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[Tat-tat! Tat! ... Hwoong! Chaeng-!]
As if needing no further words, the sword stroke Edmund struck with all his strength was far too light.
[Kee-gee-geek— Hwoong! Chaeng! Hwoong! Chaeng!]
His strength was pitiful compared to the warriors of Mercia, and his thrust was so slow it would have drawn a yawn when set beside the spears driven by the warriors of Anglia.
"Hyaaaap!"
[Chaeng! Chaeng!]
Yet, though it is usually the attacker who pushes forward and the defender who is pushed back, I received every one of Edmund's desperate sword strikes without moving a single step, accepting all his forms.
"Heo-eok— Heo-eok— H-hyaaaap!"
[Chaeng! Peok!]
"Keok!"
[Teol-sseok!]
This time, a strike that feinted a thrust before immediately aiming down at the head. I calmly watched the sword descending, caught it with the neck of my greatsword, and then immediately kicked his shield away, sending it flying.
Edmund shot backward with the sound of air instantly rushing from his lungs.
"Keok... keok...!"
Though he struggled to catch his breath from a shock unlike any he had ever felt, he never once turned his gaze or his blade's tip from me. For that alone, he was worthy of praise.
"You are a fine warrior, Edmund. But you cannot defeat me. Why do you do this?"
I was genuinely curious.
Why not hold the fortification? Should Mercia and Wessex quell the western rebellion swiftly, would there not still be a chance remaining?
What on earth did Edmund stand to gain from this?
Having no intention of attacking, I spoke to him with my greatsword resting on my shoulder beside Örn. Edmund, who had barely steadied his breathing, closed his eyes for a moment.
"Hoo— Hoo—... It is because I hate Burgred and Æthelred just as much as I hate you."
Edmund's words came out calmly as he steadied his breath with his eyes squeezed tight, as if he could not bear to speak before the sun with open eyes.
"I and all those who follow me already knew. The moment Burgred's fine cavalry began their slaughter, our chances of victory plummeted sharply..."
When Edmund opened his eyes again, his face had aged a full several years in that brief interval.
"Did you think I did not know the source of Sigebryht and the eastern lords' resentment toward me? Past glories, the daily pressure from Wessex and Mercia. The threat of you Northmen besides... Sigebryht made his choice, and I made mine. And this is the result."
Edmund looked deeply... sad as he spoke, gesturing behind him.
"I still do not doubt my God. My belief that your gods are false remains unchanged. But I no longer seek the Lord and His world blindly... If this was a trial and a test, I have failed. Because of you, precisely you, Helgi Ragnarsson... Helgi Ragnarsson. Are you, perchance, Satan?"
I felt the heavy tension deflate at the sudden, off-the-wall question, but I answered him readily.
"...I am not Satan."
"How do you know what Satan is...?"
"Just as you know vaguely of my gods, I too know vaguely of your God."
"I see... So that is how it is..."
Edmund, who had been nodding quietly, stood firm in his place, visibly struggling to hide his trembling arms and legs as if summoning his last reserves of strength.
"At first, I did not believe the words of the monks, nobles, and peasants who fled Northumbria... nor the bishop and the farmers who remain there even now. But now I am left with no choice. If... if I am to die, can you promise me that you will treat the people under me as you did those in Northumbria...?"
Edmund's final question was, in truth, more of a plea. He did not know what weight a promise from the mouth of a heathen like me could hold, and there was no reason for me to grant his request.
However, my shrewd mind instantly grasped the weight of this promise.
What I could gain in exchange for sparing the people of East Anglia: the overcoming of the River Granta. Securing a direct line of advance into eastern Mercia.
Conversely, securing Grantebrycge—that strategic point from which to preemptively defend against Mercia's attack.
This was a condition that needed no calculation. With this change of heart from Edmund, Mercia and Wessex would now face an enemy in the east far larger and more threatening than the ones in the west.
Perhaps this was Edmund's revenge in his own way. Revenge against Burgred and Æthelred, whom he hated no less than he hated me.
And so I nodded.
"Those who wish to leave, I shall not detain. Those who wish to remain, no harm shall come to them. I know not what effect the words of a heathen might have for you, but I swear it before the name of your God and my gods."
"...Though you are a heathen, you are more honorable than many a brother in my own faith. I can only find it regrettable."
He was trying to convert me to the very end.
"Then, are you ready, Edmund?"
"...I am. Helgi."
[Kung! Kung!]
Edmund struck the shield on his left arm forcefully with the sword held in Örn's hand.
That figure resembled not a man who had given up on life, but a missionary fighting to the end against an insurmountable trial.
"..."
His body half-hidden behind a shield already cracked by my kick, the tip of his sword aimed at my chest—Edmund's stance alone was truly exceptional.
I strode toward him.
This time, Edmund defended, and I attacked.
[Jeo-beok— Jeo-beok— Jeo-beok—]
The distance was roughly seven paces.
After three steps, I gripped the hilt of the greatsword resting on my shoulder beside Örn with both hands.
[Kkuu-uk—]
"...Long live East Anglia! O Lord... protect these poor souls..."
Edmund's murmured voice was caught by my sharp hearing, and the moment two steps remained, I swung the greatsword like lightning.
[Hwoooooong—]
From above to below. The best attack was always from overhead down.
[Peo-seok! Keok!]
And my blade, without the slightest resistance, split Edmund's shield in two.
In particular, the heart of Burgred, who had crossed blades directly with Helgi Ragnarsson, was melting faster than a candle burning down day by day.
"What in the world am I to do about this now...!"
No wonder Edmund's expression had chilled so strangely... I should have kept some troops under my direct control...!
He indulged in belated regrets, but what was already done could not be undone.
Having swiftly completed his cold calculations, Burgred had issued orders to the eastern lords—men long infamous for their insubordination, which was precisely why he had never managed to drag them to the battle of Grantebrycge—to hold their ground.
'A few eastern forts falling into their hands is no great loss to me, in truth. Those men were already flailing to escape my influence. Rather, I shall use this opportunity to clearly settle the west, and then watch for my chance.'
It was a supremely rational and precise calculation. But there was a fact he had overlooked.
Namely, that Helgi Ragnarsson's plan did not end with Cymry, and that the eastern lords, through the battle of Grantebrycge, had begun to entertain strange new thoughts.
"What? He tells us to face these Northmen alone? What possible reason is there for him to remain our Cyning if this is how he treats us?"
"Is his cunning not laid far too bare? In the Cyning's... no, in Burgred's heart, we have already been cast aside as a losing hand!"
Huntadun, Stanford, Lincoln.
These three cities and fortresses, situated along the eastern marshlands and facing the coast, were shaken to their core. It was not only that they lay within a day's march of one another along the old Roman road, but above all, their position upon the seacoast itself weighed upon them.
And that was because dire tidings had come repeatedly by way of merchants—word that from above their very heads, from southern Northumbria, Dair's host was preparing to descend.
"Northumbria and, now, Konungr Helgi Ragnarsson, the master of East Anglia, stir in earnest!"
Because Edmund Cyning had given up the strategic stronghold along with his own life, the Jarls of the forts and towns that were now exposed to attack from north and east each had to seek their own means of salvation.
Two choices were laid before them.
First: wait for Burgred, whose return before that fearsome Konungr's host no one could promise?
Second: seek another path to survival, like Eorl Ecgberht of Eoforwic—no, of Jorvik?
The hearts of the eastern lords, in close correspondence with one another, were slowly tipping toward the latter.
*****
I needed to move with greater haste.
The immediate aftermath of the small hill battle called the Battle of Grantebrycge was urgent in itself, but if I missed the moment to strike, none could tell how much more blood would have to be spilled before the next opportunity arose.
Thus, I entrusted the management of Grantebrycge—and all the other settlement work—to Guthrum and Sigebryht, who had already gained experience staying in East Anglia, winning the support of the local Jarls and leading the people there.
Then, at the head of troops made fresh and vigorous by their Hugh-given rest, I ascended the old Roman road.
The first objective—to force East Anglia to its knees completely—had been accomplished; now it was time to achieve the next goal: linking the eastern coast of the island of Britain.
'The linking of Northumbria and East Anglia. With this, from Scandinavia to the island of Britain, no way station will be needed any longer.'
This was, in truth, a matter of immense importance. My lands could not forever be approached by skirting the neutral Frankish northern coasts.
Once the coasts of Northumbria and East Anglia were connected, at the very least, the misfortune of making an unplanned landing in a hostile domain could be avoided. Which meant that tragedies such as my father's could be prevented in advance.
That commerce would flourish further went without saying; this alone, I had resolved, must be secured without fail in this war.
Guthrum's two thousand and Sigebryht's three thousand troops had to be set aside—assigned respectively to the defense of western East Anglia and to the occupation and stabilization of the northern marshlands that had supported Edmund.
In the end, what remained in my hand was five thousand men. Of the original six thousand who had set foot on this land, one thousand had died or been wounded. That meant I, too, had few chances left.
In Árós and Uppsala, the grinding work of re-socializing and re-training the local lords was proceeding apace, but those men also had their own duties in the homeland. For the time being, reinforcements would be hard to expect.
Because of that, coordination with Ubba, who was to descend from Dair, was the lifeline of this campaign.
'The battle damage is heavier than I expected. As I thought, when infantry clash, no matter how superior their training and equipment, if the fight drags on just a little, the casualties inevitably accumulate. I must wield a more overwhelming force.'
And did I not already know the answer?
'I must send word to Rurik and Haskuldr. Tell them to inquire after the horses received from our Magyar friends, and whether there are mounts to be obtained in the markets of our Khazar friends...'
My craving for fine horses had only been fanned hotter by this battle.
If our mounts had possessed just slightly greater endurance? If they had been just slightly larger of frame? If our horsemen's skill had been just slightly more outstanding?
I could swear, the battle would have been decided in a single day.
In any case, what was not in my hand could not be helped, so I had no choice but to contend with what I possessed.
"Refil, can you confirm Ubba's route once more?"
"He said he would go directly from Jorvik to Lincoln. And that he means to bring down that fortress, by whatever means necessary."
"Unlike his usual manner, Ubba's hand is fearsomely heavy. I only hope he does not run too wild. Has there been any word from Ivar?"
"No direct messenger has yet arrived, but according to Jarl Uva's report, he has already moved against both the Kingdom of Strathclyde and the Kingdom of Scotland."
"Yes, I see."
'Very good.'
With the forces of Dublin and the Isles alone, it would be difficult to confront two kingdoms at once. Uhtred of Vernika, in northern Northumbria, was fulfilling his duty simply by defending that broad expanse.
But I did not desire victory from Ivar and Olaf. It was enough that they simply drew eyes away from this place until the situation here could be settled.
'However, one chance in a thousand... one in ten thousand... if they should manage to create the smallest opening.'
Then I would use this moment to uproot the troubles of the north once and for all.
☆☆☆☆☆ Reference Materials ☆☆☆☆☆
Original: Midland_Map_-_5_Boroughs_912_AD.PNG: Robin Boulby. The original uploader was Robinboulby at English Wikipedia. derivative work: Hoodinski, CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons
Helgi advanced from Cambridge, and Ubba from Jorvik, toward the three eastern fortresses of Mercia!
I'm not sure if it's a feature of every European city including England, but every single one of them was nestled right up against a river...! Indeed, where there's a great city, there a river runs...!
Original: my work, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
They had the River Ouse, the River Nene, and the River Trent respectively bordering them... In Lincoln's case, it's difficult to block an enemy descending from above, and Huntadun—Huntingdon—was a wooden palisade fort without stone walls from the outset, so it loses all meaning before a great host...!
Mercia's east was, truly, caught between a rock and a hard place, you could say~.