Chapter 70

Translator: Willia

Whenever an emergency threw everyone into confusion, there was always someone who stepped forward to take charge.

Not that there was anything wrong with that, but sometimes they seemed a little too enamored of themselves as they took command.

“Everyone, calm down! Those of you with weapons, put them down! Order! Maintain order! I will guarantee your safety!”

An unknown man among the feast guests shouted. People were crowding toward the entrance in an attempt to escape, and he stood in their way, yelling.

The Duke of Nearcaster was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had escaped through a secret door.

Naturally, the ducal household had its own standing troops, but even they looked bewildered and unsure what to do.

All they knew was that there was a corpse with its head smashed in and that two large men had gotten into a fight. They had no idea what was actually happening.

Most people were no different. They seemed so caught up in their own alarm that they were only working themselves into more of a panic.

When it came down to it, this was nothing extraordinary, and Valery had no time to waste.

Right now, what mattered more than anything was the outcome of the fight between avenger and traitor: who would win, and who would die.

“Move!”

Valery kicked the man blocking the entrance hard in the side, sending him sprawling with a yelp.

Valery went straight outside, and people seized the opening to pour out after him and escape.

He passed through a dark corridor and reached the courtyard, where bright silver moonlight greeted him.

“Valery-nim!”

Ivy’s voice. He turned and saw her standing some distance away, supporting Eirik, who was gasping for breath.

He hurried over, but before he could even ask if they were all right, Ivy pointed to the road leading downhill outside the castle and shouted.

“That way!”

He was briefly struck by how perceptive the girl was. It was a small thing, but nothing she did had particularly irritated him during their travels with the wagon, either.

He looked down the road outside the castle. Fires burned on stands along both sides, just as they had on the way up, but one of the stands had toppled over.

Some people were fleeing, while others stood outside catching their breath. People also gathered in groups, talking loudly about what had happened.

Hurrying downhill, Valery spotted Knut and Yorik. A short distance from the toppled fire stand, Sigbold and Vidar stood facing off.

Vidar held a spear and shield. Some guards approached just then, but Valery barked at them.

“It’s a holy duel! Do not interfere!”

The guards stopped in their tracks without even knowing what was going on.

When people pointed toward the hilltop, the guards rushed toward the castle first. Two men fighting to the death was hardly unheard of. For now, they had decided that securing the castle was the safer course.

Of course, duels could not simply be fought whenever and however people pleased, but given Valery’s commanding presence and the circumstances, the guards also had little desire to interfere.

And so all that remained were the crowd’s fearful murmurs, the silver moonlight, and shadows dancing in the flickering firelight.

Sigbold held his signature large twin axes, and for some reason, blood was seeping from his leg. Yet his stance was as solid as a mountain.

“Is some skull that could belong to anyone really that important? If it’s a fake, what have I betrayed? Answer me, brother.”

Vidar asked.

“You betrayed your oath and your faith. Why do the brothers of Jómsborg practice restraint, endure hardship, and discipline themselves? Isn’t it for peace and rest? What you did not only betrayed all of that, but made a mockery of the other brothers.”

“Shut up! Those old men were the ones who deceived us, not me! You idiot! What kind of faith is that, built on a lie!?”

“Then you should’ve gotten the hell out on your own! Why steal it? Why sell it!? You only did it out of greed!”

“No!”

Vidar struck first, driving his spear forward with all his strength. Even one-handed, his thrust was perfectly steady and so powerful that its sharp whoosh carried a long way.

Sigbold twisted aside and chopped down at the spear shaft with an axe. But Vidar seemed to have anticipated the move; he immediately pulled the spear away and charged in behind his shield.

Distance was crucial. Axes on one side, a spear and shield on the other. The distance between them would decide who lived and who died.

Both men knew that all too well, and both had extensive combat experience, so they fought fiercely to control that distance. Their skill with their weapons had gone beyond mere mastery; the weapons seemed like extensions of their own bodies.

The spear darted in again and again, while the shield blocked one moment and deflected the next. Sigbold swung his axes at full reach or tried to hook and pull with them, sometimes shortening his grip on the hafts to guard his weak points.

Even Valery found much to inspire him in the techniques he saw. Strength and skill complemented one another to such perfection that the fight was savage yet artful, even beautiful.

Even someone who knew nothing about fighting would have been mesmerized. Before long, the people who had fled the castle were watching the two men as though under a spell.

Then Vidar moved to higher ground. Knut blocked his escape route just in case. Vidar seemed to have no further intention of fleeing and paid him no attention.

Sigbold poised himself like an enormous praying mantis with its forelegs raised, then brought both axes down at once with tremendous force.

Whoosh!

It was a perfectly timed attack meant to end the fight, but Vidar dropped his shield, darted aside by the narrowest margin, and thrust with his spear.

From the sidelines, it looked for a moment as though Sigbold had been speared. But he had dropped the axe in one hand and clamped the shaft firmly against his side.

Almost the instant he caught it, he gave it a sharp yank, hauling Vidar in. Their bodies collided. Was this turning into a contest of strength? If so, the monstrously built Sigbold looked certain to win easily.

But Vidar seemed to have kept one last move in reserve. He went for Sigbold’s throat with a dagger. The armor prevented him from aiming for the belly.

Sigbold dropped his remaining axe and grabbed the dagger’s blade with his bare hand. Vidar strained with all his might to drive it in, but he was slowly forced back. Blood seeped from Sigbold’s hand.

Thud!

Once he had pushed the dagger far enough aside, the towering Sigbold struck with a downward headbutt. The impact knocked Vidar to the ground.

Vidar tried to scramble up, but his head spun and he staggered. Sigbold strode over, caught him by the collar, hauled him upright, and punched him.

Thud!

“Guh!”

Broken teeth spilled from his mouth, and Vidar went limp.

Blood ran from Sigbold’s palm where he had grabbed the dagger, but he ignored it, clenching his fist to strike again.

But for some reason, his fist froze in midair. It trembled, but he did not deliver the final blow. Was he hesitating now, of all times? Why?

He let go of Vidar’s collar, and the traitor crumpled at his feet.

“I will ask you one last time. Do you repent?”

Sigbold asked.

For a while, Vidar only drew ragged breaths. Then he laughed with what seemed like resignation. He barely managed to speak, his words slurred by his broken teeth. There was blood all around his mouth.

“I, I saw mountains of ice drifting across the sea, mountains that spewed fire without end, and seas of sand. People didn’t believe me. But you, you and I, we know. We saw them together. The Kraken Warband. We were invincible. We sailed toward the ends of the world without fear. I just missed those days...... I wanted to save up money, gather others who felt the same, buy a ship, and once more, just once more......”

A beast that had once run freely through the wild might be captured and tamed, but its memories of the wild could not be erased. If that was the reason for his betrayal, it was too heartbreaking to condemn him for it.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy for the Nordics was the reality that they could no longer roam the seas, but had to settle down and live on land.

At some point, Eirik the priest had made his way to the scene with Ivy supporting him, seemingly drawing on the last of his strength.

He wept dry tears as he listened to the man he had once regarded as a son. The tears caught in his deep wrinkles and could barely make their way down his face. How could he not understand? He, too, had once followed the Dragon-Slayer across the seas.

But the Dragon-Slayer had been the first Nordic to attempt to settle down. He had urged them to stop raiding and try making a living by tilling the land. To try a life of peace instead of battle and plunder.

A man who had been the first to dream of living as a human being rather than a beast, and who had died a wretched, miserable death for it.

That was why the old priest sympathized deeply with Vidar’s words, yet could not respect them.

“Faith must be upheld. Whether it is true or false. Only then, only then can we go on living, you fool......”

With his head bowed, Sigbold clenched his jaw, then picked up an axe from the ground and placed it in the hand of his longtime friend and brother. Valhalla no longer existed, but he did so with a yearning for Valhalla all the same.

Then he picked up the remaining axe and gripped it close to the head. Covering Vidar’s eyes, he slit his throat in a single stroke. Vidar’s body went rigid for a moment, then slackened.

And so the Jómsvíkingr’s vengeance was complete.

The cool air, the crackling fires, and the fight for vengeance beneath the moon gave the scene a singular appeal, yet no one could savor it. The fight had been too earnest, too fierce, and too heartbreaking.

They were men who had fought to recapture an irretrievable past, and for faith.

Many had been so overwhelmed by the two men’s fight that they scarcely dared breathe. Lucas was among them. He had spent all his time playing at being a man, and seeing real men fight had left a powerful impression on him.

The two men’s stories, revealed at the culmination of betrayal and vengeance, made Lucas feel small. A thought briefly crossed his mind: money meant nothing after all.

A guard came down the hill and spoke to him.

“Are you Lucas-nim of the Lokir Merchant Company?”

“......?”

“You need to come with me.”

“......What happened?”

“Your sister has passed away.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Please, come with me first.”

None of it made any sense to Lucas.

Dazed, he followed the guard back to the feast hall. The shouting and confusion had subsided, but the mood was somber.

When Lucas appeared, the people clustered in one part of the hall turned toward him, their expressions growing solemn. Then they stepped aside to let him through.

He went over and found the body of a young woman with her head smashed in. A familiar dress, jeweled ornaments, a crushed head, an eye bulging from its socket.

Her face was unrecognizable. Only her clothes and jewelry gave any clue to her identity.

At first, the cognitive dissonance was so intense that Lucas could not take in the reality before him.

“I’m sorry. She suddenly raised a knife behind me. Before I knew what I was doing.”

Strictly speaking, Randgríðr had done nothing wrong, but she felt tremendous guilt over killing a weak woman.

As an Einheri, she would not be punished no matter what crime she committed, but on a human level, she seemed to feel remorse.

But none of it, neither those facts nor her apology, registered with Lucas now.

Slowly, the reality of his younger sister’s death began to sink in. Then, all at once, memories of their days together flashed through his mind.

At that instant, goosebumps broke out all over Lucas’s body.

“Ah!”

He collapsed to the floor where he stood. Some people moved to help him, but others stopped them. It seemed best to leave him alone for now.

Lucas had broken out in goosebumps for one reason alone. Those were memories, but not cherished ones.

Only after losing her, when he looked back, did he realize the truth. That he had never once loved her. That he had only ever been enamored of himself.

A wave of self-loathing crashed over Lucas. What have I done? Why did I do it?

Lucas stared into space, mouth agape, as though he had completely lost his mind. Tears ran from his vacant eyes.

He even felt a strange sense of relief now that he was the merchant company’s sole remaining heir. He hated himself for it so much that he wanted to die right there. Just how much of a scumbag am I?

Only now did he finally understand the difference between himself and Valery, between himself and people who took life seriously. No matter how much money he spent, all he could obtain was an empty shell.

If even a fragment of his feelings for her, just a single fragment, had been genuine, he would not have loathed himself this much. And that had never required money......

People brought a white cloth and covered the body.

A woman sitting at a table in one corner of the feast hall watched. Brynhildr, too, looked somewhat dazed, and just then, she was in no state to sympathize with someone else’s tragedy.

For she, too, had come face-to-face with a truth she could barely bear.

She realized that, all this time, she had not been trying to forge her own destiny. She had been running away from it. And the price of running away was that the man who had appeared before her as if by fate was none other than her own younger brother.

Brynhildr felt lost and empty, wondering what she was supposed to do now. At the same time, she felt that she had been living the wrong way, and that she could not go on living like this.

But first, she had to endure this pain that felt like a deep bruise.

Outside, Eirik and Sigbold were attending to Vidar’s body.

All of them had confronted their own truths. Their feelings, attitudes, and actions differed from one person to the next.

Some were left grieving and miserable. Others felt the bitter ache of loss and a grim resolve, while still others were filled with regret and self-loathing.

And so the moonlit feast came to an end.

Chapter 16 – A Feast of Their Own. End.