WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: Oblivious
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◈ Prince of Rage ◈
Chapter 6
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After the snow stopped, a steady rain began to fall. The snow piled on the ground had turned the roads muddy and filthy.
At times like this, the best thing was to stay shut inside. Especially at night.
It seemed that people who thought so had gathered in a tavern somewhere in Blackcon.
A cozy fire burned in the hearth, while people quietly sipped their drinks or played cards.
Still, it did not look like an ordinary tavern. Nor did the people look like common folk resting after a hard day's work.
Their loose, slouching postures, the bored-looking waitress, daggers stuck into tables amid scattered coins, knife marks carved into the pillars as though clawed there.
There was something strange about the place. Anyone unaccustomed to such an atmosphere would have felt it.
Then, in the quiet boredom, the tavern door suddenly opened with a rattle.
Every eye turned to the entrance.
Shhhhh...
On that rainy late night, a tall, broad man stood in a long cloak with its hood raised. When he stepped inside, his heavy footsteps echoed through the tavern.
The floor let out a creak. Rainwater streamed from his cloak.
He strode to the nearest table and spoke without warning. His voice was a rough, deep baritone, as heavy as his footsteps.
“Where's Raven?”
Raven was a common name among commoners. But in Blackcon, and in this tavern, it referred to only one person.
The leader of the Wins Brotherhood. Put simply, the head of Blackcon's thieves' guild.
Naturally, it was not a name just anyone could casually mention. Not unless they had a lot of nerve or wanted to die.
Yet everyone seated at the table remained silent. They did not, as thugs usually would, spit out curses or say things like, “Who the hell are you?” or “Want to die?”
One had their feet on the table, while another sprawled in their chair with their backside pushed forward. They had gone speechless because they were staring up at the man who had suddenly appeared.
Beneath his hood, the man wore an iron helmet instead of showing his face. More precisely, it was a Viking-style helmet that protected the nose and eye area, with a mail curtain covering everything below.
The two eyes visible beyond the helmet held an indifferent air, yet also seemed to contain rage, or perhaps madness.
As no one answered, a gloved hand suddenly shot from beneath his cloak and seized the nearest person's hair.
The man spoke again.
“I said, where is Raven?”
“W-Well...”
Bang!
Perhaps he had expected an unsatisfactory answer. Before the person could even finish speaking, the man smashed their head hard into the table.
That single blow mangled their face beyond recognition. They lost consciousness and collapsed.
The person with their feet on the table hurriedly lowered them in terror, but the intruder grabbed their hair next. His hand was as large as a pot lid.
At that moment, someone at a nearby table drew a dagger and sprang to their feet.
“You bastard...!”
Smack!
Thud.
Without even looking back, the helmeted man struck them with the back of his clenched fist. Their jaw shattered in one blow, and they too fell unconscious.
The tavern patrons all rose at once, about to do something, when the man drew the battle axe at his waist and drove it into the table with a bang!
The dice and coins scattered across the tabletop jumped. Several fell to the floor.
That one display of force froze everyone in the tavern in place.
Even then, he still held the other person's hair. His gaze never left them.
Only then did the person whose hair he held begin to tremble. They hurriedly spoke.
“Up, upstairs...!”
Thwack!
Crash!
It seemed they had answered correctly this time, but perhaps he had never intended to spare them. He drove that absurdly large fist straight into their face. They practically flew backward as they fell.
He had gripped their hair so hard that a fistful tore out with a crrrk.
The man in the wet cloak lowered his head and spoke in that same heavy voice.
“Bring Raven.”
Who was he speaking to? No, it did not matter who brought Raven. He had given only an order, and if it was not carried out, he looked as though he would kill everyone here.
No matter how numerous they were, thugs no better than a pack of foxes or jackals could not stand against a lion.
In truth, the heavily armed man, born large and strong, hardened by years of training and real combat, was closer to a beast than a human.
This man was Norman, a knight of the House of Count Winslow and Gidwin's father. Judging by the armor and helmet, he had come prepared to see this through properly.
“What? What is it? Who? Eek!”
Raven, the leader who came down from upstairs at a subordinate's call, went pale the instant they met the knight's eyes. Instinctively, Raven tried to flee, but the last thread of reason held them back.
Trembling, Raven approached the knight. Still, Raven kept a safe distance and leaned back as they spoke.
“W-What brings you here, my lord?”
Safe distance or not, Norman took one long step forward and seized Raven by the collar. Raven was caught without the slightest resistance. Norman dragged Raven outside.
The gang members in the tavern could do nothing. Even after the knight took their leader away, they remained still, as if their feet had been nailed down by the axe lodged in the table.
Rain poured outside. It was darker than usual, and the sound of rain was deafening. Several armed figures could be seen in the darkness. They were Winslow soldiers, and they had already surrounded the tavern.
A man sat beneath the eaves. His head and body were wet as well. An oil lantern beside him illuminated only one side of him.
It was Count Aethelred.
Norman dragged Raven over and threw him down before the count.
“Argh!”
Raven landed at the count's feet and naturally fell to their knees in the mud. With a terrified expression, Raven kept looking back and forth between the count and the ground.
Watching rainwater stream from beneath the eaves, Count Aethelred spoke.
“Who was it?”
“Pardon?”
“If you make me say it again, everyone inside dies.”
“Ah, th-that...”
Raven knew what the count was asking about. It was probably about the young master's near-kidnapping.
If the sole heir of the territory had suffered such a thing, it was only natural that there would be consequences. Raven understood that well enough. What was surprising and alarming was that the count had come for Raven so quickly.
If Raven said the wrong thing, Raven might truly die. No, perhaps Raven was already dead. All Raven could do was try their best for the sliver of hope left to them.
“Th-they came two days before the horse market opened. So, so that would have been f-five days ago. Yes, that's right. And, and they spoke with a Windale accent, so they must be from that region. Wh-When someone asked if they had come to sell horses, they said yes, but they did not seem very interested in selling horses... There were no badges or anything else to identify them...”
They said the thieves' guild had eyes and ears everywhere. After Harald was nearly kidnapped, Raven had immediately begun asking around about the kidnappers.
There was information to be found if merchants in the city, or any of Raven's subordinates, had spoken with them, traded with them, or fought with them.
However, perhaps because the count had come too soon, all Raven had for now was that they used a Windale accent.
Windale was Winslow's neighboring demesne. Duke Sven had several vassals beneath him, meaning that the two houses served the same lord.
The problem was that the two houses had been enemies for a very long time.
Their grudge went back to before the Norsemen conquered Astria. The cause was that each claimed the other's territory as their own, because they had split from the same house.
Raven kept watching the count's expression. But Count Aethelred only watched the rain falling from beneath the eaves. Raven could not tell whether the count was angry or not.
“I-If you give me more time, I will find out for certain...”
“You must take responsibility first.”
The count cut Raven off.
“Pardon?”
“Have we forgotten our agreement? Whatever business you conducted in the city, I would not make an issue of it as long as you did not cause serious trouble. In return, if trouble arose that offended me, you would take responsibility without question. Have you forgotten?”
“...”
“My son was nearly kidnapped. My son. If you thought you would live, I am disappointed in you, Raven.”
Count Aethelred turned to Raven and spoke calmly.
In that brief moment, Raven felt many emotions. Anger, resignation, and more.
When Count Aethelred glanced at Norman, Norman immediately lifted his foot and stomped Raven's head against the tavern wall.
Thud. Crunch. Thud. Thud.
After several stomps, Raven's head was crushed before they could even scream. One of their eyes popped out and embedded itself in the muddy ground.
“Bring me the second-in-command, Norman.”
“Yes.”
Norman entered the tavern again.
Count Aethelred turned his attention back to the rain falling from the eaves. As he watched the pouring water, he thought.
It was not difficult to guess who was behind the kidnappers. It was probably not the Count of Windale, but Duke Sven.
The reason was that the Count of Windale was neither base enough nor meticulous enough to devise such a sinister plan.
Put kindly, he was straightforward. Put poorly, he was an ignorant sort of man. In that sense, he was Aethelred's complete opposite.
Their publicly known desire for each other's territory was an old matter. By now, it was less desire than an ancient grudge.
And the person most actively stirring up conflict between the two territories was Duke Sven. That was how he ruled his vassals.
He encouraged them to clash, restrained their power, then exercised his influence and strengthened his position by mediating between them. He was meticulous and cunning for a Norse noble.
Those on the receiving end would hate it, but from another perspective, perhaps it was good governance. A lord could always fall to a vassal's blade.
As always, even after suffering such a thing, Count Aethelred had no decisive means of retaliation. All he could do was brawl and keep his own house in order.
So what concerned him more at the moment was Wid.
No, Valerie.
He had received a report from Gidwin, who had been there that day, but he had also heard all sorts of accounts from countless others.
They said it was like seeing a legendary hero. That they thought he was a young Einheri, a lone fighter, a one-man army, a royal bodyguard. That he possessed the dignity of a king.
People always exaggerated, but even the objective facts were unbelievable. Riding a wild horse with no saddle, stirrups, or reins, he had killed two men with two swings of a sword...
Count Aethelred felt strange because the exaggerations sounded more believable than the objective facts.
Mounted combat was no easy matter. To become a proper knight, one needed at least ten years of training and experience in varied real battles before learning how to kill someone from horseback.
It was not a matter of luck, and talent alone was even less enough.
What was even harder to believe was that Valerie had never learned martial arts in the first place. As far as Aethelred knew, he had never even held a sword.
Was this what it meant to have the blood of the Volsung royal house? Was he truly the last bloodline of a god?
It was deeply confusing to be unable to interpret facts that had already happened. Above all, how was he supposed to deal with Valerie from now on?
At the same time, Aethelred realized how little he knew about Valerie, and he was grateful that Valerie had saved Harald. Worry, relief, and unease seemed to spin around in his heart.
And one piece of guilt...
Crash!
The sound from inside the tavern broke Count Aethelred's thoughts. Soon after, someone was thrown out of the tavern.
Splat!
“Argh!”
They looked around in alarm, then saw their leader lying dead with his head crushed and went pale.
“Eeeek!”
Count Aethelred looked at them and spoke. For now, it was time to put all those thoughts aside and do what needed to be done.
“Bring in every last one of those Lecton gang bastards. That is how you and your people will survive.”
Not long after, the heads of young men were displayed in Blackcon's square.
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