Chapter 58

Translator: Willia

Valery's group arrived in Helsenborg, the provincial capital of Westlanding. There was a castle with a village around it, but it was not a directly administered domain with a city of its own.

Perhaps it was like a larger, more bustling Winsloe. Broad farmlands, forests, and rivers all came together there.

“The count? He's not here. Been about a year? Two? Anyway, it's been a while. He's off courting that Valkyrie. You can set up camp by the river. No one's going to say anything.”

The farmer spoke while leaning on his hoe.

Armed people, especially travelers in a sizable group, normally needed permission to camp near a lord's castle. But apparently the lord himself was not there.

As far as Valery was concerned, this was no way to manage a territory. Even if there were no problems right away, given enough time, vermin like bandit gangs would inevitably start crawling in.

And there were also those who normally kept their heads down, only to slowly raise them when they saw an opening. Organized gangs such as some merchant company or a Thieves' Guild.

Unless groups like that were kept suppressed in ordinary times, they would rot a community from within through things like usury and collecting turf taxes.

Judging by what was happening in Benholm and the surrounding area, things were already starting to go to hell. There was no way anything could run properly when the owner did not take proper care of what belonged to him.

Still, the place where the lord's castle stood seemed to be maintaining a fair degree of order and peace for now.

Valery bought food and daily necessities in the village to replenish their supplies, then chose a campsite near the forest and riverbank.

He was not really supposed to, but he went into the forest, cut down a tree of suitable thickness, and split it into firewood.

Fleet-footed Yorik looked around the surrounding area like a scout, while Ivy lit the fire, set the pot over it, and prepared the meal.

Knut carved bits of wood and the like. Aside from assisting Valery during assassinations or battles, he was practically idle most of the time.

The newly joined Sigbold carried the heavy luggage. The old priest whom he revered like a father, though not his biological one, helped Ivy prepare the meal.

Everyone had something to do.

After Valery finished splitting the firewood, he returned to camp with his sleeves rolled up and the axe in hand. The stew in the pot was bubbling away.

Valery found himself a place and sat down. Of all people, it was the old priest who ladled stew into a wooden bowl, brought it over, and handed it to him. Then he asked,

“Benefactor, if you don't mind me asking, where did you get that axe?”

Valery had been wiping his face with a towel. He turned to look at the axe he had planted in the ground.

Nordic-style carvings decorated the face of the axe head. Torvald had given it to him, and Valery used it for one everyday task or another far more often than he did in battle.

“A man named Torvald gave it to me.”

“Torvald? Torvald of House Elding?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know that boy?”

“A boy? He didn't seem much like a boy to me. I once served as a marshal in Eldeira, and I met him while making my rounds through the region. Why do you ask?”

“I wasn't trying to interrogate you. He's someone I know as well.”

The priest spoke with a gentle smile. Sigbold brought him a bowl of stew too.

For a while, Valery and the priest stopped talking and ate, blowing on the stew to cool it. They had no spoons, so they had to drink the broth and pick out the solid pieces with their fingers.

That was how people normally ate. Noble or commoner, believer or unbeliever, the act of eating was the same for everyone.

As Valery drank his stew, he caught a glimpse of faded tattoos beneath the old priest's habit, around his collarbone. His long sleeves covered his hands, but there were tattoos on the backs of them as well.

Only a little was visible, but one glance was enough to tell that they were traditional Nordic tattoos. The old-fashioned kind people no longer got these days.

For Nordics, tattoos were not something a person could simply get because he wanted them. They were a way of inscribing one's origins, status, proof of strength and courage, achievements, victories in battle, and the like upon the body.

If the tattoos stretched from his collarbone all the way to the backs of his hands, Valery suspected they probably covered his entire body.

When Valery had finished about half his stew, he asked,

“How do you know him, Priest?”

“Perhaps I should call him an old comrade? When I first met him, he was still running errands for his father, but once he grew up, he became a fine warrior. How is he these days?”

The old priest was about twenty years older than Torvald. He was not merely old, but exceedingly so. Somewhere around seventy or eighty.

That meant that during the Conquest War, the priest before him had participated as a combatant, whereas Torvald had been so young that he could have been no more than an auxiliary fighter.

“He's in excellent health. He lives with his granddaughter and works as a carpenter, and he seemed fairly happy. If anything, he's much more vigorous than most young men.”

“That's just like him. I'm glad he's doing well. The last news I heard was that his clan had been exterminated, so I worried about him greatly.”

Even calling the Beast Wars horrific was not enough to describe them. The war itself had lasted a long time, and even afterward, the victors had relentlessly hunted down and purged their enemies.

House Elding had somehow endured through that process for as long as it could, until it was effectively wiped out.

“If you don't mind me asking, Priest, what is your name?”

“Eirik.”

“Are you Eirik the ‘Red Axe’? Of the Dragon Slayer Clan?”

Valery had made an educated guess based on the priest's age, his connection to the Jómsvíkingr, the fact that he knew Torvald, and his tattoos.

But the priest merely smiled faintly without answering. Valery took that as a yes.

Whether the story was literally true or not, the legendary warrior Eirik had supposedly earned the name Red Axe because the blood on his axe never had time to dry.

And the Dragon Slayer Clan had been a band of warriors led by Valery's great-grandfather, the Dragon-Slayer. It had been the precursor to the Jómsvíkingr, and naturally, the clan itself had become the stuff of legend.

In a world where people married young, had children young, and died young, someone in his seventies or eighties was old enough to be of Valery's great-grandfather's generation. In other words, he might actually have stood shoulder to shoulder with the Dragon-Slayer.

And now that man was staring intently at Valery. Enough to make him feel a little awkward.

“You resemble him greatly. Almost unbelievably so.”

“Whom?”

“The most perfect man I ever knew. The man closest to God. The man who carried sorrow for the world alone, and yet, because he was human, still had so many shortcomings...... A man like that.”

Perhaps because the old priest had lived so long, there were times when his mind was not entirely clear. Looking at Valery, the figure of someone he had once known seemed to overlap with him. It was as though the priest were dreaming of days long past.

The priest remembered the commander he had once followed. But not the legendary achievements, imposing presence, or great and noble death for which that man was known to the world. What he remembered instead were his thoroughly human qualities.

Whenever they made camp for the night and slept, the man would sometimes talk in his sleep, sounding terribly tormented.

‘Mother, I'm sorry. I was wrong. Please forgive me......’

The priest had said Valery resembled him partly because their facial features were similar, but also because he could faintly sense the same inexplicable sorrow in Valery.

Come to think of it, Regin had thought so too, and now the priest did as well. Everyone seemed to think Sigurd and Valery looked remarkably alike. Valery assumed it was only natural, considering they were ancestor and descendant.

The sunset bidding farewell to the day shone over the campsite. The wind that had blown throughout the day had died down, as though it were now gently caressing the group.

At some point, Yorik burst into peals of laughter, apparently after pulling some prank or another.

Valery looked over and saw Knut looking thoroughly put out, while even the girl who had suffered such tragedy now had a smile spreading across her lips, a sign that she was healing.

Valery finished the rest of his stew and asked,

“Priest, what do you think happiness is?”

“I once thought it was something a warrior ought to keep his distance from. Something only farmers or womenfolk sought after. But I no longer think so. Happiness is embracing this painful life with all your heart. Not resenting the days that wounded you, nor longing for glorious memories, but simply living out the life you have left without bitterness. I believe that once you accept all of it completely, happiness comes to you naturally.”

“......The words are different from what Torvald told me, but somehow they feel similar.”

“Is that so? That boy had his share of wounds as well. It seems he's healed from them.”

“Were you the one who founded the Jómsvíkingr, Priest?”

“I founded it together with companions who shared the same purpose.”

“Was there a reason?”

“For the beasts who had lost their way. The king saved lives through killing, while my companions and I gave them a home through faith.”

During the Conquest War, many Nordic warriors had, in truth, become killers who could no longer be rehabilitated. Beasts possessed of tremendous violence, savages so steeped in massacre and plunder that they could no longer even imagine another way of life.

It could not be denied that every one of them was a founding hero who had fought on the front lines. Even so, both Founder-King Sigmund and Valery's father, the current King Helgi, had spent many years killing them in the name of Purges.

That was what the priest meant by saving lives through killing. It had been a desperate effort to somehow keep this thing called a kingdom running.

The Jómsvíkingr, on the other hand, guided those beasts through faith and discipline. Through strict control, it restrained their violent impulses and gave them a way of life in which they could attain inner peace.

The king's method and the Jómsvíkingr's method were complete opposites, but ultimately, their purpose was the same.

“By the way, do you know where your enemy is? The traitor who stole the Holy Relic.”

“I hear he's selling it. The Holy Relic. They say the Valkyrie staying in Nearcaster is seeking the treasures of the world, so I suspect it may have something to do with that.”

“What would you do if the Valkyrie has already received it as a gift?”

“We would politely ask her to return it.”

“And if she refuses?”

“That would be regrettable.”

“What about your enemy?”

“We have rules, so he will not be able to escape punishment.”

“Hmm......”

Their roads remained the same as far as Nearcaster. Valery wanted to help them if he could along the way, and he would have been quite disappointed if they had to part without accomplishing anything.

He had more than enough personal justification. After all, there was nothing particularly pleasant about having none other than his own great-grandfather's skull bought and sold. Who could fault him for wanting to retrieve it as a descendant?

Even so, in the end, it was still only a skull. The difference between the priest and Sigbold on one side and Valery on the other was whether they considered that skull sacred. To Valery, a skull was just a skull.

Valery had no faith.

Valery's group spent one night in Helsenborg and departed the next day. Nearcaster was two days away if they moved quickly, or three to four at the latest.

They traveled east along an ancient paved road and finally reached the border of the County of Westlanding.

There was a village here too, and when Valery surveyed it from horseback, sure enough, the people all looked grim.

It did not seem as though anyone was coming around killing people or anything like in Benholm, but everyone generally looked drained of energy.

It was already nearing evening, and the sky looked ready to rain, so Valery decided they would spend the night there.

He asked the villagers whether there was an empty house. If it rained, sleeping indoors would be much better than staying outside.

“There is one. It's a bit of a mess, but if you clean it up, it'll be more than enough for six people.”

Valery said that would do and reached for some money, but the villager refused it.

“Could you give us food instead of money?”

“It hasn't been that long since the harvest. What happened?”

“......It's because of the usury. They suddenly raised the interest rate.”

“Who did?”

“The Aria Merchant Company......”

Usury was bad enough, but changing the interest rate midway through was truly vile.

Valery decided this was the sort of matter he ought to handle as an Einheri. If a provincial marshal was responsible for looking into affairs within a territory, then an Einheri served as the king's bodyguard and, at the same time, as a marshal for the entire kingdom.

Solo Operation Authority. Immunity. What was the point of having powers like those if he never used them? He intended to threaten them at swordpoint or do whatever else it took, then burn every document related to the illegal usury.

Valery could not understand why people did things like this. Unless there was some immediate need, squeezing people dry would only hurt the ones doing it too in the long run.

For now, they would rest today and deal with the matter the following day.

And since Nearcaster was not far away, they kept only two days' worth of provisions and distributed everything else among the villagers. Cheese, smoked meat, grain flour, and the like.

Then they borrowed the empty house, parked the wagon there, and let the horses rest.

“You did well.”

The priest spoke. Valery had not done it to be praised, but he simply nodded.

Valery's group planned to spend the night in the empty house and set out the next day. They lit a fire in the hearth and settled down to sleep, and at some point, the sound of rain striking the roof began to fill the house. It was raining.

When Valery woke the next morning, he could no longer hear the rain. Fortunately, it seemed to have stopped sometime during the night.

Valery dressed, belted his sword around his waist, and left the house to investigate the matter of the usury.

But when he stepped outside, the overcast sky still left the world dark, and he saw people gathered somewhere, murmuring among themselves.

Wondering what was going on, Valery went over. There, on top of a low hill, he saw someone standing.

Looking more carefully, he realized the man was not simply standing there. A person had been split vertically in half, the two halves hung on either side, while the man stood between them.

His legs were spread slightly apart, his hands clasped in front of his crotch, and his head bowed.

Just then, the clouds parted slightly, and sunlight streamed in from the distant east. Since it was the morning after the rain, dew covered the entire world, and countless droplets glittered in the sunlight.

It was a majestic, solemn, and cruel sight. Within that deliberately staged tableau, the man slowly raised his head. It was as though the very force of charisma concentrated upon him.

“The Aria Merchant Company has wantonly killed one of our people from the Lokir Merchant Company, and exploited all of you through usury. As a human being, I could not help but be enraged, nor could I help but grieve. I stepped forward and killed this rotten man myself. If any of you believe I have committed an unlawful killing, then whoever you may be, cast a stone at me.”

They were not merely words. It was as though he had lifted a sacred passage straight from scripture.

The villagers could not help but marvel, and some were even deeply moved by the staging, which blended majesty and terror in just the right proportions. As though witnessing a scene from myth, they stared at the man with wide eyes, utterly entranced.

The man was none other than Lucas, the de facto head of the Lokir Merchant Company.

Just as he had intended, he succeeded in engraving two things firmly into people's minds: what happened when someone crossed the Lokir Merchant Company, and what sort of man he himself was.

However, his prediction that the true culprit would be terrified upon seeing it proved wrong.

Because unlike ordinary people, Valery felt neither fear nor even admiration at the sight.

His only thought was that Lucas must have started preparing before dawn, and whether it had really been necessary to go that far.

Choosing the location, sawing a man in half, hanging the halves on either side, then standing in the middle at precisely the right time.

In some respects, Lucas resembled Valery in his meticulousness and boldness. But when it came to valuing simplicity, the two were nothing alike.

Especially considering how Valery had once lined a group of thug mercenaries up two abreast and killed them all at once.

And so Valery's first impression of Lucas was that he was ‘a bit of a show-off’.