WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Oblivious

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◈ Prince of Rage ◈

Chapter 13

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Many people who had amassed great wealth and seized high status and power had, since ancient times, made a practice of hosting weary travelers and those of exceptional ability and talent.

In an age when news of the world itself was precious, feeding and housing travelers was considered a virtue. Among those travelers were heroes who slew monsters to repay the chieftains or householders who had treated them kindly.

Duke Sven, or rather, the House of Viðing, possessed immense wealth and influence, and kept many such guest retainers.

Guest retainers were people recommended by someone trustworthy or noticed by the duke, who received food and lodging from the ducal house without holding a particular post. Some stayed only briefly before leaving, but most simply attached themselves to the household and lived off it.

There were all kinds among them. Mages versed in medicinal herbs, people who could imitate animal cries perfectly, renowned swordsmen, eloquent speakers, writers, storytellers, bards, wandering knights, explorers, adventurers, even a Viking who claimed to have seen the end of the world.

Some earned a position through their achievements. Others received great rewards and rose to high status simply by gaining the duke's favor, even without any notable accomplishments.

They were useful whenever something arose or the duke needed them. Most days, they spent their time currying favor with the duke and his sons, or simply eating, drinking, and idling about.

What such guest retainers dreamed of was being granted a manor or territory and founding a household of their own. What they feared most was being cast out of the ducal house.

But the young men around fifteen were in a somewhat different position. Most were sons of noble houses, knightly houses, or freeborn families. They generally served as the duke's soldiers and, if fortunate, became squires or apprentice knights.

Strictly speaking, they were not guest retainers. Yet most were children cast out by their families, or concubine-born sons with nowhere else to go but the ducal house. In other words, they were little different from future guest retainers.

A young man named Arne was one of them. He was eighteen, tall, and powerfully built, and he was freeborn.

The freeborn were a social class among the Norsemen. They were distinct from commoners, though their numbers had dwindled with time.

After the great wars known as the War of Conquest and the War of the Beasts, Norsemen had become nobles, estate holders, or independent farmers. Those who became none of these were called freeborn.

The freeborn generally possessed rights nearly equal to those of nobles: freedom of movement, the right to own land, bear arms, claim the spoils they had won themselves, resist unjust treatment, and receive trial by combat. Thus, even nobles could not treat the freeborn carelessly.

But reality was harsh. With no land to stand upon or property to rely on, they were gradually becoming commoners as time passed.

Perhaps Arne would be the last of them. His children might live as ordinary commoners, unable to enjoy the rights of the freeborn.

Perhaps that was why Arne trained harder than anyone.

As always, he rose at dawn and began with physical training. Then, when he was utterly exhausted, he swung his sword. He had heard knights say that one was not always in peak condition in a real battle.

“That dumbass is making a show of himself again.”

A fellow soldier who had just risen and stepped outside the barracks said it loudly enough for Arne to hear. Arne ignored him and focused on his training.

Another soldier added a remark, looking at him with clear dislike.

“Hey, aren't you supposed to change shifts?”

“I'll wash up and go soon.”

“Get ready already, idiot. Do your job properly before training. You think making a big show when you've got no talent will make you skilled?”

Working hard did not necessarily guarantee results. Arne trained harder than anyone, but he was not especially skilled among the soldiers.

“I've never been late for duty. Nor have I ever neglected it.”

“Well, look at that. The sergeant's here. Stupid bastard.”

After the continued insults, Arne lowered his sword. He panted for breath, then finally gave up and turned to wash himself when someone called out.

“Arne, come here.”

When he looked over, a group of five or six men had gathered on their way to the dining hall. They were calling him over.

Whenever young people were gathered anywhere, the strongest group among them inevitably emerged. The group that called Arne over was the Skard gang, that very group.

As Arne approached, worn out, Skard, the gang's leader, spoke.

“People have been talking about you a lot lately. You know that?”

“...Yeah.”

“Straighten up. Otherwise, I'll have you doing nothing but night shifts. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Arne nodded and headed for the barracks' rear yard. There was a well there. He stripped naked, drew water with a bucket, and poured it over himself from head to toe. The water was cold enough to stop his heart. Even so, he repeated the process several times to wash himself.

He went back into the barracks, dried himself, and put his sweat-soaked clothes into the laundry basket. The attendants would come, wash them clean, and bring them back.

Then he dressed himself. He put on a gambeson that reached his thighs, fastened a belt around it, and donned a spangenhelm, securing its chin strap. Then he went to the armory and received a sword and spear. He hung the sword at his waist.

Together with the other guards, Arne left the fortress and headed for one of the city's water gates. The city had two gates in its outer wall and three water gates.

When he arrived at his assigned water gate with his fellow guard, the previous shift rose from where they had been sitting, dozing or idling.

“Arne, why don't you just take the night shift?”

“Someone else makes the schedule.”

“This isn't fun, and there's no money in it either. Fuck...”

One of the men from the night shift grumbled.

After the proper change of guard, they opened the water gate. Before long, ships waiting at the nearby dock began coming in.

They carried all sorts of cargo. Arne's fellow guard poked at it with his spear shaft and picked fights with the passing merchants.

“What is this? What? Olive oil? Well, aren't you a perverted bastard. You thought this kind of thing would pass inspection?”

There was nothing wrong with the goods at all, but that was not how the water-gate guards saw it. The provocation was plainly deliberate.

Sure enough, the merchant smiled obsequiously and handed over some copper coins. The guard frowned as though displeased, and the merchant handed him more.

“I won't overlook it for this much next time. Go on. Next.”

The guard continued extorting money that way.

There was no real concept of bribery in this world. Neither the giver nor the receiver considered it wrong. It was simply one of the ordinary things people did. Slave traders sometimes even offered female slaves.

Still, one could not take too much. It had to be done with an eye for the person. They let poor-looking travelers pass, as well as influential wealthy men and powerful merchant companies within the city.

No one had taught him otherwise or told him not to do it, but Arne simply found such things uncomfortable. Everyone else did it, yet his inborn honesty made him recoil from it.

That was what Skard had meant when he told him to straighten up. He meant Arne should extort money properly. Arne was to give Skard a set amount, while keeping the rest for himself.

But Arne could not bring himself to do it. He could not stop others from doing it, and could only remain uncomfortable by himself.

Sometimes, however, rough merchants fought back.

After all, going out into the wilderness that passed for the world beyond, buying goods, hauling them long distances, and selling them was no easy task.

To do that, one needed strength. Some merchants were simply good fighters themselves. In short, they were no ordinary people.

“Oh? This man? You dare challenge the ducal house!?”

“You fucking bastard! Duke or whatever the fuck, stop bleeding us dry! You die, I die!”

“What!?”

“Sir! Put your sword away!”

Arne, who had been uncomfortable the whole time, stepped in. A quarrel had to be stopped, whatever the circumstances.

A fierce struggle followed, and it ended with the merchant being allowed to leave.

“Damn it! Fuck, ptoo! You remember that bastard's face, right!?”

“...Don't go too far.”

“What? Too far? Didn't you see that bastard defy us? That was a challenge to the ducal house too!”

“Phew...”

Arne let out a deep sigh. Guard duty was harder than the exhausting physical training.

“You hopeless idiot. Do you think you'll rise in the world just by training every day? Take what you can while you can. Honestly! Don't you know Skard has it in for you?”

Perhaps his fellow guard was right. Arne had often considered simply extorting money like everyone else.

He only had to do what everyone else did. No one would say anything. Yet Arne could not bring himself to do it. He hesitated as if standing at a critical crossroads. That was what made it difficult for him.

In any event, the grueling shift eventually ended, and dusk fell. The night guards arrived to relieve them, and Arne returned to the fortress.

Preparations for a feast were in full swing when he entered. Today was the day of a grand feast. It was not a gathering only for the duke and duchess and important figures in the castle atop the hill. It was a large feast in the fortress courtyard, attended by everyone in the household.

There were around two hundred people, perhaps more if outsiders were included.

Servants and guest retainers alike slaughtered pigs and removed their entrails, carried huge barrels of alcohol, arranged tables, built a large bonfire in the center, and set fires all around the fortress.

Some people wandered about in ridiculous outfits, apparently planning to show off talents, while bards practiced on their lutes.

By the time Arne returned to the barracks, washed himself, and changed clothes, he could already hear many people singing loudly outside.

When he went out again, many high-class prostitutes from the city and elaborately dressed women had arrived. Perhaps because this was the center of power not only for the city but for all Eldeira, they came of their own accord without being invited.

The sky grew darker, while drink and meat were carried in at a brisk pace. The fires blazed more fiercely. They seemed to awaken the dark instincts buried within people.

“Did you hear? They say that bastard's coming soon. You know, Winslow's bastard.”

A soldier seated near Arne spoke. He was not speaking to Arne, but to the others.

“Bullshit. Rumors are always lies. One punch in the mouth and he'd go down like anyone else.”

“Right. If it comes to it, we can all jump him and beat him. Nobody can take a beating from a crowd.”

“Don't you have any pride?”

“Nope.”

“Heh heh heh, idiot.”

They tore apart the subject of the rumor while he was not there. They tore apart meat and drank wine as well.

“By the way, is there still no room in the annex?”

Skard asked his lackeys.

Within the ducal household, or rather, within Torvik Fortress, there was practically a status system unique to this place. The duke and his family lived in the castle atop the hill. Important figures lived in the annexes. Everyone else lived in quarters shared with the servants, or in the barracks. Arne and the ordinary soldiers lived in the barracks.

The duke's advisors, knights, and guest retainers stayed in the annexes. Those with their own homes in the city sometimes commuted, but from the annexes onward, the standard of living was truly different.

For the soldiers, an annex was both a goal and a dream. The fortress itself was like a small world, and living in an annex was itself a mark of high status.

“Won't a place open up soon? You're an apprentice knight, Skard.”

“That's right. There probably isn't another apprentice knight your age in the entire kingdom.”

The lackeys forced praise upon their leader, but it was not true. There were many people in the kingdom who possessed absurd talent at even younger ages. Of course, that did not mean all their lives went well.

Before long, the duke and his three sons were seated in the places of honor, chatting and laughing freely.

People did not simply eat and drink. Some approached the duke cautiously with serious expressions to make private requests. The duke soothed them or laughed them off as he spoke with them.

Then the duke looked for his eldest son. The boy had been beside him only moments ago, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Even after his father called for him, the eldest son took quite some time to be found. He came hurrying from the distant garden.

The way he adjusted his trousers made it obvious what he had been doing. He was very tall and heavily built, but there was something foolish about him.

The duke's expression darkened upon seeing his eldest son. At once, the countless people present noticed the duke's mood and quieted their chatter. Even the bard stopped plucking the lute.

“You called, Father. No, Your Grace.”

“How long will you keep behaving like that?”

“What? I, I mean... Everyone else does it too... Agh!”

Despite his large frame, the eldest son had already been shrinking back. Then he suddenly cried out. The duke had grabbed him hard between the legs.

“So you've done nothing wrong? Then this must be at fault. Let's get rid of it.”

“W-Wait! I was wrong! I was!”

It was a truly unsightly display from the eldest son of the ducal house. As expected, his followers glared murderously at everyone else, telling them with their expressions to look away. Arne kept his gaze fixed on his wine cup as well.

Just then, someone quickly approached the duke and whispered in his ear.

“Ah, right. That bastard. He's arrived? Good. We're in the middle of a feast. Lower the drawbridge. Why report every little thing?”

It was only proper to report it, since opening the gate and lowering the drawbridge at night was a serious matter.

What everyone cared about most was the duke's mood. If he was pleased, he might grant rewards or elevate someone's status on impulse. If he was displeased, he might find fault with someone and punish them for no reason.

In any case, the drawbridge lowered with the sound of thick iron chains moving, and the gate opened.

Soon, beyond the moat in the distance, a dark silhouette on horseback appeared. The figure slowly entered the fortress.

Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop...

Everyone's eyes fixed on him. When he reached the light of the blazing bonfires, gasps rose from all around.

“Gasp.”

“Wow...”

The man was so handsome that it was difficult to believe he was real. Even the word perfect was not enough. It was as though something beyond perfection had been added to his beauty.

His platinum-blond hair was swept back, his nose straight, and his eyes sky blue. Those eyes swept over the feast.

Arne stared at him blankly, as though enchanted.

The man dismounted and strode toward the central bonfire. He did not kneel, merely lowered his head in greeting to the duke, and spoke.

“I am Wid of Winslow. It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace.”

The duke had seemed drunk, but his eyes had become sharp. He studied Valerie closely before speaking.

“...The rumors were not exaggerated. They fell short.”

“You flatter me.”

“But where is Ketil? There should have been someone traveling with you.”

“He is dead.”

“...What?”

If this was a joke meant to liven up the feast, the situation was not good. The duke had been in a foul mood because of his eldest son. But if it was not a joke...

“We camped for one night. At dawn, we were attacked, and he died. He was struck by two crossbow bolts, one in the neck and one in the arm. He did not die immediately, but he did not last long.”

“...Proof?”

Valerie returned to Snow and brought over the bag-like bundles hanging from the saddle, a crossbow, and other weapons. The blood that had soaked the bottoms of the bags had dried brown.

With a thud, he set the bags on the ground. Human heads rolled out of them.

They did not belong at a dining table.

“Gasp!”

“Eek!”

Those unaccustomed to corpses, especially severed heads, sucked in breaths.

The duke recognized several of the heads. He was not the only one. Many people recognized them, because they were guest retainers who had lived in the fortress.

In addition to the heads, Valerie laid down the attackers' weapons. At a glance, they were not weapons that mere bandits would use, but the kind used by regular troops.

More than that, the ducal house had designated suppliers for its weapons, so it was immediately clear that they belonged to the ducal house.

The duke stared at them silently, then turned to look at his eldest son.

“It wasn't me! It's true! Really!”

Then he looked to his fat second son. Unlike his elder brother, he did not make a fuss. He merely shook his head and calmly spoke.

“It was not me either.”

Lastly, he looked at his third son.

The third son wore clothes that rose to his neck and appeared to be around Valerie's age.

His large, upturned eyes gave him a distinctly catlike impression. He never took his gaze from Valerie, and he did not answer his father's question.

“...”

It was now fairly clear who had done it.

Duke Sven's face did not flush red or turn pale, but anyone could see that his silent stillness meant he was angry.

The feast grounds became so quiet that even the sound of someone swallowing would have seemed loud. Only the bonfires and fires crackled.

Then Duke Sven spoke.

“You have had a hard journey. Take him to the annex.”

He rose from his seat and went up the hill toward the castle. His close attendants and sons followed, and the feast was over.

Valerie stood beside the bonfire and waited for someone to guide him. Like a demon's tongue, the flames flickered and cast a red glow over him as though licking him.

Everyone stared and whispered. The attention and murmurs should have burdened him, but Valerie stood at ease, entirely unconcerned.

He wore a deep blue gambeson and a short cloak fastened to his right shoulder with a pin. A sword hung at his waist.

His clothes were not particularly luxurious, but perhaps because of his face, he gave off an aura that made him seem difficult to approach.

Arne, too, could not take his eyes off Valerie. He was deeply impressed, as though the sight had been branded into his heart. Valerie felt like a being from an entirely different realm.

“Come with me. I will show you the way.”

At last, someone approached Valerie to guide him. Valerie followed the person toward the annexes, and everyone's eyes followed as well.

When Valerie disappeared from view, the whispers at the feast turned into a buzz.

“That was insane.”

One of the Skard gang said it.

It made no sense for someone to be assigned an annex the moment he arrived, but the six heads scattered near the bonfire kept everyone silent.

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