WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Oblivious

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◈ Prince of Rage ◈

Chapter 33

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The trees of Thunder Forest had grown in the sea winds of the Northern Sea, the roughest sea in the world.

Fir trees raised in sea wind grew dense and straight. There could be no better timber.

A sandy beach stretched along the shore, and not far inland, sheer coastal cliffs barred the way.

Atop those cliffs stood a village, its back to the precipice and encircled by a sturdy, orderly palisade. It was a typical Viking outpost.

Indeed, it had been the first village the Norsemen set foot in and built during the War of Conquest, over fifty years ago.

Of course, the full-scale invasion began when they traveled downriver and landed at Torvik, which was why that place came to be called Nordlanding.

But the place where they had truly first set foot was this village in Krischer, called Cliffden.

Whether it was simply the passage of time, or perhaps for the best, it no longer served as an outpost.

Then what was the purpose of this village? At the very least, it gave Valerie somewhere to stay for the night.

A shallow river flowed north before the village. Nearby was a place for cutting and trimming wood, like an outdoor sawmill.

Logs prepared for their intended uses were piled up, while sawdust and wood shavings had been neatly gathered in their own place. They were meant for kindling, and it seemed nothing was wasted.

There were not many people at the sawmill now, though. No one seemed to be working there. Children simply ran about beneath the midday sun, using it as a playground.

The sound of chopping came from within Thunder Forest. It had a steady rhythm, almost like percussion.

Sure enough, it was the sound of tall, broad-shouldered men felling trees.

Several men took turns chopping at each large tree, two at a time.

Logging was surprisingly dangerous work, with a very high death rate. When a tree fell, it could suddenly change direction, or a heavy branch could snap off and fall. There were simply too many dangerous variables.

Moreover, when a tree hit the ground, stones, twigs, and other debris flew in every direction. A sharp branch could pierce someone’s stomach, or a stone could strike them in the head.

That was why logging required more expertise and skill than one might expect. The tree had to be cut so it would fall in the safest direction and come down safely. It required both precision and strength.

And when a tree was about to fall, a logger had to shout a warning. It was an absolute rule.

“It’s fallinggggg!”

Someone shouted. The people chopping together hurried far away. Fortunately, the tree fell in the intended direction and hit the ground with a thud.

The people returned to the fallen tree to trim it. Among them was Valerie, sleeves rolled up and a logging axe in one hand.

Iron was scarce in this age, so people used axes for almost everything rather than relying on other tools. As a result, they were all astonishingly skilled with them.

Valerie watched what they did, learned, and copied them. Whether because he was clever or simply talented, he caught on quickly and handled the work with growing ease.

There was no particular danger from this point onward. It would become dangerous again when they moved the logs later.

It was simple, repetitive work. At some point, one person began singing, and the others joined in with a work song.

“Northerners, hear me. Hear the grief of my father Sigurd, the greatest hero of the North. Let us mourn him, betrayed, miserably betrayed. Let us mourn with rage, with vengeance.”

The song was narrated by Sigmund the Avenger, the Founding King. Known as the Vengeance Song, it was a traditional Norse folk song.

Valerie did not sing along.

By the time the branches had been removed and the rough trimming was done, Thorvald, the leader of the loggers and carpenters, spoke to the others.

“Let’s rest.”

The moment he heard that, Valerie dropped heavily onto the stump of a nearby tree and hung his head. He was exhausted. His shoulders and back muscles were so tired that he lacked the strength to raise his axe.

“You have more stamina than I expected.”

Valerie raised his head at the deep, hoarse voice. It was Thorvald. He handed Valerie a horn cup, then sat nearby.

The cup held mead. Despite its name, it was not sweet. It was extremely strong.

Valerie tried to take a sip, but before it even touched his lips, the harsh scent swept into his nose. He lowered the cup, unintentionally pretending that he had drunk.

Thorvald, in contrast, took it in at one go, swished it around in his mouth a few times, then swallowed it with a gulp.

He blew sharply through his nose to shake off the bite, then asked his first question since rescuing Gudrun the day before.

“What’s your name?”

“Wid.”

“If you’re a Patrol Commissioner, are you loyal to the Duke?”

“No.”

“Why follow him without loyalty?”

“To bring him down from within.”

“Revenge?”

“He’s more of an enemy than an object of revenge.”

“Why did he become your enemy?”

“...I don’t know.”

When he thought about it, it was because Duke Sven made Winslow suffer and was after Harald. Ultimately, Valerie believed that the Duke had to disappear for him to repay, in his own way, the debt he owed Winslow.

“To repay a debt to Winslow.”

Valerie answered again.

“You make an enemy and bring him down to repay a debt?”

“I suppose that’s what it is.”

Thorvald’s question had struck at the heart of it, and Valerie somehow felt smaller.

Duke Sven was not a good man, but did that necessarily mean he deserved to die?

It was not a good method, but perhaps trying to kidnap Harald or take him away was simply part of governing.

Thorvald was silent for a while before he spoke.

“I’m about two years younger than the Founding King. So I actually saw the dragon-slayer when I was very young. No one could meet those shining eyes head-on. Not the bravest warrior, nor any chieftain with wealth and power. No one. Only one truly descended from the gods could possess such eyes.”

Thorvald was not ordinarily a talkative man. Perhaps as a sign of gratitude for saving his granddaughter, he seemed willing to speak at length.

“That dragon-slayer died by a cowardly betrayal here in Astria, and the Founding King cried out for vengeance. He was twelve at the time. What could he have done alone? He appealed to the entire North, and everyone answered. But looking back now, the people then did not cross that rough sea for vengeance. They crossed simply to live. The gods had died, and the Death Blizzard had swept in. Our homeland was no longer habitable. You could call it a good excuse. Or perhaps it was the moment we had been waiting for. That was the reason. The reason we made enemies and killed them.”

“...”

“We won the war because we were desperate, not because we were brave. The Astrians were not as desperate as we were. The greater part of us died crossing the sea. And the adults then were all emaciated, with more than a few reduced to skin and bones. Yet those mad eyes, desperate to survive... Even at my age, they still appear in my dreams sometimes. Their madness ran so deep that they would risk death to survive. Does that make sense? Dying in order to live. Everyone was a berserker. That was my first battle.”

In other words, the Norsemen of the War of Conquest had had no way back from the beginning. Perhaps it had never truly been a War of Conquest or a Founding War. Perhaps it had merely been a great migration for survival.

Thorvald filled his horn cup with mead again and drained it in one gulp. This time, he did not swish it around in his mouth.

“The second battle... was to avoid being cast aside. Helgi chose the Astrians instead of us Norsemen. He accepted their culture, institutions, laws, clothing, hairstyles, everything. He said it was the Founding King’s will, but we could not accept it. Yet when I look back now, that too was a choice for survival. We could not go on forever raiding, killing, and taking whatever we wished. That was why we lost. We fought for no better reason than not wanting to be abandoned.”

Thorvald neither approved nor disapproved of Valerie’s actions. He was merely sharing his own experience. It was sincere advice.

Though he did not say it aloud, Thorvald had lost his entire family in the second battle, the War of the Beasts. His siblings, his sons, and his daughters. Only his granddaughter remained.

“Then why do you work as a carpenter? There are plenty of other things you could do.”

Valerie voiced a question he had held since before his regression. He could not understand why a man who had once ridden with thunder and lightning would do something as mundane as carpentry.

“A bastion. The final bastion.”

“Are you preparing for the last battle?”

“No. The final bastion where people can live as people. Have you seen the wildmen?”

“Yes, on my way here.”

“Why do you think they became like that?”

“Didn’t they go mad?”

“Were they mad from the beginning?”

“No.”

“Because they lost. To themselves. Defeated time and again, they were eventually devoured by the beast within them.”

Those words made Valerie realize something. His case was different from that of the wildmen, but piercing his own throat before regression felt, in a way, like a loss. A loss to himself. To emptiness, futility, and rage.

“I may have lost the war, but I have not lost to myself. I do not raid. I do not take what belongs to others. Instead, I build buildings, build villages, and watch people live there. I am grateful that I have made them a place to live. That is how I fight myself. I have not lost yet. I will fight until I die. If I fight to the end and die, then I have won.”

This was the battle he had arrived at after being born in that frozen land and living through both great wars.

Thorvald did not try to teach Valerie or criticize him. He merely revealed his own thoughts. It was up to Valerie to take something from them.

For a moment, Valerie was speechless before his great spirit. Almost for the first time in his life, he found himself thinking, What sort of man is this?

Naturally, admiration began to grow within him.

Before his regression, Valerie had cared only about Thorvald’s strength. He had devised every sort of scheme to lure him over and make him his subordinate. Now, it felt shameful.

He had succeeded in bringing Thorvald over, but he thought he finally understood why they had been bound to part ways.

At the time, Thorvald had not been someone Valerie could keep by his side.

He was too great a man for that.

Because he was such a great man, Valerie asked him a fundamental question, perhaps with hope, perhaps with desperation.

“Then... what should someone who does not want to live fight for?”

Thorvald stared silently at Valerie, as though trying to see into the depths of his eyes.

“You mixed truth and lies when you spoke to me. So I cannot give you a proper answer.”

Those whose senses had been sharpened by countless brushes with death, and whose spirits ran deep, seemed able to see truth and lies. Even without trying to be suspicious.

Valerie had nothing to say.

Fortunately, Thorvald did not seem offended, nor did he rebuke him. He appeared only to assume that Valerie had his reasons.

Watching Valerie sink into thought, Thorvald spoke.

“Let’s get back to work. Or you may rest if you wish.”

Thorvald rose from where he sat. Valerie remained still for a moment, then poured the strong mead into his mouth in one gulp.

Unlike Thorvald, he could not swish it around in his mouth. He held his breath as best he could and swallowed. It felt as though flames were running down his throat.

“Kh...”

A pained sound escaped him, and Thorvald smiled faintly at the sight.

Valerie rose and returned to work.

They finished the trimming, tied the logs together with rope, and began dragging them away.

One cup of strong liquor and dangerous, exhausting work let him forget his worries for a while.

The loggers and carpenters led by Thorvald stood guard even at night, protecting their property and resources. Valerie wondered whether there was any need. Who would sneak in at night to steal something so heavy?

But even if the times had changed and the world had changed, some people could not abandon habits they had learned through life.

Late at night, Thorvald sat alone beside a campfire, keeping watch. Seen from behind, he almost looked like a great bear curled up there.

Beyond rage, beyond regret, where had he finally arrived?

Perhaps what Thorvald guarded was not mere lumber, but the habit itself. Perhaps he did so because he did not wish to forget himself.

From beyond the darkness of Thunder Forest came the cries of beasts. What were they longing for so deeply? The mournful call of a scops owl and the chirping of night insects, as though holding a feast, formed a strange ensemble.

Crunch.

An artificial sound broke nature’s perfect performance.

Human footsteps.

Thorvald was not surprised. From the footsteps alone, he understood that whoever approached had no intention of hiding their presence.

He naturally turned his head and saw someone standing there, beyond the reach of the campfire’s light, in pitch-black darkness.

The person watching him had a faint glow in both eyes.

It was Valerie.

At the sight of the royal gleam in Valerie’s eyes, Thorvald’s heart dropped for an instant, despite being at an age when little in the world could surprise him.

From Sigurd, to Sigmund, to Helgi. Most of his life had been tied to the Volsung clan. He had admired them, served them, and shared friendship with them.

“This time, I will speak without a single lie.”

Valerie spoke.

It seemed that much truth was conveyed through those glowing eyes alone.

“There was a man. He was born a prince, yet did not know his own status until the king died. When the king died, the man he believed was his father tried to kill him. He barely escaped and survived. He begged, stole, robbed, murdered. There was nothing he had not done. Then he seized an opportunity, gained an army, won every battle, and expanded his power. Along the way, he completely burned one city and massacred its people. He also found the man he believed was his father and cruelly killed his entire family. Surprisingly, none of it troubled him. That prince made everyone around him unhappy, punished the world that had made him what he was, killed all his siblings and nieces and nephews, and finally became king. But the moment he did, he stabbed himself in the throat with the sword named Gramr and died. So that cursed bloodline would end.”

It was a far-fetched tale of things that had never happened.

Yet it did not sound far-fetched.

Thorvald did not know why, but instinctively, through feeling alone, he knew those words were true. Though it did not show outwardly, he felt overwhelmed for the first time in a long while.

It was not because the young man before him was strong in battle, but because of the tragedy and desperation that clung to the tale.

Valerie slowly stepped forward. The campfire’s light reached his feet, climbed higher, and finally illuminated his face.

“I will ask again. What should someone who does not want to live fight for?”

Valerie’s gaze was utterly calm, yet intense. Deep within it lay profound emptiness.

Thorvald’s eyes wavered slightly. He finally saw in Valerie the image of the one he had once admired.

“...What was that man’s name?”

“Valerie.”

“...Forgive me, Valerie, but I dare not answer that question. I am merely an ordinary man. How could I begin to fathom the weight of the fate carried by one born of sacred blood? Still, if I may make one small request, or rather, express one wish, do not consider yourself so worthless. Even if others consider you worthless, you must not see yourself that way. This is the only belief of a man who has lost his family and Heaven.”

Thorvald was a man who had lost almost everything he had devoted his life to. The honor and wealth he had built since the War of Conquest, his loyalty and friendships, even his family and his hope for Heaven.

To lose Heaven meant that no matter how hard one tried, one could only go to Helheim after death.

Yet rather than living recklessly because of that, Thorvald chose to live as best he could until the end. That was what it meant not to consider oneself worthless. That was Thorvald’s belief.

“Belief.”

Valerie found himself agreeing. No, he agreed completely, but he doubted whether he could truly possess something like belief.

Still, Thorvald’s words had clearly given him great strength.

If he could not believe in himself, perhaps he could first try believing Thorvald’s words.

Even if there was no one in the world who would weep for him, he must not consider himself worthless.

Chapter 9: What a Person Who Wants to Die Must Have. End.

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