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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Simzy
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74.
Hásteinn of Nantes.
In the 860s Europe, where there were particularly many renowned warriors, if you were to pick the most prominent warrior, his name always came up.
An adventurer and warrior who had sailed the Mediterranean with my brother, Bjorn.
Now, a powerful Jarl who had received the land of Nantes under Salomon, the Dux of Breizh (Brittany), located in the western corner of the Frankish Empire, and was active as his vassal lord (mercenary).
When one thinks of a typical Viking, images of ‘loves liquor, loves adventure, loves raiding, loves buying and selling goods, and loves fighting’ come to mind. Hásteinn was a type of Northman who fit all of the above.
An unceasing spirit of adventure and a thirst for battle.
A man filled with what seemed like infinite drive.
Perhaps because even a great distance was nothing more than an obstacle to be laughed at before the will of such a great warrior, he, who had not set foot in Scandinavia even once since visiting Uppsala with his friend Bjorn when my father was alive, had come to celebrate my wedding.
Of course, he probably hadn’t come just to congratulate me.
As I’ve said before, to like buying and selling goods means one is quick with calculations.
To fight under the Frankish kings, who started and ended their annual events with battles, one couldn’t survive with ordinary calculations.
Therefore, the fact that his uncontrollable name was suddenly mixed up in a quarrel between Jarls that occurred in Uppsala had brought my mind to the verge of considering derailment.
Why on earth? For what reason? What was he even doing here…?
“I hear there was a big fight in Uppsala!?”
“What? Who’s fighting who this time?”
“They say the Jarls had a big brawl! And they’re going to have another round!”
“What!? C’mon, let’s go too!”
‘Go where…’
As a series of conversations like this were taking place all over Aros, the people of Aros, who had already entered a festive mood in preparation for the grand wedding, cheered at the news of a big fight breaking out and all headed for Uppsala in unison.
Such fearsome unity.
‘Sports. Sports aren’t the answer to everything, but I absolutely must build a stadium. These vigorous people need a place to release their energy.’
For a moment, the people of Polotsk, Kiev, and Novgorod flashed through my mind.
People who had been diligently preparing for the grand games.
I had put it off for a while, but it seemed I really needed to hold a national athletic meet.
Anyway, thanks to this unexpected brawl, even the Jarls and their representatives who had secured guest rooms in Aros early on slyly began to move to watch the fight, or to join in the second round.
And since the number of guests I had to pay attention to had decreased, I was surprisingly able to breathe, and I was able to have plenty of the dates with Inga that we hadn’t been able to finish. So wasn’t it a win-win?
I was able to learn a great lesson here, and that was that when people keep looking for me, I need to create another point of interest.
A kind of diversionary tactic, so to speak.
It was a slightly irresponsible thought for a Konungr, but shouldn’t I live first?
More than anything, I was now part of a fresh couple who had been dating for less than a month, and a new bridegroom about to get married.
So, in my heart, I honestly didn’t want to pay much attention to whatever squabble had broken out between men who were old enough to know better.
Fortunately, according to a report from Ubba, who had gone to see the new library near Uppsala, it didn’t seem to have reached the point where they were pointing weapons at each other, so they would probably stop after a while.
If it got worse and finally made me move my heavy butt, then I was planning to certainly make them pay the price.
So for now, let’s be faithful to the present.
“Helgi, stay still. You have something on your face.”
“Here? Or here?”
“No, I said stay still…”
Even though we had done nothing wrong, we exuded the feeling of a couple having a secret romance, and Inga and I looked at each other and laughed.
“Stay right there, still!”
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“Jarl Hásteinn, a rock cannot move.”
On the outskirts of Uppsala, at the site of the miracle known as ‘Helgi’s Proof,’ huge tents had been erected.
Between those tents, tall flags were waving.
Flags variously depicting Hel’s symbol, a raven, Hel’s symbol, holding Thor’s hammer, and Hel’s symbol, crossing a lightning bolt and a spear in both hands.
The image of Hel, half-skull and half-woman’s face, might have been unsettling, but the people were all shouting, drinking, and dancing under the proudly fluttering tall flags.
It was truly the scene of a festival.
The only strange thing was that about half of the high-ranking people sitting in the front row were clutching their right hands, and the other half were catching their breath with tense expressions.
It was a scene a little different from the group brawl that Helgi and the people of Aros had imagined, but right now, they were more serious than anyone else in the world.
“Now, it’s my turn…! I, Hásteinn! I will revive the gods! Valhalla-!”
Yaaaaaah-!
[Thwack! Thwack-thwack! … Crack!]
“Guuuaaaargh…!”
Still, perhaps having learned a lesson from seeing the foolish results of the previous challengers, Hásteinn had managed to find some thick gloves somewhere and put them on, but it couldn’t prevent his fist from being injured.
‘How on earth did he break this…?’
“Yeehaw-! Jarl Hásteinn has failed too! The gods are indeed dead! Another drink here!”
“Hel, praise be-! Thor, may you rest in peace-! No, which god was Hásteinn trying to revive?”
“Njörðr, he was trying to revive the sea god, Njörðr!”
“Oh, what a shame. But since we have the goddess Hel, may Njörðr-! Rest in peace-!”
“Now, cheers!”
“Cheers-!”
‘Damn it…!’
With Hásteinn, clutching his right hand and glaring at the rock in front of him, as a backdrop, the Jarls with bandaged right hands and the uninjured Jarls all raised their cups with their right and left hands respectively and shouted a toast.
[Ding-ding-ding~ ding-dili-ding~ diring~ diring~]
[Dum! Dum! Dum! Dum- DUDUM!]
At the same time, all the people in the venue, who had been tensed up for Hásteinn’s challenge, also raised their cups, and the bards sang a song with a powerful melody in passionate voices.
“Jarl Hásteinn, here, some mead.”
“… Is that you, Thorgnýr? Thanks.”
Hngg-
Roughly shaking his slightly less painful right arm, Hásteinn threw off the thick gloves and drank the cup offered by Thorgnýr, the Jarl of Orkney, with his uninjured left hand.
A cup of mead that went down smoothly, tasting fantastic.
It had been about three days since this tournament, which people were already calling the ‘God-Reviving Festival,’ had begun, though no one was quite sure who had started it anymore.
The purpose of the tournament itself was simple: Konungr Helgi had split the rock in half with a single blow and declared that the gods were dead, so anyone who wished to deny this should smash the rock in the same way and revive the gods.
What kind of foolishness was this?
But the problem was that to the prideful lords, who could be seen as a collection of ultimate machos, alpha males, and show-offs who would be offended to be called second best in this world, it appeared as an opportunity to gain honor.
And soon, the number of failures increased one by one, and the story of them settling down in their spots to wait for the failures of the next in line was distorted, and a rumor spread that a big fight had broken out between the Jarls.
Of course, it wasn’t an entirely false story, as a fistfight had actually broken out between Jarls who had drunk too much or had a bad relationship to begin with, but that was not a big deal in the boisterous and liquor-loving Northman society.
This ‘God-Reviving’ tournament, for a new tournament, had developed its rules rather systematically.
After the first person had challenged with their bare hands, had their fist shattered, and had been carried away, the Jarls, with the rational and logical judgment that ‘Konungr Helgi is a demigod, so we humans must have a minimum means of protecting our bodies,’ soon began to develop and improve protective gear.
At first, they wrapped thick cloth, then added leather on top, one Jarl tried putting in stones, and another tried lining it with grass.
As a result, they had placed great expectations on the legendary warrior, Hásteinn, who was second to none in terms of combat power and was wearing the gloves that had been recognized as the most efficient, but he too had failed.
However, neither the failed Hásteinn nor the Jarls who had placed their hopes on him had actually thought he would be able to smash that monstrous rock. So now, rather than the original purpose, they were focused on enjoying the spectacle and eating and drinking.
[Gulp- Gulp- Gulp-]
“Khaha-! Ah…! Mead is always good! Especially the mead from Aros, it has a taste of something more!”
Boisterousness is inherently accompanied by a bit of slovenliness.
Though Hásteinn had decorated his entire beard with mead from drinking in a hurry, Jarl Thorgnýr, who pulled him up with a strong arm, didn’t mind at all. After all, the reputation of the eccentric, Hásteinn, was something no Northman lord could be ignorant of.
“Is it just the mead? The bread, meat, liquor, and even the women. It’s been some time since Aros became the best.”
Bjorn’s friend, Hásteinn.
Halfdan’s friend, Thorgnýr.
These two lords, each sharing a deep friendship with one of Ragnar’s sons, had a sense of kinship as both close aides to the current power and as lords of outlying regions.
Thorgnýr from the northernmost tip of the Isle of Britain, and Hásteinn from the western part of Frankish lands.
It was perhaps only natural that these men, each struggling in their own domains, would attend Helgi Ragnarsson’s wedding.
However, it was difficult to say that they had come this long distance just for friendship.
There were already signs of it, but now that so many lords from various regions had gathered in one place, putting aside their rivalries and grudges, it was inevitable that numerous promises would be exchanged and plans would be made.
In particular, Hásteinn and Thorgnýr, who remembered the era of Konungr Ragnar, who was now small and had entered Valhalla, thought that this gathering might lead to a new Great Expedition.
Unlike the sons of Ragnar’s war of revenge to punish the two cynings of Northumbria, which had a very clear grudge and justification, a Great Expedition was something where you could put a spoon in if you were interested and take a big bite out of it.
Of course, it might not be.
They still didn’t know much about Helgi Ragnarsson’s disposition, and there didn’t seem to be any factor yet that would easily move the strongest man in the North Sea, who seemed to have everything already.
So, wouldn’t they have to appeal to him diligently?
“An absurd power. This new Konungr has certainly monopolized the love of the gods.”
Hásteinn, who had been staring intently at the leather cup engraved with an axe pattern, said as he returned it, and Thorgnýr replied with a slight smile.
“That’s why I tried to stop you. I told you that’s not human strength.”
“Hey Thorgnýr, I’m Hásteinn. Hásteinn. Not a man who turns his head in the face of fear.”
Watching Hásteinn caressing his sore right hand, Thorgnýr nodded.
“Of course, who here doesn’t know? Jarl Hásteinn. So, were the gloves of any use?”
At the question, which contained the implication of ‘For such brave words, didn’t you also spare your body?’, Hásteinn gave an awkward dry cough, but instead held his head high with dignity.
“Ahem- To admit one’s shortcomings is wise, and to be overconfident in oneself is foolish. I am not Konungr Helgi, no. Jarl Thorgnýr. I am Hásteinn.”
“Of course.”
Thorgnýr, bowing his head with a gentle smile as if this conversation was not the first or second time, was looked down upon by Hásteinn, who also had a similar smile on his face. He then gazed intently over Thorgnýr’s dark blond hair at the scene of the many Jarls laughing and talking.
“It’s the first time since Konungr Ragnar.”
“…You mean that so many Jarls have gathered in one place?”
“Yes, it’s been a really long time since such a large meeting.”
The great assembly that had occurred only twice since the time of his father and grandfather, after Charles, the leader of the Franks, had beheaded numerous Saxons and burned the sacred tree.
Once for revenge and for the stability of the Saxons pouring across the border, and the next for a grand expedition against the cross.
Both had strong motivations, but this time there was nothing of the sort.
It was just that at the news of the strongest man getting married, the Jarls who wanted to somehow get into his good graces had come of their own accord.
“…All that’s left is Halfdan, the ‘Black King’ of the fjords, and Bagsecg of Jutland, I suppose.”
“…You must know the news that Olaf of Dublin is retiring?”
Thorgnýr, who had managed to understand Hásteinn’s muttered, cryptic words, stroked his well-groomed beard and said quietly.
“There is a possibility that Kaupang, the Black King’s home in the fjord region, will become noisy. Neither ‘the White’ Olaf nor ‘the Black King’ Halfdan would want a direct conflict. It is highly likely that they will seek mediation from someone of their equal or much higher standing.”
“Hah-.”
He was boisterous and a little vulgar, but not stupid. Hásteinn had a premonition that this wedding would not just remain a happy story between two men and women, no, six men and women.
Everyone was moving with their own intentions.
Wasn’t he himself the same?
Hásteinn, who had failed to revive the gods, quietly murmured the name of Hel.
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