3.
3.
For a while, there had been quite a controversy over whether to build the latest-style (?) walls with stone or timber, and beneath them, Mother stood smiling.
"Mother. You didn't have to come all the way out here..."
Perhaps it was a trait of a wretch like me.
Having somehow ended up living a second life, the existence of a mother was so weighty, and she always seemed to be standing endlessly in that same spot, so I found myself acting petulant every time.
"How many steps is it? The goddess, too, is smiling brightly upon your victory."
Her deep green eyes, so like my own, rested on my face, which was surely wearing a stupid expression, but Mother was gazing at something beyond it.
"But you must always be careful. The love of the gods does not always lead to the love of men..."
"Yes, Mother. I will always bear it in mind."
In the early days of the duels at Árós, there were a few great warriors sent by the priests of various regions, and the cause was written as a doctrinal dispute, but it was right to read it as a turf war.
If my father Ragnar came from a deep lineage, my mother Asta came from a house deep in divine authority, as it were. The land passed down through her family was vast, and the virtue they had built up among the people was profound, so perhaps the union of my father and mother was the conclusion of some complex political engineering. The union of church and state? Something like that.
Anyway.
One might question why there were so many who challenged such authority, but the faith of Northern Europe in this era was, with just a touch of exaggeration, so varied that its doctrines could change from one village to the next, which was how the priests of various regions could cry out, 'My word is the truth!'
In the end, the answer to the question, "Who is closest to the gods?" was to be proven by results.
No matter how much this was an age where the various agents of the gods went at each other's throats with tongues and daggers, the people living in this land were not complete fools...
Even for the Svíar and Dane peoples, who lived by picking and choosing among a truly diverse array of gods, the goddess Hel was somewhat unfamiliar and fearsome. Her priestess had appeared out of nowhere and given birth to the child of a famed king, and suddenly, their livelihood had improved? And what was more, their precious little babies no longer died?
When that happened, a sense of true faith quietly began to sprout among the simple Germanic people.
Sadly, faith was not an infinite resource, and the priests of the various regions, finding their turf gradually shrinking, could not endure it and finally issued challenges, and I cleaned them out.
"Well. To think I am saying such things to you, of all people... I suppose I am getting old and speaking more and more needless words."
Mother's worry was, in the end, surely about the jealousy and envy around me. Who was I to deny such profound concern and love?
"Please do not say such things, Mother."
'Considering your age, you are far too healthy. Just last evening, did you not devour the hind leg of a wild boar in the blink of an eye?'
Of course, for the safety of my back, I kept the latter words only inside my head. Contrary to her outward appearance, Mother had a heavy hand.
[Diriring-]
"Oh-! My mother Asta! The most cherished daughter of the Goddess Hel! I have a song prepared for you!"
The sound of a harp barged in while I was sharing a quiet, affectionate conversation with Mother. From afar, Sigurd, who had been tuning his harp and clearing his throat, at last bent his waist in a greeting that was at once gallant and absurd, then immediately began to pull out a melody I had never heard in my life.
"Oh~ she counts the stars~ beneath the night sky, the stars (STJArna)~ before Asta (aSTA)~"
[Diriring- Diriring- Diriring-]
'What in the world is he doing?'
This man's sense of pitch was no ordinary matter.
Contrary to his comely appearance, Sigurd was a terrible tone-deaf musician. I had heard that he himself believed he was an unparalleled artist and was in the middle of carving his works onto a runestone in Roskilde...
[Clap- clap- clap-]
Still, Mother was clapping her hands to the rhythm of the harp and enjoying it immensely. But when I glanced back, the Huskarls who met my eyes were all shaking their heads at me, so it was clear that even by the standards of this era, Sigurd could not sing.
[Diriring-diriring-diriring-]
"Baa-aaaah!!!"
With the beat growing ever faster and Sigurd's high notes sounding exactly like the raw bleating of a goat being wrung, it seemed the climax was slowly approaching.
The problem with that third-rate bard was that he tried to sing songs in a register far higher than his limits... but well, if Mother liked it, what did it matter if his singing was a little poor?
'Sure, go ahead and sing as much as you wish. My ears are prepared...'
Most fortunately, Sigurd, who was both a bad singer and lacking in stamina, had his voice give out, and so our party was soon able to enter my longhouse.
*****
"So I came to deliver news as well as see your face, and it just so happened that the Duel of Árós was being held! What a stroke of luck this was, I thought!"
[Tak, tak, tak.]
Beneath the sound of hoofbeats far more pleasant to hear than Sigurd's singing, we were riding out, with a few guards, toward the thick forest north of the city for a while.
[Puru-reuk! Pureuk!]
The horses, though looking too small to carry a person, were surprisingly strong and had good endurance, making them just right for riding. As we slowly advanced, it was the second month of summer. By the standards of 21st-century Korea, it was weather that would be called spring, and the cool breeze brushing against my face felt incredibly pleasant.
"As expected! A warrior who has fought a hundred battles! I witnessed a duel in which not a single flaw could be found in the fame of a warrior who knows nothing but victory!"
Having been generously fed and wined and well rested in my longhouse the day before, Sigurd looked in better condition than ever. Was it thanks to Mother fussing over a brother who had visited for the first time in a while?
'Because of that mouth of his that never stops moving, my mind is a little tired, though.'
For a man of my size, I think too much, and my personality is such that you could call me introverted without anyone arguing, so I try to spare my words as much as possible. That is why, at times, seeing people like Sigurd strikes me as fascinating. 'Doesn't he get exhausted talking that much?' Anyway, this boisterous atmosphere was not bad. It was refreshing, though a little dizzying.
"And as it happens, the other hero of that glorious battle is right here! The owner of the name that was on the lips of every soul in Árós last night! Stórolf, son of Oreum! Would you tell me your impressions!"
"Jarl Sigurd. What is it you are curious about?"
"What else but the battle! I am curious about your impressions of fighting my brother here."
"Ah- though it was too brief, I will tell you what I remember."
Unfortunately, the charming little horses that Sigurd and I were riding were too precious to be doled out to all the guards, so Stórolf, who had been diligently following on foot, trudging along, lifted his black-and-blue bruised face proudly and answered Sigurd's question.
"As would be true for any warrior, I naturally had a plan."
Excited by the attention from a high-ranking Jarl, this young warrior flared his nostrils and continued talking, gesticulating with both hands as if reenacting a scene from a myth.
"Firstly, though I am the largest among my peers, Jarl Helgi is a full head taller than even me, is he not?"
"He is. My brother here is a man who can fight and win against those ferocious bears with his bare hands."
No, no matter what, that's a bit... bears tear people apart.
'Wait, no, perhaps I could do it?'
Beside me, as I looked down for a moment at my hands, which were clenching and unclenching with surging power, two men—one mounted, but with eyes at the same level—continued to chatter on.
"So, I first thought that I had to get inside Jarl Helgi's reach. I am confident in my own strength too, so I intended that if I could only close the distance, I would either sweep aside his shield with my axe, or hook his sword beneath the axe blade and cast it away."
[Hwik- hwik!]
Sigurd and the Huskarls nodded toward Stórolf, who was recounting his battle plan with quite vivid descriptions.
"That makes sense. It's orthodox."
"Penetrating into Jarl Helgi's bosom? That is courage only a young warrior possesses."
"To face a bear, you must first stand before him. Stórolf is a brave warrior."
Of course, I was dumbfounded watching this scene.
'I am not a bear.'
"But what seemed clearly to be an opening, when I actually dug in, turned out to be a great shield flying straight at my face! So, I put out my own shield to try and block it, but, ah! Dear me, that was a mistake. If I could have, I should have dodged. Or simply rolled out of the way entirely!"
Now, thanks to Stórolf, who was even taking the motion of rolling, the party could laugh lightly. That fellow certainly had the makings of a storyteller.
"Bang! The moment of impact, my entire body was shaken. But still, a man of Árós cannot fall so easily! I thought I had struck out with my axe using all the strength of my soul, but I have no memory of what happened next."
"That is because a fist faster than an arrow reached your face. Haha!"
"Hahaha!"
"You fell over so refreshingly! I thought you must have been killed!"
Looking slightly sheepish, Stórolf scratched his nose and smiled wryly. "I too thought I had arrived in Valhalla."
"Hahaha! Good, and what does my brother, who reduced our brave Stórolf to such a state, think of it?"
Sigurd, who had personally leaned over and clapped Stórolf on the shoulder, then turned his arrow of inquiry toward me.
Hmm. How was the duel with Stórolf?
'To be honest, it wasn't much different from the hundred or so duels before it..'
The warriors I had fought up until now were not just any riff-raff; each one was a man who had been chosen by someone or had proven his own strength somewhere. In that regard, Stórolf was a shining gemstone, but still uncut.
"He's still got much to learn."
I considered myself a warrior more than a diplomat, and the warrior's virtue was strength and honesty.
"I see."
Likewise, this young Huskarl, who had already proven himself a brave warrior, had no hesitation in accepting defeat.
"If he refines himself a little more, soon, everyone will remember the name of the brave Stórolf."
"Ohoh-"
Stórolf's bright, shining eyes filled with emotion, and Sigurd let out an odd sound, his snake-eyes glittering.
"Look here, Stórolf. If, by some unknown prank of the gods, you should ever have to leave Árós, know that the door of Roskilde is always open to you."
"Huh-"
No matter how lacking in business ethics Northern Europe in the 800s was, this was outright headhunting right under the very nose of the company's chief. The snort I let out in disbelief mattered not one bit to the shameless Sigurd, but Stórolf snorted out his breath and spoke.
"Jarl Sigurd. I thank you for the offer, but I am already a member of the Garmr Brotherhood, a sworn man who has pledged his oath to the Goddess Hel, to Árós, and to my Jarl, Helgi Ragnarsson."
Hearing an answer that scored two hundred out of a hundred, Sigurd threw his head back and laughed heartily, admitting defeat. Behind Stórolf, my steward, who had been watching the situation with hawk's eyes—the de facto second-in-command of Árós (first being Mother), Hrolf—smiled in satisfaction. Me? I was just a figurehead. Except I was a bit strong.
"I have made a grave error, Stórolf, son of Oreum. Upon my return, I will send you mead as a gesture of apology. Will you accept my penance?"
"There is nothing to forgive, my Jarl! It is rather an honor."
Stórolf's lips stretched to touch his ears at the unexpected gift, and while the surrounding guards were also taking delight in the heartwarming scene, Sigurd subtly urged his horse closer to mine and spoke in a whisper.
"Helgi. I think it would be good to rest here for a while and then go on. My horse seems a bit tired as well."
[Purruru-reuk-]
When I tapped the neck covered in that lovely mane, the horse Sigurd was riding shook its head vigorously as if to say, 'I don't mind at all! I can walk like this all day!' but I decided to play along with Sigurd's tune. His sudden appearance yesterday and all, this sly brother clearly had something to say to me.
"Let us do so. Hrolf, we will rest here for a while before proceeding."
"Understood, my Jarl."
The perceptive, seasoned Hrolf skillfully commanded the guards and, on the pretext of setting up a perimeter here and there, provided a space for Sigurd and me.
Sigurd, who had been silently watching that sight, at last spoke to me, without turning his head, letting out a thought he had likely been holding in for some time.
"Helgi. Even for you who stays still in Árós, you would have heard the stories that Björn Ironside and Ivar the Boneless have brought from the west and the east, respectively."
'Ah-. So that's what he means to talk about now.'
The burden that the sons of Ragnar Sigurdsson carried from the very moment they were born.
A kind of expectation placed upon the sons of the great adventurer king.
Right now, Sigurd was about to speak of the Viking.