The New Jarl
"Ah, hold on."
Ragnar knelt before Olgrafsson's corpse sprawled on the floor. With an expressionless face, he drew a short knife from his belt and pressed it to the lord's neck. Slice. In one clean motion, the head came off. A practiced, ruthless stroke, like wringing a chicken's neck.
"Wh-what the hell are you doing?!"
I recoiled in horror, but Ragnar acted like it was nothing. He grabbed the severed head by its beard and stood. Blood dripped from the ragged stump. Drip, drip.
"Urgh..."
It had been gruesome enough when I'd cleaved his skull with the axe earlier. Ragnar hurled the head toward the open clearing outside. It rolled through the mud mixed with snow and came to a stop. Olgrafsson's lifeless eyes stared up at the sky.
The soldiers from both sides were still tangled in combat outside.
"Olgrafsson is dead! There's no reason to fight anymore!"
Ragnar's shout cut through the night sky. The moment Olgrafsson's men spotted the head, they froze. One of the lord's guards dropped his sword first. Then the others followed, one by one, letting their weapons clatter to the frozen ground. Clang, crash. The sound of metal hitting the icy earth echoed repeatedly.
With their lord dead, they had no reason to keep fighting. They hadn't been deeply loyal to him in the first place.
Watching this, one of Ragnar's comrades—a burly blond man—stepped forward boldly.
"Olgrafsson tried to kill us, his guests! A man who betrays tradition has no right to rule Yetebori. The seat of jarl belongs to Ragnar by right!"
Jarl. The title for a lord, just below a king.
At the blond man's rallying cry, the surviving mercenaries roared Ragnar's name in unison.
"Ragnar! Ragnar! Ragnar!"
A cold wind blew in. The firelight from the hearth cast long shadows over their bodies. I leaned against the wall, staring blankly at the scene. These were the same men who'd been fighting for their lives moments ago, and now they were all chummy like nothing happened.
About half an hour later, the blare of a horn summoned Yetebori's residents to the clearing in front of the lord's longhouse. On this midwinter night, dragged from their beds, their faces showed every emotion imaginable: awe, fear, doubt, hatred. Countless faces flickered in the torchlight. Young and old alike gazed ahead with anxious eyes.
I stood mixed in the crowd. My hand still trembled around the axe haft, and Olgrafsson's blood had cooled and crusted on my clothes. The sensation of killing a man lingered vividly in my palm... the way the axe blade punched through his skull. I wanted to forget it, but it felt like it'd haunt me forever.
Ragnar cleared his throat before the crowd.
"Ahem. Olgrafsson was endlessly greedy, and we had no choice but to fight back."
He stepped forward. Moonlight and torches illuminated his blood-smeared face. Covered in wounds and gore, his eyes burned clear and unwavering. Damn, that's charisma. So cool.
"As your new jarl, I swear to treat Yetebori's people justly. For the next two years, I'll halve the taxes!"
That one line flipped the mood. Sighs of relief and scattered cheers rose from the murmuring crowd. Halved taxes? For the common folk who'd slaved away under Olgrafsson, bleeding for every coin, it was welcome news.
Ragnar smiled and nodded, then turned to the remaining guards.
"If any man refuses to submit, I'll gladly meet him in a duel before the gods. The warriors of Valhalla will judge all!"
"..."
The guards fell silent. No lunatic would challenge the monster who'd butchered the elite guards in a blink.
And so, the legendary Viking hero became Yetebori's new ruler.
Ragnar turned his gaze to his followers. He looked first at the burly blond man.
"Gunnar, my closest friend. I thank you for your aid these past years. Without you, my bones would have rotted in East Francia long ago."
Thump. Gunnar pounded his chest in response.
Ragnar's eyes shifted to the young man beside him.
"Ivar, my firstborn. Our enemies fear you and call you Boneless. As a father, I couldn't be prouder. You are Odin's greatest gift to me."
The sharp-eyed young warrior bowed to his father.
"Bjorn, my second son. Barely a man, yet you've shown gods and men enough courage. No one but you deserves the name Ironside."
All real historical figures, huh?
"Nils, my nephew. Your archery was blessed by Ullr from birth. May your arrows never miss."
The young archer called Nils nodded, clutching his bow to his chest.
Watching Ragnar praise his comrades one by one, I glimpsed what true leadership looked like. A world far from mine.
And finally...
Ragnar's eyes landed on me. His face showed he was pondering how to introduce this stranger he'd just met.
"Svela. Though we met only today... I thank you for your valuable friendship."
Valuable friendship? He probably just gave me that lamb rib and mead out of pity earlier. A young woman trudging alone through the market—must've tugged at his heartstrings.
With the praises done, Ragnar pointed to the longhouse behind him and bellowed,
"Go, my beloved brothers! Take what you desire!"
Cheers erupted as the crew surged inside. I got swept up in the momentum too.
The longhouse was a sturdy single-story building of oak. Its high roof evoked an upturned Viking ship. Inside lay the lord's feasting hall first. A rectangular stone hearth dominated the center, with the jarl's high seat at the far end. Long wooden tables flanked the fire for hosting guests.
Olgrafsson's love of mead had led him to dig a generous storage cellar beneath.
Toward the lord's bedchamber...
"This longsword's mine!"
Ivar snatched a sword from the wall, oohing over the red gem in its hilt.
"This chainmail's not bad. Bit unusual in style, but..."
Bjorn tried it on and grinned—it fit perfectly.
Gunnar rummaged through a cabinet and unearthed a horn cup tipped with gold.
"Haha! I'd heard Olgrafsson drank from a gold-rimmed horn. This one's mine!"
Nils grabbed a bow and quiver. The rest scooped up handfuls of silver coins and scattered to ransack other rooms.
Meanwhile, I was frantically searching for something. Ivar approached with a puzzled look.
"Hey, what're you after? Gold? Gems? Clothes?"
"Five parchment scrolls. Maps of the farmlands around Yetebori. They're the basis for tax collection every autumn. Where are they...?"
Ivar stared at me blankly. In the midst of looting, a woman hunting tax documents? Must've seemed odd.
The reason was simple. Those parchments were like land registries. Essential for Ragnar to rule Yetebori.
No amount of gold or jewels in the longhouse could match their value.
The coastal region's fjords and rugged terrain made life brutal. Yetebori's farms were scattered, rarely clustered into villages. Days could pass without seeing neighbors—isolation was the norm.
To collect taxes from such dispersed peasants without fail, those farmland maps were vital. Spot a delinquent farm, send soldiers to collect immediately.
This system had swelled the domain's coffers, passed down through jarls to Olgrafsson.
"Tax collection's crucial. Lose these, and Ragnar's in real trouble down the line."
I searched high and low, but no parchments. "Where the hell...?" Exhausted, I slumped to the floor.
Ivar's face hardened as he grasped the stakes. He rallied the others for a parchment hunt.
..........
The search stretched into the next morning. At dawn, Ragnar summoned the villagers again.
"Two silver ingots per recovered scroll. Rewards for tips too!"
Two ingots could feed a farm family for months—a fortune. One man raised his hand.
"Last night, I saw Olgrafsson's wife and two kids fleeing. Arms full of something—probably the maps."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Ragnar's shaky authority wobbled further.
No taxes meant no domain operations; no operations meant no ruler's legitimacy.
"This is bad..." Already precarious, and now Olgrafsson's family had bolted with the parchments. His remnants or a neighboring jarl could use them to challenge Ragnar. Classic historical pattern: a legitimacy-lacking ruler crumbling from within.
As the crowd dispersed, Ragnar realized his work wasn't done. He gathered his inner circle in the great hall. The hearth crackled, gilding their faces in red.
"Gunnar, Nils. Contact our old comrades. Tell them Ragnar needs aid."
"Understood."
The two nodded and rose.
"Bjorn, go home and bring Lagertha and Halfdan. Don't dawdle."
Thump. Bjorn pounded his chest and headed out. Lagertha—probably Ragnar's first wife.
"Ivar, you and the rest handle the domain's guard."
"As you command, Jarl of Yetebori."
Ivar nodded, glancing my way. "...?"
Ragnar continued.
"And teach Svela to fight in your spare time."
"...Pardon? Fight?"
I blurted it out. Ivar tilted his head, eyeing me up and down. His sharp gaze held a feral smirk.
"Your axe work was decent. Cracked Olgrafsson's skull clean in one."
"Th-that was just luck..."
"Luck or not, dead is dead."
Ivar shrugged and turned away.
Left alone with the dying embers in the hall. From killing the jarl overnight to becoming a Viking hero's subordinate—what a twist. Life's unpredictable.
Dawn light filtered through the door. The cold north wind seeped through cracks, rattling the coals. Whooo~ Finbul's Breath. The giant's icy exhalation hadn't ceased.
"...Cold."