Chapter 39

Translator: Willia

Sigurd and Regin set out for Gnita Heath to slay the evil dragon Fafnir.

Fafnir guarded a hoard of treasure, and once a day he emerged from his lair to drink from the river. As Fafnir's enormous body traveled back and forth, it carved a shallow ravine across the heath.

After observing this, Sigurd dug several pits throughout the ravine. Then he hid in one of them.

The next day, when Fafnir passed overhead, Sigurd drove Gramr straight through his heart and killed him in a single blow.

Fafnir let out a death scream and spewed blood everywhere, drenching Sigurd in it.

Regin gave Sigurd Riðill and told him to cut out Fafnir's heart. Then he said he was going to sleep for a while, and told Sigurd to roast the heart over the fire so he could eat it when he woke.

Sigurd did as his mentor and only friend asked.

While Regin slept, Sigurd roasted the heart over the fire, only to burn his hand. Without thinking, he stuck his finger into his mouth.

That was when he tasted Dragon's Blood.

The moment Sigurd tasted the Dragon's Blood, he became able to understand the chirping of birds as though they were speaking human words.

'Whoever eats the dragon's heart will gain power equal to that of a god.'

'Regin intends to eat the heart, kill you, and take all the treasure for himself.'

After hearing that, Sigurd thought for a moment, then stabbed Regin to death while he slept.

He took all the treasure for himself and continued on his journey.

And so the tale of the Dragon-Slayer was passed down.

"So you're saying this is the legendary dagger that cut out the dragon's heart."

Skard spoke as he stared at the dagger lying on the table.

It was large for a dagger. It was clearly too small to call a short sword, and judging by the shape of the scabbard, it appeared to be single-edged.

Still, no matter how they looked at the craftsmanship, it did not seem particularly ancient. But after hearing the story, it did feel like there might be something to it.

Everyone had the same thought.

"How in the world are we supposed to tell whether it's genuine?"

Yorik asked.

"The compendium records its owners throughout history, along with its appearance and special properties. Its original owner was Regin, and he forged it himself. Sigurd killed him and took it afterward, and its whereabouts have been unknown ever since. It's single-edged and longer than you'd expect. Rather than being a general-purpose tool, it looks better suited for cutting up large pieces of meat. An inverted ᚹ, the Wunjo rune, is engraved on the pommel. It symbolizes corrupted joy, betrayal, and a broken banner. It will bring its owner unsurpassed joy, but not the joy they wished for."

At Knut's explanation, everyone fell silent. Perhaps it was simply an ominous object, but the description alone was enough to send a chill down their spines.

"Let's throw it into the swamp."

Arne said with a scowl. As though even sharing a room with it made him uncomfortable, he leaned his head back away from it.

"It's definitely an unlucky thing, but to the people who want something like this, it's a treasure without equal. Mages, Alchemists, people like that."

It was not exactly an objection, but Knut clearly did not want to simply throw it away.

"But either way, we still need to determine whether it's genuine, don't we?"

Valery asked.

"There's no way to know for certain unless a Rune Mage appraises it. But judging from everything, I think it's real."

The problem was that they had no idea where Rune Mages lived or how to meet one.

Everyone was uneasy around an object they did not even dare touch carelessly when a loud hubbub came from outside. It was morning, and the people who had come to work were arriving.

"I'm heading out. Anyway, I still think we should throw it away."

"I'll head out too."

Arne and Yorik opened the door. The noisy clamor of something like a marketplace immediately flooded into the house.

"Line up! Line! Get in line first!"

"Hey, you fuckers! Just because we've been going easy on you, you think we're fucking jokes!? Huh!?"

Fortunately, Yorik's shout immediately quieted the crowd. The door closed, and the house became silent again.

"The kids are here too. I should head out."

Skard served as a kind of drill instructor, training the bigger men who had some strength to them, so he needed to go as well.

In the end, only Valery and Knut remained. But being the last two there did not mean they knew what to do with Riðill. Keeping it made them uneasy, but throwing it away felt like an incredible waste.

While they remained caught between the two choices, someone opened the door and came inside. It was the trio.

They were not wearing their masks, and perhaps because of that, they looked terribly awkward. They kept lowering their heads or turning them aside as though avoiding everyone's gaze.

"We heard what you were talking about from outside. The Swamp Witch might know something about it."

Reilly spoke. For some reason, his tone had become much more polite.

"She probably isn't on the level of a Rune Mage, but do you want to at least have her take a look?"

Valery asked Knut. Knut was not particularly enthusiastic, but he nodded. There were too many frauds in the world. Most people who called themselves Mages or witches were nothing more than swindlers.

"By the way, are you guys all right?"

Valery asked as he looked over the trio. The last time he had seen them, they had been standing there blankly, completely stunned.

"Those who want to stay will stay, and those who want to leave will leave. We've decided to manage the Monastery ourselves. We'll keep taking in children too. We'll teach them whatever we can and raise them, then find them work once they're old enough."

"No. I asked if you were all right."

Valery asked again.

"I don't know. I don't know how we're supposed to live. Are we supposed to get married and have children like everyone else?"

There was a bitter irony to it. They had suffered because of the Black Hand, yet now that the organization was gone, they no longer knew how to live.

"Take your time and think about it. I don't really know either. Why we live, how we're supposed to live. Let's figure it out together."

Valery focused on what lay before him and had goals of his own, but when it came to the fundamental reason for living, he had no clear answer either.

Then again, who in the world could give a definite answer to that question? Why should anyone live?

For the moment, they followed the trio to meet the Swamp Witch. One wrong step in the marsh could send a person straight into a bog, so it was not a place anyone could enter carelessly without someone who knew the way.

The reeds also grew so high that it was impossible to tell what lay beneath their feet.

Valery and Knut followed them along, hearing splashes with almost every step as their feet repeatedly sank deep into the mud.

By the time they had gone far into the marsh, the way back had grown so distant that Valery realized someone truly could die out here.

Fortunately, the trio did not betray them. They led Valery and Knut to a hut somewhere in the swamp.

The hut looked ready to collapse, with a crooked chimney protruding from its slanted roof and belching smoke.

The trio had guided them there, but they were unwilling to go inside. Holding Riðill wrapped in cloth, Valery stepped forward and knocked first.

Knock. Knock.

"Is anyone inside?"

A moment later, a woman's voice came from within. It had an unpleasant, phlegmy rasp to it.

"If greed brought you here, turn back. If worry brought you here, come inside."

Valery opened the door and entered. A strange, indescribable smell washed over him, a mixture of fragrant herbs and mold.

A large cauldron hung over the fire in the hearth, some unidentifiable liquid bubbling inside it. Charms made from animal bones, feathers, and various other unrecognizable things hung or were pasted all over the hut.

The witch's hair had gone completely white, yet her face was unexpectedly young. She looked to be in her early to mid-twenties.

But there was something grotesque about her. It felt as though she were forcibly clinging to her youth. Because of that, it was impossible to guess her true age.

"So, what troubles you, handsome young man?"

"I came to have an item appraised."

"If something like that brought you all the way to me, it must not be an ordinary item."

"I only want you to tell me whether it's genuine."

"Sorry, but I'm not an Appraiser."

Valery had nothing in particular to say to that. Knut stepped forward instead.

"Just see whether there's any magic on it."

"That much I can do. But there's a price."

"What?"

"A kiss filled with love."

Valery pointed at himself, then at Knut, silently asking which of the two she wanted. Knut immediately frowned.

"Both."

"You're crazy."

Knut could not hide his disgust at the witch's answer. Valery leaned over and whispered into his ear.

"Tell her we'll do it. Once she's finished, we'll give her a few coins and leave."

He had never intended to do it in the first place. And when necessary, Valery was quite skilled at lying. When necessary.

"I can't promise love, but I can give you a kiss."

"Then keep kissing me until there's love in it."

"All right, all right. I'll do my best, so just check whether there's any magic on the thing."

"You're quite the liar, aren't you? I can't stand men who lie."

Valery was beginning to get irritated. They had come because they had no other choice, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to humor her.

For a moment, he considered drawing his sword and threatening her, but she did not look like the sort of person that would work on.

Just then, Knut snatched the bundle from him and set it down heavily on the cluttered table. Then he unwrapped it and said,

"It's Riðill. Regin's dagger. Surely that's enough to make you curious."

"Riðill!?"

At Knut's words, the witch shot to her feet and shouted. Her attitude had changed completely.

It might be unsettling and difficult to sell, but to eccentrics like Mages, witches, and Alchemists, it truly was a treasure without equal. What exactly they wanted to do with such things, Valery had no idea.

The witch hurried back and forth through the hut, searching for various objects. When she could not find something, she began tossing things aside at random as she rummaged around.

She returned with a small bottle and poured out a white powder, forming a circle around the dagger. Her skill at drawing such a perfect circle was rather impressive.

Even after that, she performed several other preparations, then, as though she did not care whether the whole hut caught fire, brought over a burning piece of firewood and ignited what she had sprinkled around Riðill. Flames burst up, shifting colors from moment to moment.

The trio standing guard outside had apparently grown curious as well and were peering into the hut.

The witch watched the changing colors of the flames intently, then her eyes went wide.

"I-It's real. It's really Riðill."

That was when it happened. An enormous burst of flame suddenly erupted as though something had exploded. Startled, Valery and Knut grabbed each other and tried to flee outside.

Before they could, however, something appeared inside the great flames and came crashing down. It struck the table first, toppled over, then fell to the floor.

"Agh! Ah!"

Valery, Knut, the witch, and even the trio stared wide-eyed, unable to understand what in the world was happening. A young child who looked about ten years old rose to his feet while rubbing his rear.

"Ow, ow, ow...... I told that bastard to keep an eye on the sword...... What the, where'd that damn slaver go?"

Everyone simply stared at the child with their mouths hanging open. His ears were pointed. He was a Dwarf.

Wicked and greedy, master smiths and magicians, Dwarves invariably appeared in the tales of gods and heroes. They were called mischievous, but many gods and heroes had met miserable fates because of their pranks.

The Dwarf looked around in confusion until his eyes met Valery's.

"Huh!? Sid!? You're alive!?"

Maybe the Dwarf was out of his mind, because he acted as though he knew Valery. At that moment, the witch cried out.

"O Dwarf! Grant my wish! If you do, I will offer you everything I have! Grant me eternal youth!"

At the witch's shout, the Dwarf turned toward her and answered brusquely.

"What the hell is this?"

Then he jabbed two fingers through the empty air in her direction. Something astonishing happened.

"Aaaah!"

The witch squeezed her eyes shut and collapsed.

As she screamed and writhed across the floor, the Dwarf gave a wicked grin.

"Hee hee hee. Why the hell would I grant your wish? Eat this instead!"

The Dwarf snapped his fingers.

The witch began retching, then suddenly vomited up a mass of maggots. Her flesh rotted and sloughed away in an instant.

Snakes crawled out through her eyes, and as her body twisted, frogs, tadpoles, and snails spilled from the torn gaps in her flesh.

Valery and Knut were so horrified that they pressed themselves against the wall. Valery had seen magic before regression, but never anything this terrifying.

At the horrific sight, the trio peering in from outside bolted without so much as looking back. Those bastards.

"That's what happens when you clumsily imitate little tricks. Magic isn't meant for humans, y'know. Idiot."

He looked exactly like an adorable little boy, yet true to the legends, he was utterly wicked and horrifying.

The Dwarf turned toward Valery again. Valery did not dare run. He simply froze where he stood.

"Anyway, Sid, if you were alive, you should've told me. I really thought you were dead."

"I-I'm...... not Sid."

"What are you talking about? If you're not Sid, then who is?"

Valery struggled to remain calm as he asked,

"......I think you've mistaken me for someone else. Who is Sid?"

"What are you babbling about? Did you hit your head? Sid is Sid. Sigurd. The Posthumous Child of a family that had Posthumous Children three generations running. Sigurd the Posthumous Child."

A Posthumous Child was a child whose father died while the child was still in its mother's womb. House Vǫlsungr had produced Posthumous Children for three generations, beginning with its Progenitor, Vǫlsungr, then his son Sigmund, who shared his name with the Founder-King, and finally Sigurd.

All three avenged their fathers, and all three died tragic deaths. The history of House Vǫlsungr was stained from beginning to end with Blood Vengeance, so brutal that it was remarkable the lineage had managed to continue at all.

House Vǫlsungr was famous for repaying every grudge and seeing every act of vengeance through no matter what it took. Their Divine Bloodline was one reason, but the extraordinary history of the clan itself was why all Nordics regarded them with something beyond respect, practically sanctifying and worshiping them.

"Anyway, your face looks a lot better now. You were always depressed and saying you wanted to die. Guess you're doing better these days? Wait, where the hell did that slaver bastard go? I told him to guard the sword. Maybe he'll listen after I gouge his eyes out."

Knut's heart pounded in his chest. He had been too shocked to say anything, but at last he recovered enough to ask,

"Are you...... Regin?"

"Yeah, I'm Regin. Who are you?"

"Weren't you...... dead?"

According to the legend, the Dragon-Slayer Sigurd had stabbed Regin to death while he slept, then taken the entire treasure hoard for himself.

"Why would I be dead? I was just hiding. There are too many bastards after Andvari's Ring. Hee hee hee, this is mine."

The Dwarf claiming to be Regin pulled out a thick golden ring and grinned with utter satisfaction.

Then he walked over to the table and fastened Riðill at his waist. Looking at it now, it seemed it had never been a dagger in the first place. It was simply a sword made to fit his body.

He turned back toward Valery.

"So, are you happy now, Sid?"

"What...... I'm sorry, but I'm not Sid. I'm Wid. Wid......"

Valery had no choice but to lie with Knut standing beside him. Still, whether he called himself Wid or Valery hardly mattered, since Regin was mistaking him for someone else entirely.

Regin stared at Valery for a long moment before speaking.

"Human memory, huh? This is why you shouldn't be friends with humans. Who can I blame? It's my own fault."

"But the story we know is a little different. They say the Dragon-Slayer killed you while you were asleep. After, uh, tasting the Dragon's Blood."

Knut asked the question. He collected all sorts of curios and had a great interest in classical interpretations of legends like this.

Regin let out an incredulous laugh.

"Good grief. I go around telling people over and over that it isn't true, and humans still believe it? You lot only ever believe what you want to believe. I've never met a human as kind as Sid. Why would he kill me? When he stabbed Fafnir through the heart, blood sprayed everywhere. You think he somehow didn't swallow a single drop? Dragon's Blood makes a human's heart burst and kills them. I'm the one who saved Sid by roasting the heart and feeding it to him. I'm telling you, the story has it backward."

"......"

Legends naturally became mixtures of truth and lies. And perhaps that lie had been created for the sake of a friend who wished to disappear, even if it meant taking the disgrace upon himself.

"Anyway, it was good seeing you. I should get going. Too many bastards are after this ring."

"Wait. What did you mean earlier when you asked if I'd become happy?"

Valery asked.

"All the men in your family were forged by their mothers. Vǫlsungr's mother cut open her own belly to give birth to her son. Sigmund's mother said that she too belonged to the enemy's family and would set an example, then stabbed herself in the belly with Gramr and died in front of the twins. And when you said you were leaving, that hard woman jumped straight into the flames and killed herself."

Regin straightened his clothes as though preparing to leave.

"As she did, she said, 'Go off and find that precious happiness of yours. But if you fail to become happy, you will never be able to die.' Whether that was her dying wish, a curse, or a blessing, even I don't know. Anyway, the broken Gramr was reforged in the flames that burned your mother. If not for that, even I couldn't have put it back together."

After straightening his clothes, Regin slipped Andvari's Ring onto his finger. It was loose at first, but quickly shrank until it fit perfectly.

He swept his palm over the floor, where maggots, frogs, snakes, and other things crawled about. The ring began to glow. Astonishingly, every one of the disgusting creatures turned into gold.

Then he pulled something from an inner pocket. There was no telling how they had fit inside, but an entire sword and a dagger slid out.

He handed the dagger to Knut and the sword to Valery.

"It might not be as good as Gramr, but it'll be much better than that piece of junk hanging at your waist. All right, I'm off. I'm really going now. Take care, Sid. See you again. Byeeeeeee."

Regin waved at the two of them. A moment later, light enveloped him, and he vanished in an instant.

"......"

The two remained silent for a long time. Eventually, Knut spoke first.

"But why did he mistake you for Sigurd, Wid?"

"......Maybe I look like him. He didn't seem quite right in the head."

"Hmm......"

Knut simply accepted that explanation without giving it much thought. Something else had already seized his attention: the dagger the Dwarf had given him. As a dagger collector, he could hardly focus on anything else.

He drew the dagger. A flash of light burst from it, almost seeming to stab his eyes.

The blade was polished as smooth as a mirror, with a subtle wave pattern flowing across its surface. Its edge was so impossibly sharp that it looked almost like a two-dimensional line.

"Dwarven Steel......"

Knut murmured. Dwarven Steel was the ultimate weapon, something human hands could never hope to forge.

As Knut examined the dagger, a smile spread across his lips, growing wider and wider. He looked utterly delighted, like a child who had just been given a new toy.

"Frelsi, 'Freedom', sounds good. I'll name mine Frelsi. What about you, Wid?"

Valery did not answer. He merely gave a bitter smile.

It felt as though he had just awakened from a brief dream. What in the world had just happened?

He was still stunned, yet at the same time, that dreamlike encounter lingered in Valery's chest like a bitter scar. His heart ached.

You will never be able to die until you become happy......

Valery did not know who his mother was. But Sigurd, his great-grandfather, who had heard those words from his own mother, must surely have carried them as a wound in his heart.

He had probably wanted nothing more than a small word of encouragement.

Valery did not even draw the sword. He merely ran his hand over it.

"Und, 'Wound', sounds good."