271. Wind.
271. Wind.
[Pung! Sswae-aek-!]
When he released the string, the arrow flew like a fish. Others thought arrows flew in a straight line, but to his own eyes and his brother's, the arrow's tail-wagging flight was clearly visible.
[Whirik-whirik-whirik-]
If he concentrated his mind a little more, he could see the dust motes the arrow brushed past, and even the tips of the straw on the distant target swaying gently.
Randulfr had only relatively recently realized that the things he saw could not be seen by ordinary people.
[Puk!]
"Hooo-"
The moment he released the string, the breath he had been holding escaped past his lips without his knowing. Randulfr's hot breath, meeting the cold air, soon became a faint vapor rising into the sky. Behind the child, who would soon face his sixth winter, came the sound of clapping hands and a soft voice.
[Jjak! Jjak! Jjak! Jjak!]
"A hit! Karl Randulfr!"
'Heehee.'
Struggling to suppress his flushed face and twitching cheekbones, Randulfr turned his head back. There stood a fair-looking youth.
Not yet fully ripened, but no longer a figure who could be called merely a boy. He lived outside the palace, but he had grown close to Randulfr while living together like a brother. That name was Constantine, who had already entered the bodyguard at a young age.
"Your archery skill grows by leaps and bounds with each passing day, Karl."
The Huskarls who guarded Father all bore a murderous glint in the corner of their eyes, but this man Constantine was full of gentleness and mildness. Was that why Father had assigned him to Randulfr himself?
'I'm not just a little child anymore, after all.'
Randulfr, who was approaching six years old, thought so. Having forgotten entirely his own earlier childish delight at the praise for shooting well, he lifted again the small bow Father had made for him with his own hands.
"Ssssuup-"
Would he be able to go out hunting someday? Would he stand beside Father and his older brother? Because the power of the god flowed in his blood. He could do his part as a person.
The little boy, already with his eyes and mind opened, drew a breath with mature thoughts beyond his years. In the world that quickly faded away, he gazed at the distant target.
A tranquility left alone in the world. Now only faint memories remained, but whenever he had slept in his mother's embrace, he had seen a dark palace and a golden-masked woman waiting for him there, and the welcoming cries of beasts.
Yearning for those old memories that no longer came, Randulfr released the string.
[Pung! Sswae-aek- Pak!]
Had his fingertip trembled when he released the string? Or was the problem the gust of wind that had suddenly blown?
The arrow flew and struck the target, but not the spot Randulfr had wanted.
[Jjak! Jjak! Jjak!]
The good-natured Constantine, of course, clapped and cheered again, but Randulfr slightly furrowed his cute brow and tilted his head the way Bokshiri sometimes did.
'It went a little off, but it's fine. There's no need to be unfamiliar with mistakes or disappointed. When you fall, the important thing is to get back up.'
A phrase that any child of Helgi would hear from Father at least once.
Just recalling that face made the anxious feeling vanish, and a vast peace settled into his heart. Besides, he had felt another presence approaching from afar.
"Hooo- Ssssuup-"
Randulfr exhaled, drew breath again, and focused his mind.
Distracting thoughts disappeared, and his mind left only the target beneath his consciousness.
[Pung!]
The arrow flew again and split the butt of the arrow already lodged there, and Randulfr turned his body to the left with a bright smile.
"Brother! I hit it!"
And where Randulfr's bright smile was directed, a boy who had grown to roughly Constantine's throat was approaching.
"My little brother. Brave shield wolf. I have been watching from afar."
A beautiful voice befitting one who would soon face his seventh winter. A jawline and eyes that resembled Randulfr's but were much stronger, and above all, eyes that seemed to fall into an endlessly deep place.
To Randulfr, an older brother who was a far greater idol than the too lofty and great Father.
Sigmarr Helgison bent one knee to bring his eyes level with Randulfr's and smiled just like Father.
'Eeheehee!'
Sigmarr's touch, ruffling Randulfr's jet-black hair, was affectionate. Randulfr, pretending to be dignified, could not hide his twitching cheekbones and laughed inside like a child.
"Let us return to Father now, Randulfr."
"Yes!"
Randulfr's still small palm grasped Sigmarr's large hand, and with his small bow slung over his left shoulder, he bravely moved his little steps energetically.
Behind Randulfr, who chattered to Sigmarr—who was walking slowly to match his younger brother's stride—about the direction of the wind, the movement of the arrow, and the unity of breath and mind.
The wolves of the Garmr Brotherhood, who had been lounging under the tree shadows here and there, emerged one by one and fell into formation.
[Cheok! Cheok! Cheok! Cheok!]
The men, tempered over long years, unknowingly matched their steps as they walked. Only after they had passed could the forest beasts release their tightly held breath.
Jjek! Jjejjek! Dororong! Dororong! Kkiik! Kkiik!
*****
Damian, a powerful figure who had once risen to the post of Parakoimomenos of the Eastern Roman Empire, was enjoying this retired life.
Of course, one who had been at the center of power could not be entirely idle even in retirement. But at least, during his days living in this mysterious place called the North Sea, he had never once felt the tension and anxiety he had experienced in great Constantinople. Damian thought that if retirement was like this, he would gladly enjoy it even longer and then die.
When you looked at it calmly, it was an impossible thing, wasn't it? All of this.
Damian knew better than anyone that sometimes real stories were more unbelievable and cruel than those in history or fairy tales.
A husband who could not trust his wife, a mother who used her son to achieve what she wanted, an uncle who pushed aside his sister and put forward his nephew, a son who killed his uncle and imprisoned his mother—the common stories of those who killed the lord who had raised them from the bottom and tried to ascend to the throne.
How could this world be made only of beautiful floral scents and fresh grass smells? It must be the way of the world that sometimes stern lightning strikes, and fearful, dreadful storms rage as well.
And so it should be, surely?
The North Sea was unlike any empire Damian had encountered, studied, or witnessed before.
It was now the year 874 by the Julian calendar. Eight years since the Fylkir had sat upon the throne of the North Sea. And this place was Norrland, of the North Sea Empire.
As a city that had originally begun as a barracks for soldiers, its characteristic disciplined appearance was visible throughout. In the gait of the North Sea men passing by, in their manner of speaking to one another, even in the very shape of the buildings.
Perhaps the saying that there is tension within laughter was meant for precisely such a time. The soldiers here certainly possessed something of a different fiber from the soldiers of Eastern Rome. If a fine general like Niketas Ooryphas were to come here, he would surely sense far more than Damian himself could.
Yet, in other words, it was something even a person with little military acumen like Damian could feel. To express it in Damian's clumsy senses, the soldiers of the North Sea each harbored a hidden wildness within them.
A trained pack of wolves of the field? A ferocious pack of bears following a great bear of a leader?
Unlike this utterly peaceful land of the North Sea, that southern world growing more inflamed by the day had ceaselessly delivered ill tidings. The Emperor of West Frankia, roughly bested in Andal-Rus. The advance of the Eastern Roman and Khazar allied forces, which had ended merely with the seizure of a few forts in the region of Asia Minor.
The power struggle within Khazaria that was heard of soon after. The Eastern Roman Empire, which had as if waiting launched an offensive against Chandax on Crete; the Kingdom of Italy and Lotharingia, who had shown continuous cooperation ever since the divorce case of the century, attacking southern Italy.
From East Frankia and Bohemia's attack on Moravia, to the Magyars who had crept steadily toward the Danube region and at last stood facing Bulgaria.
If merely the weighty conflicts that quietly surfaced in his mind amounted to this many, then adding all the minor clashes that had occurred over the past five years, the world had been clamoring without pause.
But the North Sea and its Fylkir, regardless of what noise the world below made, had silently cultivated their own world and continued to race only forward.
The pace was so swift that even standing in the very midst of the North Sea, Damian could scarcely adapt to it.
"Da-da! I-hi-hi!"
"Eh-ehh—"
The mind, on the verge of complication, soon vanished before the clear, ringing laughter heard from not far away.
Though his body could not bear children, Damian was the man who had practically raised the current Eastern Roman Emperor with his own two hands. And so, this retired (hidden) power of Eastern Rome, who treasured the sound of children's laughter more than anyone else in this world, smiled as he watched the picturesque scene unfold before his eyes.
A tiny, precious newborn stretching out its arms this way and that in the embrace of the North Sea's lady, who was beautiful as a goddess, and a small child bustling about nearby, bursting constantly with fresh laughter.
The Fylkir and Drottning's third and fourth children were both daughters, and they had named them Ragnhildr, born in 871, and Ingifríðr, born in 874.
True to those around them saying the father's seed was too strong, all the children born between the Fylkir and Drottning possessed jet-black hair and green eyes.
The two boys, Sigmarr and Randulfr, especially took after their father in build and face, but the two daughters, resembling their beautiful mother, had soft and fine lines upon their faces, though their frames were still larger than their peers'.
Even Damian, who had watched the growth of this Fylkir family from right beside them, had often felt his suspicions stir regarding the true nature of the Fylkir and Drottning, so it went without saying for the other people of the North Sea.
The more these children grew, the more the talk of them being demigods, or half-demigods, intensified and never subsided.
Yet if asked whether that was a factor harmful to the stability of the Fylkir and the North Sea, Damian would firmly shake his head.
An empire ruled by a god?
How hard had the emperors of Eastern Rome, Constantinople, the Ecumenical Patriarch, and the Pope labored through the ages to obtain that single title?
And yet, that a demigod should actually appear in this distant land—truly, the world was laughable.
When Damian recalled the twisted Patriarch Photios and the previous Pope who had died of illness, a unbidden smile caught at the corner of his lips.
But that smile soon changed into a grave expression, and to hide his own abruptly altered look, he reflexively moved the glass of wine to his lips.
'Sigmarr Helgison. Randolf Helgison.'
Two silhouettes approaching slowly from afar, commanding the warriors of the North Sea.
They were the objectives of the command personally issued by Emperor Mikhaíl, he who still remained forever the emperor like a son in Damian's heart, the emperor to whom he would be eternally loyal.
The sons of the demigod acknowledged knowingly or unknowingly by all the world, two princes who already revealed their extraordinary nature.
Drawing the sweet scent of the wine that moistened his lips all the way up through the crown of his head, Damian recalled the contents of the secret letters exchanged with the Emperor.
The imposing might of Jarl Oleg, the 'berserker' displayed in southern Italy, and the warriors of the North Sea. The food of the North Sea that had saved countless lives of the Empire from yet another drought.
The Empire's grain merchants, defeated utterly in the price competition; the wine of Bithynia crumbling helplessly before the wine of Árós that had appeared several years prior, and so on.
By this fledgling empire, born a mere eight years ago, the Eastern Roman Empire was effectively being encroached upon. But was this truly a crisis for the Empire and the imperial house? The Eastern Roman Empire had for five years now been locked in bloody battle against endlessly pressing Muslims, yet the people of the Empire were growing fat, and the high-nosed noble houses of the East held their breath before the Emperor's ever-growing power.
Neither the Emperor, the sharp-minded Petronas, nor even Damian himself could clearly explain why such events were unfolding. Yet as always, those who dabbled in politics preferred to approach the core of an event rather than concern themselves with why it had occurred or the process of its unfolding.
'The Fylkir's eldest son must be considered no different from the Fylkir himself—not human. No one could manage him. Therefore, what we must aim for is the second prince.'
For it happened that there was a princess in Eastern Rome. As for competitors, they amounted to perhaps the lords of this North Sea and the Emperor of Lotharingia.
He would use any means necessary to invite the second prince of the North Sea to the great athletic tournament to be held in Constantinople next year. At last swallowing his wine, Damian declared war upon his potential rivals.