise your head."
To Hásteinn, the Norse tongue; to the captive terrified of being eaten, the language of Al-Andalus.
At my suddenly spoken words, not only the captive, who had been breathing raggedly into the dirt, but Hásteinn's eyes also went round, and he looked at me with disbelief.
Björn and Rune, who knew well of my linguistic abilities, and my Huskarls were not as greatly shaken as those two, but they still wore fascinated expressions as they watched the scene with interest.
"Uh- uh-"
"You will now tell me everything, without omitting a single thing, about yourself and your lord. Where you lived, what you ate, why you took up piracy, who gave you those orders, those who rule the land where you live—everything."
[sizzle- sizzle- crackle- crackle-]
The grilled herring, perhaps nearly cooked now, oozed oil and sent sparks flying from the campfire. I turned each skewer meaningfully, then spoke to the prisoner, who stared at me blankly, even forgetting the drool that had been trickling down. Finally, the Muslim pirate Ahmed, his spirit completely broken and shattered, began desperately spewing out all the information in his head, starting with his own name.
"Angel! Angel descended upon this land! I am Ahmed, son of Abdil! I was born in Qulumriyah (Coimbra), and I have three older brothers and two younger brothers! Although my family are Muwallads (Christians who converted to Islam), we are loyal to the great Ali and Emir Muhammad of Qurṭuba (Córdoba)—"
This captive's trembling, desperately working mouth and tongue produced a voice that was high and unsteady, not pleasant to hear, but the warriors of the North Sea, who had heard far worse sounds on the battlefield, merely kept their places in silence.
[Tadak- tadak-]
"—the Wali (a local lord) of where I live told me that he had received the Emir's command to capture those impious Frankish heathens and lead them to the true faith, and that he would bestow a corresponding reward upon me! The captain of my ship grew too greedy and was punished with death, but I would never dare to—"
"Stop."
"Attack the ship, yes, yes!"
He had received the Emir's command. Lead the impious heathens to the true faith. And to do that, he attacked our North Sea ships?
'This could serve as a decent excuse, couldn't it?'
"Is it true that your Emir gave the order to attack?"
"It is true! The Emir freed Muwallad families of exemplary conduct and commanded them to attack the heathens! I did not hear his voice directly, but the Wali (local lord) of my district told me so, so if it is a lie, the fault lies with the Wali!"
"Good, I understood clearly. You may return to your place now."
"Yes! Thank you! Oh angel! Thank you!"
Ahmed limped on his injured leg near Örn, scrabbling backward on his knees without rising.
Turning away from that sight, I handed out one herring skewer each and took a large bite of the golden-brown fish as I spoke.
[Asak- chureup-]
"Their Konungr (king) gave the order himself. He rules a place called Córdoba, and his name is Muhammad. Do either of you know anything about this?"
At my question, Björn, who had been silently staring at the flames, twirled his herring skewer and answered.
"Muhammad Abd al-Rahman's son. In their tongue, he is called Muhammad ibn Abd al-Rahman. To Hásteinn and me, the fact that he is the son of Abd al-Rahman is far more memorable than the unfamiliar title of Emir of Al-Andalus."
I had purposely amended the title from Emir to Konungr in my question, but Björn seemed to know quite a lot about the titles and internal affairs of Al-Andalus.
"Twenty years have already passed, and that fierce Abd al-Rahman has long since died, yet the memory of that time remains vivid. Hásteinn and I sailed down with over a hundred ships, and only half returned. Even afterward, we Northmen traded in their lands, so I have always kept my ear to the news from Al-Andalus."
"Ah— it was a magnificent sight! I, too, am still haunted by that specter to this day! The two ends of the land that seemed almost to touch, the narrow strait between them blocked by the ships of the turbaned ones! Glorious advance and death! Flames and war cries filling the sea! Even now, when I close my eyes, that day of steel and blood appears as vividly as ever!"
Unlike Björn's composure, which held a hint of sorrow, Hásteinn's recollections blazed far hotter than the campfire leaping before us.
Perhaps it was precisely this stark contrast between the two that had allowed them to become the legendary duo whose story was still told.
"After that fierce battle, both Abd al-Rahman's forces and our own were badly mauled. Had we clashed once more on the land near Lisbon where we anchored to regroup, Hásteinn and I would already be in Valhalla eating this grilled herring with our ancestors."
[Asak- chureup-]
Björn cautiously bit off a piece of herring, while Hásteinn swallowed a large mouthful. I, meanwhile, had already finished off an entire fish and laid a fresh skewer beside the fire.
"Abd al-Rahman negotiated with us. He said, 'You may keep all the goods you have taken from the seas beyond Al-Andalus. In return, release all the captives you have seized in Al-Andalus.' The terms were generous, and we naturally accepted. That is how the fifty-odd surviving longships and their warriors were able to return to Uppsala."
"Much as I hate to admit it, the strength of the turbaned ones was formidable. My Fylkir. Naturally, it is nothing compared to the elite troops of the North Sea that you yourself have raised, but they are not to be taken lightly."
"Hásteinn is not one who readily acknowledges an opponent. His teeth are blunted with age, and his discerning eye is terribly high, yet his instinct for measuring a foe remains razor-sharp. Al-Andalus and Abd al-Rahman were indeed strong. So why did those strong men let Hásteinn and me live? My Fylkir. In order to answer that question, I have observed them for many long years, and only now do I begin to understand."
His green eyes gleamed with a fresh, bright light. Björn's voice, carrying that irrepressible ferocity, was exactly like that of a savage wolf. Those who could not help but summon blood by their very nature. Raiders, slaughterers, conquerors. Rulers. A cold inhuman steeliness suited to an irrational world flickered across Björn's face.
It was too cold for mere resentment, yet too hot to be called machine-like calculation.
"Just as the Franks, who profess faith in a single god, have been divided since Charlemagne, so too do they appear strong on the surface but are in fact fracturing. Please, leave this matter to Hásteinn and me, my Fylkir. I will make Abd al-Rahman's son Muhammad pay dearly for daring to lay a hand on the Fylkir's people."
This was a colossal ambition. A concentration of the blazing desire and emotion that my grandfather and father had possessed. It seemed that inheritance had passed to the eldest son of the house.
Hásteinn, who had surreptitiously slipped an extra herring skewer beside the fire for himself, responded to Björn's ambition with a deep, simmering smile, and I felt the Huskarls collectively tense at the two warlords' rising spirit.
"Björn, we have fought a great war from last winter through this summer. And in autumn and winter, we are preparing a grand festival that will even welcome the people of Eastern Rome and Lotharingia. You, as Jarl of Rouen Fortress, know better than anyone that what we need right now is Hugh-style diplomacy."
"Of course. My Fylkir. I am not Hásteinn."
"...? Why am I being dragged into this!?"
Björn, who had likewise added an extra herring skewer for himself beside the fire, tucked that fleeting wolf's face deep inside him and once again spoke with a countenance of pure steel.
"Thanks to the awe-inspiring majesty of the Fylkir, there is one man who has come to properly see the power of our North Sea. I intend to meet with him. Charles of West Frankia. By now, he must be racking his brain for some way to pay back the Emir of Al-Andalus."
"Carolus!?"
Hásteinn's horrified reaction was amusing. Was that why Björn kept him around?
Carolus, then.
What would happen when the cold-blooded ruler of West Frankia met the cold-blooded ruler of the North Sea? I shook my head, turning my herring skewer so the opposite side faced the flames, and told Björn to do as he saw fit.