288. The Most Important Problem (2).
The Fylkir gave a great shout, and Zachariah's neck, startled, flew up into the sky!
Such was the sort of rumor that flowed along the Volga, and by the time it crossed the East Sea (Baltic) and reached Árós.
The Fylkir let out a single snort, and Sagarya Khagan howled left and right and somersaulted through the air!
It had become that kind of exaggerated song.
The skald's tendency to inflate rumors and feed on people's excitement with excessive expression was notorious from the start, but the people of the North Sea were especially keenly interested in the Fylkir's every move.
The problem was that most people, especially the children born in these North Sea lands within the last five years, believed those exaggerated tales as they were.
That he had breathed fire to topple Attila's walls, or that the storm raging on the Volga had scrambled aside in confusion before the Fylkir's roar, or that a divine bear and a divine wolf had appeared to attend him on his left and right.
In truth, the Fylkir was strong, but not to that degree.
At most, he could smash a giant boulder with a single punch, blow away Attila's city gate—which had stood firm against the attacks of the turbaned ones—with a single punch and a kick, or make every renowned warrior from every corner of the world utterly humble?
"Not remotely sensible."
Recalling the deeds of the Fylkir, whom he had long regarded as a former disciple and cared for like his own son, Hrolf, seated as chancellor of the North Sea, laughed hollowly to himself.
Children (and most men), who loved to smash, strike, and beat anything at all, would surely fall for the Fylkir's boisterous side, but women—who usually wrestled with more complex problems than men—would see that the Fylkir had concentrated on something far more important than beating, killing, and taking from others.
That was the lives of the people living on the wide lands and seas of the North Sea.
In the past, men chasing the shadows of Odin, Tyr, and Thor would set out on their sacred, honorable adventures and simply die, and they would just say something like 'Ah~ if you go to Valhalla, that's it~' and cheerfully ascend, but the women and children left behind had no choice but to face a sorrowful, cruel, harsh, and cold reality.
That is, before the Fylkir had stepped forward before the Northmen.
In truth, the problem of the women left behind was the same not only for the Northmen, but for the people of the island of Britain before they became North Sea people, the people of Sudrland (Normandy), the Sámi, the Finns, the Karelians, the people of Novgorod and Kyiv—virtually the women of every land.
So if any warrior under his command departed for Valhalla or Hel's lands, the Fylkir's merciful heart would ensure that he gave freely of what he had to their families, so that they would live in abundance by whatever means. And when that merciful heart was combined with the practical prosperity that made it possible and the mysterious power that kept children and elders healthy.
From the women of mainland Scandinavia, who could be called the original inhabitants of the newborn North Sea Empire, to those who had entered as slaves and become free, to the people of regions newly incorporated into the empire—none offered any resistance and accepted the Fylkir's dominion. They dutifully brought in taxes without even being told, and as if that were not enough, they even brought surplus goods to the temple dedicated to the Goddess Hel.
The more money was spent, the more came back; then it was spent again for the people, and still more money came in. Eventually, the flow of silver coins, grain, and all sorts of tribute in and out of Fylkir's Hill became unmanageable, and an entire institution and building dedicated solely to that work was newly erected.
Women who held the real power in their households would eagerly bring their children, clutching their small hands, in and out of Hel's temple, so that even husbands who had little real interest in serious faith would occasionally show their tired faces after getting a smack on the back.
Though he had lived many long years, the things now happening in the North Sea were endlessly burdensome even to the wise Hrolf. Something of an unbearable, immense vortex was stirring, and could it be that mere human strength had no way of doing anything about it?
Well, what else could be done? He would just have to cling to the sturdiest, largest tree and cry out to be saved. Fortunately, in the North Sea, there was one tree stronger than any other.
That was the Helgi Ragnarsson Tree.
Starting with relay stations, it had developed into stagecoaches and passenger ships, creating the Public Transport (Almenning ssamgöngur, as the Fylkir had called it) that reached from Orkney in the island of Britain all the way to Kyiv.
A massive sports competition was created, held every two years, to periodically summon the people of the North Sea—divided by sea, river, and other harsh terrain—to Árós. And recently, he had commanded leather craftsmen to make some round ball and devised a sport of kicking it with the foot; Hrolf honestly thought he kept inventing all sorts of strange sports, but for now, he was simply carrying out his orders.
And he had granted the local lords an astonishing degree of autonomy.
Taxes? Pay them if you wish. Do not exceed one‑tenth of the harvest.
A palace? Build it if you wish. Do not mind the size of the palace in Árós. It matters not if you build a larger one.
Military? Raise a standing army! Try your best! But whenever possible, model it on the Garmr Brotherhood and the Fylkir Cavalry! I tried it myself, and those worked best!
However, the lords could not arbitrarily declare war on or plunder neighboring kings and lords, nor could they instigate conflict against a lord within the North Sea. All disputes were to be appealed for arbitration to a higher authority, and if they could not be resolved, brought to Árós. Then the strongest one would render the final judgment.
Could you not possibly tolerate this condition? Could you not accept it? Then declare independence! If you wish, challenge me!
This was roughly the basic stance the Fylkir had taken. In the eyes of Hrolf, who had assisted at his side for many long years, that degree of autonomy—which practically encouraged the independence of his vassal lords—was a stratagem to minimize the Fylkir's own work, but the result did not flow as the Fylkir had wished.
First, the greatest problem was precisely what I mentioned earlier: the mothers of the North Sea had not the slightest will to stray from the side of the Goddess Hel and her surrogate, the Fylkir.
Rather, if Hrolf was dangling from the branches of the tree called the Fylkir before a great storm, those women of firm resolve and fierce spirit had burrowed into the trunk of that tree and settled into a knothole as close to the roots as possible.
As a result, no matter how mighty a warrior, every human being would first have a mother, almost certainly have a wife, and beneath them, children like little rabbits. In the end, the local Things (assemblies) had no choice but to make decisions reflecting the hearts of women, and the local lords—who wore all manner of grand armbands such as Konungr or Jarl but held less power than one might think—had no choice but to strive for the eternal glory of the North Sea Empire and the favor of the Fylkir, even if they themselves did not wish to.
Moreover, in Hrolf's view, even the growth of the new shoot, the successor tree, steadily growing beneath the great tree called the Fylkir, was extraordinary.
"So you were here after all, Jarl Hrolf."
A youthful voice came to Hrolf's side. He sat in this spot every dawn, gazing down over Árós, so much so that those who commuted (?) to Fylkir's Hill had come to call it 'Hrolf's Rock.'
"Oh my, how did you know I would be here?"
The heir of the North Sea, who could pinpoint a person's location as though he were one of Odin's two prescient ravens. A child who had now passed only seven winters and was greeting his eighth spring.
Sigmarr Helgisson held a wisdom in his eyes that no child of his age should possess.
Letting out a hearty laugh, Hrolf quickly rose to his feet and stood facing Sigmarr's imposing figure. He could not help but feel it anew—Sigmarr truly resembled Helgi Ragnarsson in so many ways.
Hrolf, once renowned as the foremost warrior under the great Ragnar 'Loðbrók' Sigurdsson. Though he was now old and creaking, the once-great warrior Hrolf had not been able to withstand the sword of a mere seven-year-old Helgi Ragnarsson.
His torn grip, his sword sent flying into the distance, and the composed spirit and gaze of Helgi Ragnarsson, who had only grown to Hrolf's chest.
This child possessed that very image and strength.
"I had a feeling you would be here."
If there was a difference, it was that unlike the Fylkir, who at that age had already sought to engage in a sacred duel, his heir always carried a smile and an air of ease on one side of his face. Perhaps it was because Sigmarr had always had his father and siblings by his side?
If the Fylkir of that age had been more wild, Sigmarr was gentler.
Sigmarr moved to the side of Hrolf, who had risen from his seat, and plopped down on the wide rock. Having already grown to Hrolf's throat, Sigmarr was too large to be called a child anymore, and there was strength and dignity in his every movement.
Unbidden, his own son Hrolaugr came to mind at that gallant sight. Hrolf sat back down beside Sigmarr, and the two Jarls, one with graying hair and the other with black, gazed quietly down at the dawn over Árós.
It was spring in the North Sea, where the cold air had turned into a cool breeze. A few impatient flowers were already poking their heads out, and the chimneys that had blazed fiercely through the night were gradually quieting down, drawing in the light sent down by the sun.
"Father has sent a messenger. Attila, of course, and every tribe stretching along the Volga River have all at once requested to come under the wing of the North Sea."
Sigmarr's voice brought to mind the young Helgi Ragnarsson. They were so very much alike.
Pushing the sentiment of an old man—filled with longing, gladness, and pride—into a corner, the Chancellor of the North Sea, who had been practically managing the empire, let his now-naturally functioning brain get back to its work.
'So the control over the Dnieper River is now firmly secured. East of it, the Don and Volga basins are significant for trade, but the Fylkir will be most pleased by the fact that we can increase our cavalry forces. I'll only know the precise situation there after reading the report my son sends, but knowing the Fylkir's temperament, if things go wrong, he'll likely plan to wash his hands of it and pull out...'
The Fylkir already felt burdened by the empire's expanding territory, so this time too, he would likely shower the locals with some grand promises and then slip away, telling them to manage things themselves.
However, judging by past experience, it was doubtful whether those who had once tasted the Fylkir's dominion would meekly accept independence, but that was not Hrolf's concern.
"From what the letter says, it seems the winter that settled on the steppe was far harsher than we had imagined. I am told the number of those who have starved to death and vanished is beyond counting. He says to move the ships at once and transport grain first."
"Mirosław of Polotsk is already fired up and making preparations. You only need to give the order to move."
Mirosław, the Jarl of Polotsk, who had transformed from a notorious slave trader into the Fylkir's loyal dog—or rather, a loyal merchant. For some time, along with Konungr Rurik of Novgorod, he had been building ties with the chieftains of various tribes large and small, including the Ests to the west, and this ruthless merchant had used the severity of this past winter as leverage to seize control of the markets of every tribe around the East Sea (Baltic).
He had secured unconditional port openings and passage rights in exchange for food. The amusing thing was that the Things (councils) of the various tribes, including the Ests, had secretly welcomed such terms.
A few chieftains may have harbored discontent, but what could they do? The hearts of their tribespeople were already turned wholly toward the North Sea and the Goddess Hel.
At any rate, the merchants of the Marmaros Council, having seized virtually all the lands around the East Sea (Baltic) without spilling a drop of blood, had now set their sights on the Volga River, with its tremendous potential.
The future would be quite a spectacle. What would the starving people of the steppe think when the surplus production of the North Sea came flooding in upon them?
"And news has come from our ally in the west of the empire, Alfred Cyning of Wessex."
Hrolf's brain, which had been calculating the empire's eastern reaches and the enemies, friends, and possibilities beyond them, momentarily halted at the name of Alfred.
Alfred was Cyning of Wessex in name only; if one looked inside, he had essentially transformed into a Konungr of the North Sea. Word had it that their sailors now carried the first printed edition of the newly completed Scriptures of Hel, alongside the Bible translated into Saxon and North Sea tongues...
Hrolf was too old to understand the great whirlwind unfolding in the North Sea. This pitiful chancellor of the empire had simply resolved to cling quietly to the great tree named Helgi.
"The king of the cross-believers in the north of al-Andalus apparently has a message he insists on conveying. Why is it that in Alfred Cyning's letter, I can see the traces of Uncle Björn and West Frankia's Imperator Karolus?"
Sigmarr smiled brightly, his green eyes twinkling.
Considering that Sigurd Ragnarsson, who had been called up from the south to assist the vacant throne of Árós, was instead off frolicking with his nephews and children, the existence of the gallant Sigmarr was nothing less than a blessing from Hel to Hrolf.
"The Imperator of West Frankia will wish to take revenge upon the turbaned ones of al-Andalus, and likely through Jarl Björn, he has offered our North Sea a great price."
For example, an official acknowledgement of Flanders' situation, which was effectively in a state of dual vassalage to both the North Sea and West Frankia.
"And our Ragnarsson clan has a debt to the ruler of that al-Andalus."
Though, strictly speaking, Björn had been the one to attack first.
As everyone knew, the men of the Ragnarsson clan inherently possessed a fundamental shamelessness.
"I must relay this fact to Father. And I must tell Jarl Uhtred of northern Britain to continue the training and campaign preparations he is currently undertaking."
"I shall see it done, Jarl Sigmarr."
Sigmarr Helgisson and Helgi Ragnarsson were alike in very many ways.
Yet, if the stern and ruthless Helgi Ragnarsson had unexpectedly possessed a soft corner ill-suited for this harsh world.
Then in the gentle Sigmarr Helgisson, one could feel a trait seen only in a cold-blooded predator.
The age of this new sprout, who already radiated a comforting sense of security upon Hrolf, was merely seven years old. An age looking toward its eighth spring.
Hrolf felt no fear of the storm.