274. Wind (4).
After the enjoyable banquet in Norrland, all the people who had traveled with me returned to Árós on a bus.
Of course, it wasn't a bus running on petroleum—like the blazing petroleum flames that had been part of Padlan's relentless project pitch(...) at the banquet, the little blaze the researchers had kindled outdoors in a small brazier. No, we boarded a bio-transport vehicle: a cart-like carriage pulled by two, then four horses, and moved in an orderly column along the well-paved road.
There were rattling and clattering sections, but for something without proper suspension on the wheels, the service of the Helgi Bus was remarkably satisfying.
[Gatagoto- Gatagoto- Gatagoto-]
"Ehe! Ehe! Heh! Ih-hee-"
Look at that, our youngest daughter Ingifríðr likes it that much, doesn't she?
"Ingifríðr. My daughter, you're too cute. Oh my, you like it that much?"
"Ab-ba- I like it too!"
"Haha! And Raghnilldr, our firstborn daughter, you're so pretty too."
Was this why they said daughters were better than sons? Ingifríðr, nestled in Inga's arms before me, kept bursting into laughter, beaming brightly, and when I leaned forward to tickle her little chubby cheeks, she let out a giggle. Raghnilldr, who had been watching from the side, flopped onto my lap, and then Randulfr, laughing "Hee-hee!", flopped on top of her.
"Randulfr! Heavy! Get off! No! Ehehe! Eh-he! E-e-"
Naturally, the carriage instantly became a mess. How on earth had my stepmother Áslaug raised six sons alone? I honestly felt I was beginning to understand why my father had always been out and about. He surely had grand dreams and ambitions in his heart, but I was turning my suspicion into certainty that nurturing stress must have played a part too.
"Kids, you have to be careful on a moving carriage, okay? Randulfr, stop getting up now, and Raghnilldr, you get up too."
"Hiii- Mom! That dummy Randulfr ruined my hair!"
"I'm not a dummy!"
"That's what all dummies say!"
"You're the dummy!"
"No! Randulfr's the dummy!"
"Randulfr? Raghnilldr?"
Randulfr and Raghnilldr were increasingly at odds. The sibling duo, not even suffering from motion sickness, had been about to flare up again, but just then, at the sound of Inga's voice slipping in, both turned their heads sharply and ended the 187th Sibling War. Beside Inga, the dependable eldest son Sigmarr, on behalf of Inga who was quietly watching the mischievous siblings, was in front of Ingifríðr making funny faces and playing with the youngest.
"E-he! Uu? U-ah- E- heh!"
"I am Randulfr~ Ululu~"
"Ihih! I-"
For a while, only Inga's stern gaze, Sigmarr's strange sounds, and Ingifríðr's laughter filled the rattling carriage, and the two cats that had fled to the roof cautiously poked their heads out to check on the situation below. Bokshiri, who had been quietly lying at Inga's feet, sensed the icy atmosphere and rolled his body this way and that, putting on all kinds of antics to cheer up his masters.
"Hek- Hek- Daktak- Daktak- Eheh- Heh-"
"Hihng- Ab-ba- my hair-"
Raghnilldr, scolded by Mom, tugged at my arm with a tearful face, and I chuckled and straightened her hair.
At last, as the carriage's atmosphere settled, Inga let out a soft sigh and turned her gaze to Ingifríðr, while I braided Raghnilldr's hair with both hands and looked out the carriage. Four horses pulling the carriage, and four wheels spinning diligently. The carriage, like a small building, had large windows on either side, perfect for admiring the passing scenery.
Red plains and rivers full of blue, beside them golden-ripe wheat fields.
Beyond the sounds of my family and the carriage, the voices of my huskarls and, further beyond, the awed voices of the people watching the great procession.
"All done! Heehee!"
"Raghnilldr? You should thank your father, shouldn't you?"
"Ab-ba- thank you~"
I gently stroked my daughter's face, like a little rabbit, with both hands. Then I hugged Randulfr, who had plastered himself to my left, and smiled at Sigmarr in the front. I made a playful face at Inga, who looked a little tired, and a smile appeared at the corner of my wife's mouth. The happy little moment of the Helgi Ragnarsson household was passing on the running carriage.
*****
The Harvest Festival was, for those who sowed the land, the greatest festival of the year. If the harvest was poor, it could become someone's funeral, but anyway. At least in our North Sea, the harvest festival at this time of autumn was the day to loosen belts without restraint, the time to build up fat layers to endure the harsh winter. Especially since the next year, a sports competition was scheduled to be held in the Eastern Roman Empire, people ate and drank heartily, grumbling that time was moving too slowly.
Due to the Baltic Sea route mostly freezing in winter, merchants put in their final sprint of the year, frantically hauling goods and silver coins back and forth, and in Norrland, which I had visited just the other day, they would gradually begin preparations for the severe cold-weather training. The shepherds who had climbed to the high mountain ranges in the north would come down to lower ground with their precious flocks, and the Árós city guard would strengthen patrols during the festival, continuing their weary fight with drunks.
Watching all this from a distance, I had the feeling that people were gradually establishing a North Sea way of life and culture. Or perhaps one could say that the people of the North Sea were growing ever more accustomed to living under my rule.
Returning to the palace in Árós, which people called Fylkir's Hill but my children called home. This time my father-in-law was to stay during the festival period, and behind the unremarkable ruckus of the ticking-time-bomb siblings (Randulfr and Raghnilldr), who began fighting and pulling all kinds of antics in front of him, it was a late evening when the children were at last quiet. I had woken alone, lit the candles in my study, and was spending time looking over summaries of all the various ongoing projects.
In the unknown sea far to the northwest, the valiant Flóki and his crew had already built a plausible pioneer village and were about to endure their third winter, and countless men and women hungry for adventure had again this year embarked on longships bound for the unknown Fylkirland. Flóki's handwriting, crooked at first but now quite refined, still moved my heart and was full of humility, but I could feel that a flame still burned in the heart of this great adventurer. This man—his wife and remaining children were all in Edinburgh. I thought maybe it was time he spent the remaining years of his life with his family. But no matter that I was the Fylkir, it wasn't right for me to pass judgment on the fates and lives of others.
The stream of consciousness that must be occurring in Flóki's mind was too vivid for me to pretend not to see.
1. At the Faroe Islands, I mustered my courage and crossed the unknown sea, and there was new land.
2. That new land, Fylkirland, turned out to be an island, and to the east of this island was the western coast of Scandinavia, to the south the island of Britain. But to the west, I know not what lies.
3. If I can conquer even this sea, might not yet another world reveal itself?
Truly, was this not invincible logic, miraculous logic? That overcoming the unknown, fear, danger, and obstacles would soon lead to new opportunity. For the adventure-loving Northmen, this was an irresistibly sweet temptation. And I knew well that this logic was not far from the truth.
Fylkirland—that is, beyond Iceland—there existed a land called Greenland. But that land was far more unfamiliar to me than even the name Iceland, which had been unfamiliar in my past life. I didn't well know what had happened between the 9th and 21st centuries, but it didn't seem likely that anything pleasant had occurred. Still, if this brave adventurer insisted on hoisting his sail, I had no power to stop him, though deep down I wished he would at least govern the settlement in Fylkirland well.
I wrote a reply roughly conveying my thoughts, and the next letter I unfolded contained the handwriting of Björn and Erik respectively.
The situation in that southwestern land entangled with West Frankia and Wessex, Asturias and al-Andalus, was a chaotic arena where no one held the upper hand. The slave-catching raids of the Umayyad pirates continued, and the Emperor of West Frankia had virtually emptied the western and southern coasts of that vast land, and the army he had ambitiously led over the Pyrenees had met guerrilla tactics and supply limits, suffering the same disaster as his ancestor Charlemagne, and finally retreated, so I had heard.
Regarding the al-Andalus campaign, it was unlikely that the Emperor and generals of West Frankia, who knew that history better than anyone in the world, would overlook the mistakes of their predecessors; it was more likely that constraints of the natural environment they knew but could not overcome, or new problems that arose locally, had tripped them up. However, the large-scale campaign had not been entirely without effect: according to intelligence coming through the Kingdom of Asturias, rebellions had broken out here and there in the Umayyad Empire of al-Andalus, and the piracy had subsided a step further.
The problem of a large empire, after all, was that it had too many internal issues. Seeing the Umayyad dynasty of al-Andalus and the Abbasid dynasty in the east acting so shamefully, it seemed there might be fundamental limitations not only of empire but of Islam and Bedouin nomadic culture. In my past life, I had been nearly blind to the history of the long crescent-shaped southern Iberia, North Africa, the Middle East, and Persia, so I had no way of knowing the details.
In any case, while the great war in the west had ended somewhat anticlimactically, the great war that had seemed imminent in the east had made a noisy fuss all around about starting, then ended without much news. No matter how close the Khazars and Eastern Rome were, close enough to build a whole city for each other, forming a coalition to attack someone was not as easy as talk. Moreover, according to Damian's internal sources, which were growing healthier by the day, neither the Eastern Roman Empire nor the Khazars had any intention from the start of projecting military force across the rugged Caucasus Mountains or toward the Abbasid defensive line on the Anatolian front, not while bleeding in civil wars and refusing to pull forces away.
Looking into their true intentions, the Eastern Roman Emperor Michael, though obedient, had meant to discipline the overly powerful lords in the eastern part of the Roman Empire, and the Khazar Khaganate had used this opportunity to round up the many small and medium tribes entering their steppe. As a result, not only the Dnieper trade route but also the trade route along the Volga River to the Khazar capital Atil were securely maintained, and our North Sea Empire had sat quietly and reaped the benefits. But unlike the Khazars, who were content with internal discipline, our Eastern Roman friends had bravely taken a step further.
At last, Chandax. The island of the Andalusian Muslims, more familiar to me as Crete, had been recaptured by Grand Admiral Niketas.
This letter must have reached Árós while I was away at the Norrland family-lord outing, so at most two months ago. Considering the North Sea Empire's road network stretching from Kiyiu onward, probably a month ago. This event was truly a monumental occasion for the Eastern Roman Empire.
Just as in my past life, seizing an island at this time meant securing the sea lanes, and for the Eastern Roman Empire and the Italian Empire, which had been terribly tormented by Muslim pirates, it could only be the greatest of great tidings.
This would likely take the wind out of the sails of the Muslim pirates operating fervently not only in Egypt, which had broken away from the Abbasid center, but also in Syria and North Africa. And at the same time, the war in southern Italy and Sicily would almost certainly intensify.
The remaining Muslims in Sicily and southern Italy (Bari), cut off from their supply from the east (Crete), would fight with desperate ferocity, and the combined banners of the Eastern Roman-Italian-Lotharingian tripartite alliance, biding their time, would move to deliver a definitive end.
And there, were not my warriors there, having joined as mercenaries of the Eastern Roman Empire?
Jarl Oleg of Liubice and his thousand-man unit, plus volunteers from all over the North Sea. By numbers alone, almost three thousand strong. Too far away, all I could do was dispatch merchants and ships to keep them well-supplied. For the first time in a long while, I invoked the names of Goddess Hel and the gods, and I prayed for the safety of my warriors.
*****
Southern Italy. Sicily.
"Warriors of Helgi! Blood-bound brothers! Who are we!"
[Don! Don! A-oooo!]
"Gar-m! Brothers of the Wolf!"
"Fylkir's sword! The foremost finger of Helgi Ragnarsson!"
"Kill all those weaklings!"
[Buuun-!!]
Charge-!
Jarl Oleg's bloodshot eyes and his huge cry. The beasts of the North Sea responded passionately.
Before that savage wave, which seemed impossible to resist with human strength, the Muslim warriors of Sicily were busy finding their god.