WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: Oblivious
Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried
◈ Prince of Rage ◈
Chapter 83
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Traveling south felt like going against the seasons. The difference was slight, but he could sense it in the subtle change in temperature carried by the wind.
Valerie felt the southern wind beyond the north. Was it the wind of the past, or the wind of the future? He had been about twenty-three or twenty-four when he passed through here at the head of a five-hundred-man death-defying force.
Mounted on Snow, a black speck against the yellow and green fields, Valerie faced the wind and looked into the distance.
There was a village there. Was it strange to feel something upon seeing again the village he had once reduced to ruins?
Yet the village was overflowing with outsiders, as though water had spilled over. Far more people than the original villagers had gathered there, living in tents and makeshift shelters throughout the area.
Valerie guided his horse forward slowly. Snow walked rather than ran. The afternoon sun, half-covered by clouds, shone upon Valerie.
As he neared the village, he saw all kinds of people. Some were armed, some looked like scholars, and others wore clothes that made their occupations impossible to guess. There were frivolous chatterboxes, grave-looking people, the old, the young, and every sort in between.
From the bits of conversation he caught here and there, even their accents differed. They seemed to have gathered from all across the kingdom.
As he wondered what was going on, someone addressed him. It was the rough voice of an old man.
“Have you come to stay, or are you continuing on a long journey?”
Valerie turned in the saddle and saw an old beggar.
A faded gray beard covered his neck. A bandage wrapped around his head covered one eye, perhaps because it had been injured. His dirty clothes had been patched in places and barely served their purpose, though they were little more than rags.
He wore a hood that covered his shoulders. What stood out beneath it was the empty vertical strip centered on his nose, while tattoos covered both sides of his face.
His gray eyes held frustration, discouragement, defeat, and resignation. At times, a flash of madness passed through them.
He held a short spear, though he seemed to use it more as a walking stick than a weapon.
“I came to meet the Third Prince. I may stay for a while, or I may leave.”
“Everyone here came to see the prince. But he does not meet just anyone.”
So that was why such a wide variety of people had crowded into this rural village. They had come to place themselves under the Third Prince, hoping to rise in the world.
A prince was someone who might become the next king. By serving beneath the Third Prince, who was effectively becoming the leading contender, they expected to gain something from it.
The War of Succession was a bloody civil war, but it was also a restructuring of wealth and established privilege.
A commoner might be granted land and become a noble. They might earn a fortune. Even if they died fighting for a prince, if that prince later became king, they would go straight to heaven.
Still, wanting to serve him did not mean anyone could simply do so.
“Did you come to see the Third Prince as well, sir?”
“I did. But not for advancement. Only, only... for Valhalla...”
“You mean heaven? Valhalla disappeared when the gods died.”
“No! Don’t say such things!”
At Valerie’s words, the old man suddenly shouted. Madness broke through his discouragement, resignation, and defeat as he glared at Valerie.
Valerie was not easily shaken, but for a moment, a chill ran through his chest. It was like an instinctive warning.
Yet as quickly as he had shouted, the old man’s face turned pitiable, and he hurriedly apologized.
“I, I’m sorry.”
Looking at him, Valerie thought he was not as far gone as the Lokir of the Lokir Merchant Company, but he did not seem entirely sound of mind either.
“What do you want? Why did you stop me?”
“...I apologize again. H-help me. In return, I’ll give you this.”
The old man looked around before raising an arm concealed in his long sleeve. A Viking arm ring of gold encircled his wrist.
It was a circular band coiled around itself and open at one side, with dragons carved at both ends facing each other.
People no longer did this, but Norsemen of the old man’s generation would give such arm rings after a coming-of-age ceremony, or when a father acknowledged his son as a warrior.
And a Viking never removed that arm ring for the rest of his life. Having it taken away was the greatest dishonor. Many would rather choose death.
Even setting aside its meaning, that much gold was an immense fortune. If it was real gold, that was.
But Valerie had no desire for gold. He was simply interested in two things.
First, the old man’s face-covering tattoos. Second, why someone who seemed to have once been such an honorable warrior was asking so humbly.
Was heaven, or Valhalla, whatever one called it, truly worth that much? Did he wish to reach that afterlife so desperately by dying for a prince?
The Third Prince might not even become king. It seemed the old man did not have long to live and was desperate.
“What would you have me help you with?”
After hesitating, the old man answered.
“Among the people serving the prince is a man named Hansen. He said he would let me meet the prince if I killed a dragon and came back. I know where the dragon is. I only ask that you give me a ride there. My legs are not well...”
Valerie was so dumbfounded that he had no answer. It was obviously an absurd condition.
In truth, Hansen had set such an impossible condition because the old man had kept pestering him. He also meant to teach him a lesson.
Valerie raised his head at the sound of laughter. Some people standing a distance away were snickering as they watched them. More precisely, they were laughing at the old man.
Perhaps some contrary streak had risen in him, or perhaps he had always possessed one, but Valerie wanted to defy their mockery.
He also thought of Priest Eirik. He did not want to treat an old man carelessly. Especially an old man with tattoos. At the very least, he wanted to respect his honor.
“I can’t give you a ride for long. I have somewhere to return to within a month, before winter comes.”
Hope returned to the old man’s hopeless face.
“It won’t take that long! I guarantee it! One week! No, five days will be enough!”
“Where is it?”
“Mount Hekla. The fire dragon Húginnis lives there. I saw it when I was young. Many brave warriors challenged it, but all failed.”
“Do you believe you can kill that dragon, sir?”
To Valerie, it looked like the old man was simply going there to die. Did the manner of death matter to him as well? Was there a difference between biting one’s tongue and dying, or being killed by a dragon? Valerie did not know.
“At least I may reach the threshold of Valhalla...”
That heaven again. Valerie honestly did not want to hear it, but his sense of duty as a prince had been stirred.
Since the Third Prince would not meet him, Valerie felt he should at least look after this pitiful old man. Others may have gathered for advancement, but this old man had come for death.
He remembered Priest Eirik, who remained at Lokir’s side until the end and ultimately met his own end.
Valerie had not attained that degree of spiritual maturity, but he found it difficult to simply pass the old man by.
Valerie turned his head toward where the Third Prince was. Naturally, he could not see him from here. Then he looked back at the old man. He was standing right before him.
Even if Valerie could not treat him kindly, he could at least give him a ride.
“Seeing a dragon should have some meaning in itself. I’ll take you.”
Valerie forced some meaning into it as he granted the old man’s request.
“R-really?”
“I’m Valerie. What is your name, sir?”
“Ölvir.”
Valerie dismounted. Then he lifted the frail old man and seated him behind himself. Ölvir was so thin that he did not look capable of wringing even a chicken’s neck, much less killing a dragon.
When Valerie put Ölvir on the horse, the onlookers widened their eyes in surprise. They had never imagined anyone would help that mad old man.
“Which way?”
“West first.”
Valerie immediately turned Snow’s head. Then he left behind the village he had once reduced to ruins and rode west.
Clop-clop, clop-clop.
As they crossed the autumn fields, Valerie thought of the saying that a man setting out on a long journey needed only one sword and one horse.
What, then, should one call an old man on the verge of death setting out to kill a dragon with a single spear?
Valerie had no answer, but he realized that it was not the wind that had changed, but he had.
Late that night, a fire burned in a shallow cave not far into the forest. The black horse rested on its side nearby, while a young man and an old man slept.
Then, as though having a nightmare, the old man squeezed his eyes shut, trembled violently, and suddenly shouted.
“Aaah! Aah! Die!”
Valerie opened his eyes at the sound. After letting out a sigh, he shook Ölvir awake.
“Sir. Sir, wake up. Sir.”
Ölvir’s tightly shut eyes flew open, and he tried to draw the short sword beside him. Valerie quickly seized his arm.
Yet the frail old man was so strong that Valerie had to draw upon a little of his runic power.
“We must go! We have to go! We’re late! Prepare for battle! Prepare for battle!”
Valerie firmly pressed down Ölvir’s thrashing arm and body as Ölvir shouted. It was neither difficult nor exhausting, but looking into his mad eyes troubled Valerie.
Gradually, the madness in Ölvir’s eyes subsided.
Gasp, gasp, gasp, gasp...
“Are you more yourself now? Shall I let you go?”
“I, I’m sorry.”
Valerie released his arm. For a moment, he regretted not bringing Knut, Yorick, or even Brynhildr.
“Have some water.”
Valerie handed him a waterskin. Ölvir put it to his lips and drank greedily. He continued to catch his breath for a while, then slowly seemed to calm down.
“...This is what I get for failing to die at the proper time. It’s strange. I’m a berserk...”
A berserk was a warrior possessed by madness. They fought so recklessly in battle that there was no way to describe them except as insane.
They were said to chew their own shields, or charge bare-chested without armor or even clothes. Their strength was said to be monstrous, more beast than human.
People commonly believed they became that way by eating things like fly agaric mushrooms, but that was not true.
Through a religious rite, they called the spirit of a beast into their bodies. Those who resonated with it fought in that manner.
It was a talent in its own way, so those who specialized in fighting like that were called berserk.
Of course, fighting that way resulted in a high death rate. Yet Ölvir was still alive.
Fully awake now, Valerie simply sat there and watched Ölvir, who looked dazed.
“Do you know Eirik, the Red Axe?”
“Hm? Of course. Was he not one who followed the Dragonslayer? I heard he became a priest after the founding. We were not close.”
“Then what is your epithet, sir?”
“...It’s shameful, but my friends gave it to me as a joke. ‘Friend of Children,’ Barnakarl. Ölvir, Friend of Children.”
“What?”
“Back then, during raids, people would plant several spears in the ground and play a game of throwing children from conquered lands onto them. But for some reason, I did not want to do it. When I said I wouldn’t, they gave me that epithet. It’s not an impressive epithet, but it’s better than being called the Farter or the Impotent.”
“What?”
“Only truly exceptional people receive impressive epithets. Most are teasing names.”
Valerie decided to change the subject. The world was brutal even now, but the old days seemed unimaginably cruel. The epithets were shocking too.
“...How long have you been in this land?”
“Well, I came and went, raiding before the Dragonslayer brought settlers here. Back then, it wasn’t even called raiding. It was how we made a living. If I failed to raid, not only I but my family would starve to death. Then I came following the Founding King and settled down. My homeland was no longer livable.”
He was not a renowned warrior like the Dragonslayer or the Red Axe, but he seemed to have lived his life more fiercely than anyone, from an age before good and evil even existed.
“Do you not resent the current King? Is he not the Berserker Slayer?”
“Well, not particularly. At first, the War of the Beasts was fought by princes divided into two sides. One wished to preserve Norse traditions, while the other wished to adopt Astrian institutions. The side supporting Astrian institutions won. Then the current King killed all his remaining brothers and became king. So the King did not kill all the berserk by himself. They died in the course of it. He seems to have taken more blame because he became king. I was somewhat upset that they continued hunting us after the war, but what could I do? We lost. This land belongs to him.”
Accepting the outcome was also part of a warrior’s honor. Perhaps that was why Ölvir did not seem to resent the current King much.
The problem was that berserk had become less an honorable calling than an object of ridicule.
To the new generation, their tattoos looked savage, grotesque, and laughable. They found talk of old traditions pathetic as well.
After living so fiercely, Ölvir was scorned wherever he went after the war. An obsolete man, a man who should have died but failed to.
He may once have been an honorable warrior with the aggression of a beast, but now he was only an old man too accustomed to humiliation and disgrace.
Why was he alive? Had he not hated dishonor even more than death?
Perhaps that was why he obsessed over the manner of his death.
Having lost to the King, he could not die for the King. Perhaps he wanted to die serving a future king and reach Valhalla somehow.
Killing a dragon was a dream. Even though that dream would surely kill him, he meant to throw his entire body and the rest of his life into it.
Yet trying with all his strength to kill the dragon while also wishing to die at the dragon’s hands was a madness full of contradiction.
But his whole life had been contradictory, if one thought about it. He had lived harder and more fiercely than anyone. Who could have known such a miserable old age awaited him?
Even so, he did not voice his grievances or make excuses. That was precisely what Valerie respected and admired.
Despite his weakened body, Ölvir tried to do what he could. He tried with all his might. Even if Valhalla did not exist, he continued toward his dream until the very end.
Whether it made sense or not, Valerie did not want to condemn him. No, perhaps no one should condemn him.
“Your epithet is not funny.”
“Hm?”
“It’s cool. Barnakarl.”
“Do you mean that? Why?”
“Is it cool to follow exactly what everyone else does? I think making a choice of your own is much cooler. Yes, I mean it. I truly think it’s cool.”
Ölvir blinked at Valerie. He had never imagined hearing such words from someone so young.
The campfire blazed between them, as though it divided their generations.
Yet their eyes met beyond the flames. It was as though different generations, the past and present, crossed there. And became one in the future.
Though he did not have much time left, he was still alive. If he lived even one more hour, even one more minute, that too was life.
To use that remaining life properly, Ölvir spoke.
“Th-thank you. I never expected that.”
“Shall we go back to sleep?”
“I’ll keep watch.”
“No, I will.”
“No. I woke you, so I’ll keep watch.”
“I truly don’t mind.”
“No, I’d feel uncomfortable otherwise.”
“...All right.”
Ölvir was so insistent that Valerie decided to sleep first.
When he woke at dawn, Ölvir was asleep as well. It did not matter. His intentions had been sincere.
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