74.
74.
Hestein of Nantes (Hásteinn).
Especially in the 860s Europe, packed with famed warriors, his was always a name that came up when picking the most outstanding warrior.
An adventurer and warrior who roamed the Mediterranean together with my brother Björn.
Now he was a powerful Jarl who had received the land of Nantes from the Dux Salomon of Breizh and served as a lord (mercenary) under him, at the western edge of the Frankish empire.
When one thought of a Viking, one usually pictured an image of "loves drinking, loves adventure, loves raiding, loves buying and selling, loves fighting"—and Hestein was the type of Norseman who fit all of the above.
Endless adventurous spirit and a craving for battle.
A man filled with what seemed like boundless drive.
Perhaps because even vast distance was nothing but a laughable obstacle before such a great warrior's will, after his visit to Uppsala with my father's friend Björn while my father was still alive, he had never once set foot in Scandinavia again, but now he had come to congratulate me on my wedding.
...
Of course, he hadn't come just to congratulate me. As I said, liking buying and selling meant being shrewd with calculation. To fight under Frankish kings, who started and ended every year with war, ordinary calculation alone couldn't sustain you.
Thus, that uncontrollable name had abruptly gotten involved in the quarrel between Jarls in Uppsala, and my sanity had finally reached the point of considering derailment.
Why on earth? What for? What had he come here for...?
"There's been a huge fight in Uppsala!?"
"What? Who's fighting who this time?"
"The Jarls clashed in a big brawl! They say there'll be another round!"
"What!? Oh, let's go too!"
'Where would I even go...'
A series of such conversations had been happening all over Árós... and the people of Árós, who were already in a festive mood preparing for the grand wedding, cheered at the news of a big fight and headed for Uppsala en masse.
Such fearsome solidarity.
'Sports. Sports isn't the answer to everything, but I absolutely have to build a stadium. These hot-blooded people need a place to vent their energy.'
For a moment, the people of Polotsk, Kiyiu, and Novgorod flickered through my mind. The people who were working hard to prepare for the great athletic meet. I had been putting it off, but it really seemed necessary to hold a national sports competition.
Anyway, thanks to this unexpected brawl, even the Jarls and their representatives who had early secured the VIP rooms in Árós were quietly moving to watch the fight or join the second round.
The number of guests I had to worry about decreased, and unexpectedly I was able to breathe easier and enjoy plenty of the date time I'd missed with Inga. A win-win, wasn't it?
Here I learned a great lesson: when people kept looking for me, I needed to create another distraction.
So to speak, a sort of diversionary tactic.
As a Konungr, it might be a thought lacking a bit of responsibility, but first I had to survive, didn't I? Most importantly, I was now a fresh young couple with less than a month of dating, and a groom on the verge of marrying.
So honestly, in my heart, I didn't really care whatever wind had blown to cause these old, aged men to squabble and brawl.
Luckily, according to a report from Ubba, who had gone to see the newly built library near Uppsala, things didn't seem to have reached the point of pointing weapons at each other... they'd probably stop after a while.
If it got worse and forced my heavy ass to move, then I would definitely make them pay.
So let's be faithful to the present for now.
"Helgi, stay still, there's something on your face."
"Here? Or here?"
"No, I said stay still..."
Without having done anything wrong, we gave off the vibe of a secret couple in love, and Inga and I looked at each other and smiled.
*****
"Stay right there, don't move!"
"Jarl Hestein, the rock cannot be moved."
On the outskirts of Uppsala, at the site of the miracle called the 'Proof of Helgi,' massive tents had been erected.
Between those tents, tall flags were fluttering. They bore various symbols: Hel riding on a raven, Hel holding Thor's hammer, Hel holding lightning and a spear crossed in both hands.
The form of Hel, half skull and half woman's face, might have seemed unsettling, but people were shouting in unison, drinking, and dancing beneath the proudly waving tall flags.
Truly a festival had broken out.
However, one strange thing was that about half of the high-ranking people sitting in the front row were clutching their Örn hands, and the other half were breathing heavily with tense expressions.
It was a scene somewhat removed from the mass brawl that Helgi and the people of Árós had imagined, but right now, these people were more serious than anyone in the world.
"Now, it's my turn...! I, Hásteinn! I will revive the gods! Valhalla—!"
Yaaaaa—!
[Tat! Tatat! ... Bbeok!]
"Ughhh... Aaaagh...!"
Even so, having perhaps learned a lesson from the foolish results of the previous challengers, Hásteinn had found some thick gloves to wear, but he couldn't prevent his fist from being damaged.
'How on earth did he break this...?'
"Yahaa—! Jarl Hestein has also failed! The gods are truly dead! Another round here!"
"Hail Hel—! Rest in peace, Thor—! Oh, which god was Hásteinn trying to revive?"
"Njord, he was trying to revive the sea god Njord!"
"Ah, what a pity. But we have Goddess Hel, so Njord—! Rest in peace—!"
"Now, cheers!"
"Cheers—!"
'Damn...!'
With Hásteinn clutching his Örn hand and glaring at the rock before him as the backdrop, all the Jarls—those with bandages wrapped around their Örn hands and those unharmed—raised their cups in both their Örn hands and left hands and called out a toast.
[Dingdingding~ dingdiriding~ diring~ diring~]
[Dung! Dung! Dung! Dung- dudung!]
At the same time, everyone in the hall, who had been greatly tensed by Hásteinn's challenge, also raised their cups, and the bards sang a vigorous tune in passionate voices.
"Jarl Hestein, here, mead."
"...Torgenvald, is it? Thanks."
Ugh—
Roughly shaking his Örn arm, where the pain had subsided a little, Hásteinn tossed away the thick gloves and accepted the cup offered by Jarl Torgenvald of Orkney with his uninjured left hand and drank.
A drink with a refreshingly smooth taste that was simply superb.
I was no longer sure who had started it, but this competition, which people were already calling the 'God-reviving Festival', had begun roughly three days ago.
The purpose of the competition itself was simple: Konungr Helgi had split a boulder in half with a single strike and declared that the gods were dead, so anyone who wished to deny it should similarly shatter the boulder and revive the gods.
What kind of absurd talk was that?
But the problem was that for the proud lords, who could be considered a collection of the world's most puffed-up, overly macho, posturing men second to none, it looked like an opportunity to gain honor.
Soon, failures began to pile up one by one, and as they sat right there waiting for the next round of failures, the story got distorted and a rumor spread that a great fight had broken out among the Jarls.
Of course, it was not entirely wrong, since some Jarls who were excessively drunk or normally on bad terms had indeed traded mockery and even fisticuffs, but by the nature of the hearty, drink-loving Norse society, that was no big deal.
For a newborn competition, this 'God-reviving' contest had developed its own systematic rules. After the first man who tried with his bare hands had his fist shattered and was carried off, the Jarls, making the rational and reasonable judgment that 'Helgi Konungr is a demigod, so we humans need at least some means to protect our bodies,' soon began developing and improving protective gear.
At first they wrapped thick cloth, added leather on top, one Jarl tried inserting stones, another tried lining it with grass...
As a result, they placed great expectations on Hásteinn, the legendary warrior who, wearing the gloves recognized as most effective, was second to none in combat power, but he failed all the same.
However, since neither the failed Hásteinn nor the Jarls who had held expectations truly thought anyone would shatter that monstrous boulder, they were now absorbed in eating and drinking, enjoying the spectacle rather than the original purpose.
[Gulp— gulp— gulp—]
"Kha—! Ah...! Mead is always good! Especially Árós mead tastes even more delicious for some reason!"
Hearty cheer was inherently accompanied by a bit of crudeness.
Though Hásteinn, his beard wholly decorated with mead from drinking hastily, was a sight, Jarl Torgunbalde, who reached out an arm and pulled him vigorously to his feet, did not mind one bit. After all, the monstrous Hásteinn's fame was such that any Norse lord would know it.
"It's not just mead, you know? Bread, meat, drink, and women. It's been some time already since Árós became the best."
Björn's friend, Hásteinn.
Halfdan's friend, Torgunbalde.
These two lords, each sharing a deep friendship with one of Ragnar's sons, felt a kinship as both close associates of the current power and lords of outlying territories.
Torgunbalde in the far north of the island of Britain, Hásteinn in the west of the Frankish lands.
That these men, each striving in his own domain, attended Helgi Ragnarsson's wedding was perhaps only natural.
However, it was difficult to say they had come this great distance merely out of friendship...
Already signs were visible, but now that so many lords scattered across various lands had gathered in one place, setting aside their rivalries and grudges, it was only inevitable that numerous promises and plans would be made.
Especially Hásteinn and Torgunbalde, who remembered the era of Konungr Ragnar, now deceased and surely entered into Valhalla, were thinking that this gathering might possibly lead to a new Great Expedition.
Unlike the war of revenge by Ragnar's sons to punish the two Cynings of Northumbria, where the grudge and cause were far too clear, a Great Expedition was something one could join to grab a large share as long as one had the interest.
Of course, it might not be.
They still did not know Helgi Ragnarsson's disposition well, and there was no visible factor yet that would easily move the mightiest powerhouse of the North Sea, who already seemed to possess everything.
So they had to make an earnest appeal, did they not?
"That is preposterous strength. This Konungr has certainly monopolized the love of the gods."
As Hásteinn, who had been intently looking at a leather cup engraved with an axe pattern, said this while returning the cup, Torgunbalde answered with a slight smile.
"That is why I tried to stop you. That is not human strength."
"Look here, Torgunbalde, I am Hásteinn. Hásteinn. I am not one to turn my head away from fear."
Watching Hásteinn rub his sore Örn-hand, Torgunbalde nodded.
"Of course, who among those here would not know? Jarl Hestein. So... was the glove at least a bit useful?"
At the implied question of 'For such brave words, did you not also protect your body?', Hásteinn gave an awkward cough but rather lifted his head proudly.
"Ahem— admitting one's shortcomings is wise, and overestimating oneself is foolish. I am not Konungr Helgi, Jarl Torgunbalde. I am Hásteinn."
"Of course."
As if this kind of exchange was already not the first or second time, Torgunbalde bowed his head with a gentle smile. Gazing down at him, Hásteinn also wore a similar smile and, beyond Torgunbalde's dark blonde hair, quietly watched the scene of numerous Jarls laughing and chatting noisily.
"It is the first time, since Konungr Ragnar."
"...You mean this many Jarls gathered in one place?"
"Yes. Such a great assembly... it has truly been a while."
In the days of their fathers and grandfathers, after the Frankish chieftain Karl had beheaded countless Saxons and burned the sacred tree, there had been only two great assemblies.
One was for revenge and to stabilize the Saxons flooding across the border; the next was for a massive expedition against the Cross.
Both had powerful motivations... but this time there was none of that.
Just because the strongest one was getting married, Jarls who wanted to somehow come under his notice had voluntarily come.
"...All that remains is Halfdan, the 'Black King' of the fjord, and Bagsecg of the Jutes."
"...I suppose you have heard the news that Olaf of Dublin is retiring?"
Catching Hásteinn's muttered words whose meaning was unclear, Torgunbalde stroked his well-groomed beard and spoke quietly.
"The fjord region, the Black King's nest Kaupang, has a possibility of becoming noisy. Both Olaf 'the White' and Halfdan 'the Black King' would not wish for a direct clash, so it is very likely they will seek mediation from someone of equal or far higher stature."
"Huh—."
Hearty and a bit crude, but not slow-witted, Hásteinn felt that this wedding would not merely remain a happy story of two men and women— no... of six men and women.
Everyone was moving with intent.
Was he himself no different?
Having failed to revive the gods, Hásteinn murmured the name of Hel in a low voice.