Chapter 66

Translator: Willia

Valery was waiting in the tent for his next match. The hubbub of the crowd drifted in from outside.

He sat bare-chested in a chair, wearing only his trousers as he cooled down. Beside him, Ivy fanned him vigorously.

Lucas and Yorik were watching over the horses, while Knut cleaned and inspected Valery’s combat gear.

Before a match or duel like this, a fighter usually entrusted his equipment checks to the person he trusted most.

Valery could have done it himself, but to compose himself, stay focused, and fight at his best, he needed someone else’s help. That was why knights traveled with squires.

“There’s quite a bit of blood on this.”

Knut said. Apparently, the scabbard had gotten quite bloody when Valery cut Walter’s throat with his half-drawn sword. If the blood dried and caked on, it could cause trouble in the next fight.

“It’s fine. Just give it a quick wipe.”

With another match coming up, he could not replace the scabbard now. Scabbards had to be custom-made to fit a sword’s length and thickness.

Valery’s scabbard had been made by the dwarf Regin, but a scabbard was still something that wore out and needed replacing.

Being made by a dwarf did not mean it could last virtually indefinitely, the way the blade could.

“That’s enough. Wipe me down instead.”

Valery took Ivy’s fan, which looked like a thin wooden board, as he spoke.

Ivy dampened a towel and wiped Valery’s back, her hands trembling so badly that he could feel it.

A deep groove ran along his spine, and pronounced muscles bulged around his shoulder blades. His lats were long and broad above a narrow waist, giving his entire back the shape of an inverted triangle.

To the young girl, this hardly seemed like a difference between men and women. He almost looked like an entirely different species.

Above all, his muscles rippled whenever he moved even slightly, as though some enormous insect were crawling beneath his skin.

It was an unfamiliar feeling, hard to describe: fascination, a little disgust, and an odd attraction, all at once. In a way, it shocked her, too.

“How’s the priest doing? Sigbold, I mean.”

Valery asked Knut, paying Ivy no mind. Sigbold had decided to enter the melee rather than the joust.

“Him? He’s crushing his opponents even bare-handed. You’re the one at risk, Valery. Swordsmanship’s your specialty.”

Of course, skill mattered in a joust, but the right frame of mind, concentration, and above all nerve mattered far more. Luck played a part, too.

It was hard enough to hold a lance in one hand while being jostled about on horseback. Keeping its point aimed at an opponent and as steady as possible until the very end demanded tremendous concentration, stamina, and strength, and neither horse nor rider could hesitate.

The slightest trace of fear would make the lance point waver, and that tiny difference could decide the match. It was an entirely different kind of contest from one decided by finely honed technique.

And the most important factor was the horse. In fact, the horse’s capabilities accounted for seventy to eighty percent of the outcome in a joust. The rider’s skill and luck accounted for the remaining twenty to thirty percent.

Of course, owning a fine horse and handling it well could be considered an ability in itself, a skill in its own right.

Valery was good at jousting because he had fought countless battles before his regression. That experience had taught him that shrinking back and hesitating only made it easier to get killed.

On the battlefield, men sometimes simply trusted to luck and walked boldly upright, even with arrows raining down around them. Surprisingly, men like that proved hard to kill.

Of course, one false step could still send a man straight to the next world. But a man who could instinctively anticipate or avert even that one misstep became a battle-hardened veteran, a warrior worth a hundred men.

There were distinctions in ability even among such warriors, but that was the level Valery had reached before his regression. Now that he had awakened the power of his rune and become an Einheri, he had no way of judging exactly where he stood.

Only the great sieve of war could reveal what powerful fighters the world held, or how far a single person might grow.

Valery took the towel from Ivy and wiped down the front of his body himself. As he did, his body and mind recovered somewhat, and he began to feel composed again. He pulled on a thin shirt and went outside.

As he stepped out by the arena, he caught that distinctive taste of dust.

Judging by the cheers he had heard from inside the waiting tent, a couple of matches seemed to have taken place. When Valery emerged, the last match of the first round was just getting underway.

“The final contestant of the first round! Another first-time entrant! Will he take the tournament by storm like the Frog Prince? Or suffer a humiliating defeat? Hopping all the way here from the south! The Red Rabbiiit, Siguuurd!”

The herald shouted. Hearing the nickname, Knut spoke.

“What kind of nickname is that?”

“Have you no shame?”

Valery had ended up entering the joust as the Frog Prince through what amounted to an accident, and Knut was the one who had caused it.

“What? Frogs? Frogs are cute.”

“Rabbits are cute too, aren’t they?”

“Valery, have you never seen rabbits mating? I saw that as a kid, and I haven’t liked them since.”

“Frogs mate too......”

“I’ve never seen that.”

While Valery and Knut bantered about nothing in particular, the contestant called the Red Rabbit entered the arena.

He had to be the most flamboyant contestant in the tournament’s history.

He seemed to have sacrificed safety for style. His armor, helmet, and shield looked nothing like tournament gear.

The helmet had a faceplate like an iron mask, fashioned into an expressionless human face, and wings on either side. It looked more like ceremonial gear than something meant for a tournament or real combat.

He wore scale armor that glittered gold, as though it had actually been covered in gold leaf.

Most spectacular of all was his horse. It was so red that it was hard to believe such a horse existed, and with its mane streaming, he looked as though he were riding on flames.

He seemed to glance around before riding over to take his place. Once both contestants were in position, the herald shouted.

“Let the match begiiin! Let the match begiiin!”

At once, the two horses exploded into a gallop.

Clop-clop! Clop-clop! Clop-clop! Clop-clop!

Valery instinctively studied their exchange. The other contestant aimed his lance at the Red Rabbit’s face.

At that range, he should have been aiming for the shield, but targeting the face was one way to make an opponent flinch. He was probably exploiting the fact that the Red Rabbit was not wearing a jousting helmet.

But the Red Rabbit did not flinch in the slightest.

Clop-clop! Clop-clop! Clop-clop! Clop-clop!

Thud! Crack!

The Red Rabbit’s opponent practically flew out of his saddle and crashed to the ground. Being thrown clear seemed to have worked in his favor; he did not look badly hurt.

The spectators exclaimed in admiration, and the herald shouted.

“The winner! The Red Rabbiiit!”

After winning, the Red Rabbit rode a lap of the arena as though showing off. The eyes visible through his faceplate were so blue that their color stood out even from a distance.

He was approaching Valery and his friends when he met Valery’s eyes. He pointed at Valery, then made a throat-slitting gesture.

“?”

Valery pointed to himself in confusion, as if asking whether the gesture was meant for him, but the Red Rabbit simply rode away without a response.

“He’s as bold as he is flashy. Think he sees you as a rival because you’re both first-timers?”

Knut said.

“More to the point, isn’t that a woman?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The rider just looks like a woman to me.”

Female warriors known as skjaldmær did occasionally appear, but they were hardly a common sight.

Of course, Valery had no intention of letting an opponent win, whether man or woman, so he took the gesture as a bit of theatrics to stir up interest. After all, popularity was what gave a name its value.

Valery fought another match after noon, this time winning cleanly without the fight turning into a brawl. The Red Rabbit won the next match as well.

So the final would be Valery against the Red Rabbit. Of the tournaments held since the Valkyrie had begun seeking a husband, this was the first in a long time to have two first-time entrants face each other in the final.

People were excited to see fresh faces, and more spectators flocked in than usual.

Rumors were already spreading everywhere, mixing truth and exaggeration: the Frog Prince was as handsome as a real prince, the Red Rabbit wore armor made of gold, and so on.

After the second match, the Red Rabbit returned to the waiting area and immediately pulled off the helmet and tossed it aside, apparently feeling stifled. A pale face, flushed red, emerged beneath it. It was none other than Brynhildr.

Her hair was tied up, and sweat had plastered loose wisps to her face. With the help of her friend and bodyguard, Randgríðr, she took off her armor, then immediately stripped off her gambeson to cool down.

She wiped her neck with a damp towel, then lifted her arms to wipe her armpits. She even tugged the undergarment that tightly bound her breasts away from her skin so she could wipe thoroughly underneath it, then fanned herself furiously.

“Ahh, I can finally breathe again.”

Randgríðr brushed the dust and dirt from her friend’s armor and hung it neatly on the rack as she spoke.

“The final’s next.”

“I know.”

“Be careful. Above all, don’t fight him with a sword. If you’re unhorsed, just admit defeat and be done with it.”

Randgríðr, an Einheri, had recognized as soon as she saw Valery’s first match that he was no ordinary fighter.

Highly skilled fighters tended to prize judgment and the ability to act without hesitation above technique. The way Valery had immediately gone for a wrestling hold instead of struggling to stay mounted, then trapped his opponent’s head and cut his throat with a half-drawn sword, had instantly struck her as out of the ordinary.

“If he cut through a neck from that position, that’s no ordinary sword. It’s at least as good as an Ulfberht.”

“I don’t know. More to the point, am I hoping to lose this, or do I want to win?”

“He’s handsome. Wouldn’t someone like that do?”

“......It’s not so much that. There was something about his eyes......”

“What about his eyes?”

“......They made me feel sorry for him.”

“He’s not someone to feel sorry for. Worry about yourself.”

Randgríðr did not fully understand what Brynhildr meant. She merely undid her friend’s hair and tied it back up as she spoke.

“I hope you won’t have to use it, but I’ll lend you my sword.”

She unfastened her sword from her belt and handed it over, scabbard and all. It was a dwarven steel sword named Urðr.

Brynhildr took the sword, gazed at it for a moment, and spoke.

“Thanks. One of us is going to die, then.”

There was a superstition about dwarven steel swords: their blades were so durable and sharp they were almost magical, and once one was drawn, it was sure to wound someone. Owner or enemy.

There was a fairly long break before the final to give both contestants enough rest, and the match took place near sunset.

The red light of sunset bathed the city and arena as Valery appeared in his usual frog-mouth helm and plain tournament gear.

Brynhildr was already wearing red-toned gear; in the light of the setting sun, she looked like something out of a dream.

As befitted the final, the herald introduced the two contestants in an even louder, more forceful voice. But whether it was the hour or his helmet, Valery heard only a dull, muffled sound, as though he were underwater.

He could hardly make out what was being said and simply rode into position. Brynhildr was much the same.

Brynhildr kept repeating the same words in her head: I want to win, I want to lose, I want to win, I want to lose.

She felt relief at the prospect of finally finding a husband, and at the same time fear that doing so would ruin her life.

This was not a matter of choice. It was something she had to face head-on. If her opponent lost, he was not husband material. If she lost...... she did not know.

It was no good going into a match with her mind in such turmoil, but the moment the herald called the start, she cast those thoughts aside.

I’ll kill him. Or I’ll die.

The black horse and the red horse charged, hooves pounding the ground.

Clop-clop! Clop-clop! Clop-clop! Clop-clop!

The horses hurtled toward each other, then flashed past one another like lightning.

Thud! Crack!

Both lances shattered at once, and both riders’ upper bodies snapped violently backward. The broken lances struck the ground and bounced wildly.

Clatter! Thunk! Thunk!

Fortunately, neither was fully unhorsed. They reached the ends of the lists almost flat on their horses’ backs, their bodies bouncing limply in the saddles.

Valery felt himself black out for an instant, then come to. Before he had even sat up, he shouted.

“Lance! Bring me a lance!”

A tournament attendant hurried over with one. Snow reared and wheeled around, as though he sensed his master was in trouble.

Neeeigh-!

Valery hurriedly braced himself and found his balance.

But Snow paid no heed to Valery and tore ahead like a mad thing. Astonishingly, Brynhildr was in the same predicament.

The tip of Valery’s lance shook wildly. So did his opponent’s. Both struggled to keep their lances aimed at the other’s shield right up to the last moment.

Clop-clop! Clop-clop! Clop-clop! Clop-clop!

Crack!

They passed one another again, and once more both riders’ upper bodies snapped backward. Still, neither fell from the saddle.

A roar of awe and dismay rose from the crowd, massed around them like clouds.

Valery had blacked out completely, and it was his friends’ shouting that brought him back.

“Valery!”

His eyes snapped open, and with tremendous effort, he forced himself upright. He hurriedly looked back toward his opponent, who was only just managing to sit up as well.

An attendant brought over another jousting lance, but Valery shoved it aside, threw off his shield as well, and drew Und before charging. He intended to slice through whatever came at him, lance or otherwise, and kill his opponent.

Even with his head spinning, his eyes seemed to blaze. The injury, if it could be called one, had roused his fighting spirit for the first time in a long while.

Perhaps Valery was every bit a Nordic after all, or perhaps it was his bloodline, but the more he was hurt, the angrier he grew, goading himself into a fight to the death.

He was the sort who would not be satisfied until it was settled with one of them dead.

Seeing Valery like that, Brynhildr drew her sword as well. Then she charged without hesitation.

Unlike when he had held a lance, Valery lifted himself slightly off the saddle and aimed the tip of his sword at his opponent. Brynhildr held her sword aloft as if to deliver a downward stroke.

Then the blades met, and a tremendous metallic clang rang out.

CLAAANG-!

The spectators clapped their hands over their ears in pain as one of the swords went spinning through the air. Had the match been decided? Whose sword was it?

It did not matter, because at that very moment Valery had hooked his arm around his opponent’s and wrenched her from her saddle, dragging her along. It was a technique for unhorsing an opponent at close quarters in mounted combat.

With her arm trapped in Valery’s and her body hanging clear of her horse, Brynhildr caught on the central barrier as he dragged her along, her armor scraping down its length.

Clop-clop! Clop-clop! Clop-clop! Clop-clop!

Screeeeeech!

As Valery tried to unhorse her completely, Brynhildr grabbed him tightly around the waist and hung on.

Valery’s head was already spinning from the earlier impacts, and when they reached the end of the lists, he fell from his horse as well.

They both tumbled from horseback and grappled briefly on the ground, rolling over one another. In the struggle, Valery’s and Brynhildr’s helmets came off.

Valery quickly straddled her, seized her by the hair, and pinned her head down hard, pressing Und’s blade to her throat. Their eyes met.

She looked about Valery’s age. But he seemed not to care about that in the slightest, fixing her with his characteristically fierce stare as though he meant to burn her with it.

Brynhildr, by contrast, looked surprisingly relieved. His blazing gaze seemed to burn away all the frustration and resentment in her chest, and now that the matter was settled with no regrets, she felt a sense of release.

“Say you’ve lost.”

Whether he understood what she was feeling or not, Valery all but growled. Brynhildr, however, showed neither surprise nor fear as she answered with a gentle smile.

“I’d rather die, you know?”

“Then die.”

Valery moved to force Und down like the blade of a chaff cutter and slice through Brynhildr’s neck.

At that moment, the herald shouted.

“The tournament champion! Valeryyyyyyy!”

The announcement brought Valery’s hand to a halt before he could kill Brynhildr. For a while, they simply stared at one another, he looking down and she looking up.

The anger that had been blazing in Valery’s eyes slowly cooled.

“My head hurts. Let go......”

Brynhildr said with a slight frown. Only then did Valery release her hair and get up.

Holding his sword, Und, he staggered away, too dizzy even to sheathe it. One careless move, and he might stab his own hand.

His friends hurried over to take charge of Snow and hold Valery up.

As he walked, he spotted a sword in the distance, embedded in the ground after being sent flying. It was the sword named Urðr.

Chapter 15 – The Frog Prince and the Rabbit Princess. End.