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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Shio
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Olaf “Hinn Hviti” Ingjaldson.
The White One. In other words, it meant he was old.
Surprisingly, this elderly warrior who had been active almost simultaneously with our father (AD 820-present) was the Konungr of Dublin (Dubhlind), the neighboring town in what would be Ireland in the 21st century.
True to his nickname, his completely white hair and beard, which was clearly laid out for aesthetic purposes rather than out of laziness, looked as if they could serve as camouflage if placed on a pure white snow field.
“Ivarr hinn Beinlausi, my friend. How dare you come without any news!”
The White One and the Boneless One soon embraced each other, expressing their joy. How are your children? Your wife? What? You’ve been seeing another lover these days instead of your wife? Are you in your right mind? Your wife has another lover too!? Oh, good heavens!
The two men, who were casually exchanging what seemed to be information we shouldn’t hear in front of Sigurd, Halfdan, and me, finally turned their attention to their surroundings after inquiring about each other’s well-being up to last night’s dinner.
“Well, brothers. This is my comrade Konungr Olaf, who accompanied me when I was wandering around the British Isles. He’s the master of Dublin.”
“Greetings once again! Sons of the great Ragnar!”
This sturdy man, who showed no physical aging despite his years, soon strode over and grasped arms with each of us, greeting us individually.
“So you are the Helgi ‘Sterk’ Ragnarsson!”
“Pleased to meet you, Konungr Olaf.”
“The pleasure is mine, great warrior Helgi!”
In the strong grip that seized my arm and the bright blue eyes, I could sense admiration for a strong person along with intense competitiveness. This man was a born warrior.
Soon, we held a small feast for Olaf, who had come from afar.
In the large hall beneath the old Edmund’s palace, which had somehow become our home, remodeled to suit Norse tastes, Olaf’s son “Red” Thorstein (Thorstein “Raudr”) also joined us. Unlike his snow-white father, Thorstein’s red hair caught all our attention.
As it turned out, this native Irish Norseman, a year younger than me, was very interested in Sigurd and me, who were about his age, especially asking me various questions about how I had grown so large.
As alcohol and songs, along with subtle flirtations between men and women flying over the warm hearth flames, all blended together, and as all things must, when this pleasant gathering was nearing its end, Olaf leaned slightly towards Ivarr and said something, then Ivarr called Halfdan and went into the inner room with Olaf.
‘Come to think of it, if Ivarr was comrades with Olaf of Dublin, I heard that Halfdan was comrades with Jarl Rognvald (Rognvald Eysteinsson) of Orkney.’
Orkney is to the north of Alba (Scotland) and Dublin is to the west of Mercia and Wessex.
It was obvious without looking. They wanted to dip their toes in since we crushed East Anglia with just 2,000 men.
In this heartless 9th century, loyalty and promises were things that shouldn’t be trusted. If we had been struggling, they would have stood by. But now that the winds of victory were blowing, our ‘friends’ wanted to raise their sails to that wind.
Things were getting interesting.
Whether the interest of these senior Vikings who had laid the groundwork earlier would be beneficial or harmful remained to be seen, but it didn’t matter either way. After this winter, Bjorn’s main force would arrive…
Soon, every king and lord in this land would have to decide. Whether to bow their heads to us or stand against us.
Because even if I didn’t, my brothers didn’t seem to have any intention of stopping at Northumbria.
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Olaf and his warriors had returned to Dublin before the snowfall grew heavier.
The satisfied smile on his face as he left suggested that the conversation between Ivarr and Halfdan had been quite pleasing, but Sigurd and I didn’t ask about it.
Instead, Sigurd and I had established quite a bit of rapport with Olaf’s son, Thorstein. That red-haired fellow had ambition hidden behind the solid body he had inherited from his father, and soon the king of Alba (Scotland) would have to deal with a troublesome enemy.
Thus, as winter approached, fundamentally subduing all human activities, we were still moving actively beneath it. There must have been much discussion between Wessex and Mercia as well. We heard that the two enemies of Northumbria were still continuing their fight for the throne, despite East Anglia having collapsed in an instant right under their chins.
Was it arrogance? Or had they given up completely? Did they think there would be no consequences after throwing my father into a snake pit?
I would soon find Aella and ask him this question.
Fortunately, time never stopped, flowing majestically forward, and the people of Beodericsworth were able to spend a peaceful and warm winter for the first time in a long while.
And in 866 AD, the sixth month of winter.
As we were wrapping up the festival celebrating the end of the long winter.
One hundred dragon ships, whose mere movement had silenced the Frankish coast and plunged all the people from Dover to the East Anglian coast into fear, finally reached the British Isles.
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Following the guidance of the high tower that Earl Sigebryht of Rendlesham had prepared in advance, Bjorn, who had finished the orderly disembarkation of the large force, faced the wind blowing from the sea towards the land and looked at the assembled army.
Jarls and their warriors beneath them, each displaying themselves with flags dyed white, black, red, and blue, symbolizing Odin’s ravens.
Among them, there were some that stood out the most. These exceptional warriors, who were exceptionally tall and well-built even among the already tall Norsemen, unlike their other kinsmen around them, held flags depicting a woman’s face with a human form on one side and a skull form on the other.
‘Hel…’
There had been efforts to depict the face of gods before, but he had never seen such a clear face anywhere.
Bjorn thought, Mother Asta truly is favored by the goddess Hel. Then what about Helgi, the son of such a mother Asta? Though everyone kept quiet about it, the miraculous strength and miracles shown by his proud youngest brother… were they not beyond what a human could show?
‘It’s not important yet. Now we must think only of Aella and revenge.’
Before leaving Uppsala, Mother Aslaug and the Thing of Uppsala, even those haughty Godi (high priests), all said with one voice. That Father’s place must be continued. That at this rate, the world of the Norsemen would scatter. A wolf pack always needs an alpha to lead them.
But who could possibly tame these fierce beasts? Who would give them purpose and lead the hunt?
Everyone was keeping quiet about it, but there was one fact that everyone knew except the person himself.
‘But not yet.’
He looked at the army spread out on that field.
Amidst the disarray of individualistic appearances, only the warriors of Aros maintained a stern posture supporting their flag. Despite having trained for the same amount of time, how could they be so different?
If all Norsemen could become like that?
“Refil (Refil Bjornsson), blow the horn. It’s time to meet the brothers.”
“Yes, Father.”
[Buuuu-uuuuu-]
In the sight of his son blowing the horn vigorously, Bjorn saw his father Ragnar’s face overlapping more than his own. That face he often saw in Ivarr’s face.
‘If only Erik (Erik Bjornsson) had come along…’
Of his two sons, Erik was the one with poor health. A child who had been weak since birth. But the soul lurking inside him had a strength that would not shame their ancestors.
That’s why it was even more regrettable, as the weak do not survive long – that was the law of nature Bjorn had known so far.
‘But if they belong to a strong pack, even the weak can be protected.’
The second son, Refil, had grown into a sufficiently solid warrior. So much so that he reminded Bjorn of himself in his youth.
Perhaps when Helgi came to the forefront of the world in earnest, rather than his current role of assisting the older Bjorn and Ivarr, Refil would be able to stand by his side sufficiently.
Or he could set out on another expedition.
‘Have I grown old too? I keep having stray thoughts.’
Sometimes when he saw the old men gathered at the Thing, he wondered how they could talk so incessantly about only what they wanted to say, but now that he could understand it a little, it was both sad and amusing.
‘But not yet. My other brother, Hastein, is still grappling with the Franks in Nantes, so I, who am younger than him, shouldn’t fall behind yet.’
That old man had clearly said he would retire soon… but that was already five winters ago.
Bjorn, who had been clearing his head that had been cluttered since leaving Uppsala with a single shake, steeled his body and mind, mounted the horse prepared by Sigebryht, and gently touched the horse’s soft sides with both feet.
[Snort!]
Soon, the massive army that had seemed to be at a standstill began to move, following behind Bjorn who rode ahead, led by the troops from Aros.
The figure of Bjorn at the head of the column leading this huge army, seated at the dragon’s head, was like steel.
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Ivarr and I first set foot on this land leading 800. After that, Sigurd brought 1,000, Halfdan 2,000, and finally Bjorn and Ubba came with 4,000.
With the addition of East Anglian lords, including Sigebryht, the total force amounted to about 8,500.
Someone from the 21st century might think, isn’t this still a small force?
But what mattered was that all these troops were warriors trained and armed with high-quality weapons, shields, and armor earnestly produced by numerous craftsmen during the past winter.
Because their training instructor was none other than Bjorn, the aura emanating from the army marching into the camp prepared in front of Beodericsworth was very solid.
Among them were also familiar faces from Aros, so I felt a corner of my heart becoming very reassured.
‘Both mothers have drawn their swords too.’
While Aros was already pouring in numerous supplies, this time they had recruited and additionally dispatched 400 men (this is really a significant number. The important thing is that there’s still plenty of capacity left even after recruiting this many), and I heard that Gothland, the political background of my stepmother Aslaug, had also actively participated in the expedition.
There’s no such thing as a free lunch in this world. If this expedition ended successfully, these two cities would probably receive the greatest benefits. Because the calculations of the Norsemen were as precise as a blade.
“So, the Cyning of Wessex has changed again?”
Finally, at a modest feast prepared in the lord’s castle of Beodericsworth, the six Ragnarsson brothers gathered in one place.
After a time of light laughter and exchanging drinks ended, and the jarls from each region who would serve as section leaders in this expedition had left their seats, only we six brothers remained to continue our conversation.
“That’s right, exactly as you said.”
Unlike us who had accepted the news from Wessex without much thought, as if watching a dog or chicken, Bjorn, the commander-in-chief of the great army, showed great interest.
“Aethelwulf held a lot of grudge against me and Hastein. Before we entered the sea of the Romans, we raided the cities of the Wessex people to raise funds. It was truly an enjoyable time.”
Ah- Here was the main culprit who had made the likability of the Angles and Saxons hit -100.
“As far as I know, that’s why Aethelwulf married the eldest daughter of Charles II, the König (King) of West Francia. Those cross-believers are all crazy, a Cyning who had seen over 50 winters marrying a girl who had only seen 12 springs.”
“Pff-! Oh Odin…”
“This Aethelwulf, he must have been quite a remarkable person.”
We all had to hold our foreheads at the dizzying marriage history of European nobility.
This was the early medieval world of the 800s. While marrying at 12 was relatively common(?), even so, that age difference was certainly not common. It was enough to be gossip-worthy.
“You know what’s even funnier? Around the time I was about to depart on the great expedition, I heard news that Aethelwulf had died, and Charles’s daughter – that is, Aethelwulf’s young wife – had remarried his son this time. The moment I heard that news, I worked even harder to capture those cross-believers.”
“….?”
“By Tyr’s mercy! What a beast!”
“This is quite interesting? It would make a good song.”
“It would be a terrible song, Sigurd. And an even more terrible one if you sing it.”
‘I’ve heard of marrying a deceased brother’s wife, but marrying a deceased father’s wife is a bit…’
Bjorn, who had drained the mead in his leather cup refreshingly, shook his head just like the other brothers.
“Aethelbald, his name was Aethelbald. Then Aethelberht, and now Aethelred… I wonder if Aethelred will die early too. Then would the last remaining son take the throne? His name was… what was it…”
Bjorn, who had been furrowing his brow deeply, trying hard to recall the vague name, snapped his fingers and exclaimed:
“Alfred (Aelfraed)!”
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With that, we’ve hit 20! For those reading this on release, I’ll push out another 10 chapters tomorrow before going on a schedule.
Anyways, the Aethel paradox is real…
As always, ping Oihs in the Arcane Translations discord for any grammar errors! Thanks so much for reading.
