Being a Viking Isn’t Fun – Chapter 6

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Shio
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“Jarl Helgi! Jarl Sigurd!”

The man’s urgent voice traveled across the currents of the rapidly cooling wind.

“What’s going on?”

We both sprang from our seats and rushed toward the messenger, who had come running from afar, shouting our names—Sigurd and mine—at the top of his lungs, with the guards trailing behind us.

“Urgent news has arrived from Uppsala…!”

The messenger, with a face pale from more than just exhaustion, fidgeted nervously, falling off his horse as if started by something.

“Right now, right this instant, it is Jarl Bjorn’s message to bring you to the hall of Uppsala!”

“Bjorn? Don’t make it any more frustrating and tell us exactly. What in the world happened?”

Sigurd frowned and urged the messenger, who seemed to struggle to convey the alarming news.

“Konungr Ragnar has…”

Though bravery and confidence were cherished values of the Norsemen, none of us were able to fault the messenger’s frightened demeanor.

“Father has..?”

I gripped Sigurd’s forearm firmly, causing his deeply furrowed brow to loosen, and a myriad of emotions to briefly surface on his face, bringing him back to reality.

For now, we had to focus on going to Uppsala.

“Brother. Now is not the time for anything else, but to move. Let’s postpone everything until after we meet Bjorn.”

“Yes, you’re right. You’re right.”

Sigurd seemed to have regained his senses a little bit. However, his serpentine eyes flickered with an ominous intensity underneath his golden hair.

“Let’s move right away. Helgi.”

“Right.”

I simply nodded and looked at Sigurd, who hurriedly went to fetch the horse that was leisurely grazing, and spoke to my guard captain, Hrolfr, whose wrinkled eyes widened in absolute disbelief.

“Hrolfr. Since the situation has turned out like this, we need to move quickly. Sigurd and I will depart first, so please inform Mother of this fact and escort her safely to Uppsala.”

“Understood. Jarl Helgi. Then what should I do about the guards?”

“Since it’s urgent, Sigurd and I will have to move with just the two of us.”

“Understood.”

Hrolfr lightly nodded and urgently moved.

I stared blankly at the flurry of activity around me, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions surging within my heart.

‘It’s not yet.’

“Helgi! Let’s hurry!”

At Sigurd’s shout, which failed to conceal his own anxiety, I quickly sprang into action.

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865 AD, the second month of summer, Odin’s Day (Wednesday), Uppsala.

With the abrupt arrival of dark clouds, a biting wind and torrential rain—far from what one would expect in summer—descended upon Uppsala. The largest city of the Norsemen, known as Sviar or Swi, lay eerily silent beneath the oppressive gray sky.

[Neigh- Neigh-]

Though the distance wasn’t very long, the loyal steeds announced their arrival with labored breaths, having run frantically at the urging of their riders on this unplanned journey

“Who goes there!”

The once bustling palisade gate was firmly shut, without a soul in sight. And the guard’s voice, which cut through the gloomy rain, carried a distinct edge.

“I am Sigurd Ragnarsson, and beside me is Helgi Ragnarsson.”

Sigurd, his breath as ragged as the horse he rode, remained unusually quiet. After all, the guard was just faithfully fulfilling his duty.

“Please wait a moment! Jarl Sigurd!”

The guard, baffled by the mention of Sigurd and I, urgently shouted, “Open the gate quickly!” towards the base of the rampart, as if he had committed a cardinal sin. And soon, the clanking of iron hinges echoed as the heavy wooden gate slowly creaked open.

[Creak-]

Contrary to his frantic rush, Sigurd struggled to move his horse even as the gates of Uppsala creaked open. It was as if they concealed a future too dreadful to confront. So, I mounted my horse and paved the way forward, bracing myself for what lay ahead.

“Jarl Helgi.”

As I passed by, everyone around me slowly bowed their heads, like prey before a bear. Their anxious glances and subdued gestures spoke volumes of their concern and fear. It could only mean one thing: something grave had indeed happened to Father Ragnar Sigurdsson.

‘Foolish father. What more did you want to prove?’

Bjorn returned from the west and Ivarr from the east, bringing with them immense wealth and treasures. Despite being his sons, Father may have felt that they threatened his authority. So in a show of dominance, he set out bravely to the rough seas with only 10 ships and 400 warriors.

‘What in the world happened to you?’

When I contemplated the recent events, my body grew hotter despite being soaked by the torrential rain, and my mind felt like it was freezing over. Then, I caught sight of Bjorn’s face.

“Helgi.”

“Bjorn.”

Bjorn, who roughly pulled me off my horse and into a deep embrace, was as solid as ever, but seemed to have a crack somewhere. Like a rock that finally shattered under the pressure of an endless stream of water.

Did father head to Valhalla? When, where, how, by whom?

I couldn’t bring myself to ask such questions out loud.

“Bjorn.”

“Sigurd.”

Bjorn, who also shared a deep embrace with Sigurd, who followed behind me, turned his body first and walked with heavy steps.

“Helgi.”

“Mother.”

Aslaug, Father’s first wife and my stepmother, could not control her body due to grief. Yet, she still forced a smile and greeted me first. Even though her own son, Sigurd, was right behind me.

“Let’s go in and talk first. People have been sent to Ivarr and Halfdan, so everyone will come here soon.”

I climbed the stairs slowly, following Mother, who was supported by Ubba. He held her arm, his face mirroring her own. We ascended the steps leading to the Konungr’s house on the low hill in Uppsala. Although I didn’t have many specific memories of this place, each step I took seemed to evoke fleeting recollections of Father.

‘The brothers will gather in one place only after father has passed away.’

For some reason, the taste of the rainwater that kept trying to enter my mouth, flowing down my nose bridge, felt bitter.

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The wait did not take long.

The downpour, which was comparable to a waterfall, continued throughout the evening, and so did the endless stream of people visiting the Konungr’s hall.

Starting with Hrolfr, who escorted my mother Asta, Ivarr and Halfdan, who had been away on business nearby, also arrived one after another, followed by warriors from various regions who heard the news of the Konungr’s death and gathered toward Uppsala.

Old comrades who had once plundered the land of the Franks with Father, and their sons. Warriors who revered Father’s name, or ambitious men eager for a fresh chance. The atmosphere in Uppsala, which had seemed to wither and die with Father’s passing, began to stir with life as people converged from all directions. It was as if the specter of death had ignited a dark resurgence, decreeing the start of a new era.

“So. What was the name of the bastard who led father to his death?”

“Aella. The Konungr of Northumbria.”

Father’s hall, which always bustled with laughter in my memories, was filled with a cold, oppressive silence.

“I heard that the bastard was talking in great detail about how he killed father. So much so that the news reached my friends in Orkney.”

Halfdan, who donned a pure white garment (Hvitserk) among the colorful assortment of clothing, spat out the words with difficulty, as if savoring each letter.

“Aella of Northumbria…”

Across the long table from Halfdan sat Ivarr (hinn Beinlaus), his sleek, sharp appearance starkly contrasting with Bjorn’s solid form at the head of the table. Ivarr, the second eldest brother, known for his fighting prowess, muttered the name of the enemy in a low voice, his reputation for combat only overshadowed by mine.

First, Bjorn “Ironside, the Steadfast.”

Second, Ivarr “hinn Beinlausi, the Boneless.”

Third, Halfdan “Hvitserk, White Shirt.”

Fourth, Sigurd “Snake-in-the-Eye.”

Fifth, Ubba.

Sixth, Helgi “Sterk, the Strong.”

Ragnar’s exceptional sons, each and every one of them. Bjorn, Ivarr, and Halfdan were warriors who had one battles of all sizes, while Sigurd was waiting for the right time. Ubba, on the other hand, was special. He had little interest in battle or the glory of Valhalla, and focused on the world around him. Intelligent and well-versed in hundreds of subjects, fluent in multiple languages, he was the scholar of the brothers. Only without a nickname due to finding it childish, and lacking the intensity of someone like Sigurd.

And then there was me—someone who stood apart from all my brothers. Since childhood, I’ve stood at the pinnacle of all warriors, I was a living witness to the gods, the champion of Hel. Most notably, I was Asta’s son, unlike the others who were the sons of Aslaug.

“For father’s soul to reach Valhalla, we must catch and kill that Aella bastard.”

Sigurd’s eyes sank with rage, flashing in the flickering firelight of the hearth.

“He can’t reach Valhalla by dying from snake bites. That Aella bastard must have known this fact and insulted father.”

The voice he spat out in a low tone was laced with venomous murderous intent, making any listener tremble.

“At the same time-”

Bjorn, who had been sitting at the head of the table, quietly listening to his brothers’ stories like a rock, continued Sigurd’s words in a heavy voice.

“-it is also an insult to all of us.”

‘My father, who praised Valhalla and Odin so much while alive. Why did you not take care of him, Odin?’

I knew the gods existed. I had directly experienced something as miraculous as reincarnation, after all. But my reason remained atheistic. I refused to acknowledge them, to accept them. So why did my heart cry out towards the gods my father admired? Why did I seek someone to blame, to curse?

“Blood has been drawn, and revenge must be achieved.”

At Bjorn’s words, a flame burned within the eyes of the brothers, and my turmoil calmed.

“We can’t raise a large army right away. I’ll have to go over first and take a look at the situation.”

As a mid-800s Germanic tribe in Northern Europe, we didn’t have a wartime mobilization system, especially for a large-scale landing operation like this invasion. We had to cool our minds. Ivarr was saying that a hunter couldn’t bend to the whims of prey.

“That’s right. There will definitely be jarls shaken by Father’s death.”

Despite nodding, a deep vertical line rested between Bjorn’s tightly strained eyebrows.

“It would be good to secure a bridgehead in advance before organizing the inside and gathering troops. Ivarr, how many men do you need?”

“Men?”

While I was strategizing, thinking, ‘Although the size of our combat ships varied, on average, about 40 people board one longship, so at least 20 ships were needed for the vanguard,’ Ivarr, who had his head tilted in thought, suddenly looked at me and said,

“Whether I take ten ships or a hundred ships, as long as I take Helgi, it will be enough.”

“Ahem.”

All of the brothers nodded in unison.

I also nodded without hesitation.

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This, this is a whole new level. I can’t wait to see Helgi at war. Just imagine it, a literal demigod among men, an unparalleled warrior of the ages against hundreds, if not thousands of men? Does this not excite you? I can easily envision him being put in a 1v100 situation, and the mere thought of it causes my heart to beat wildly.

What are your thoughts on this turn of events?