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Vol.4, Ch.1, P.1

 

 

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Much of our number had returned to Hensen.

Not more than a week had passed since I’d last seen this oaken townscape, a sight that well-seemed like an old memory. Yet seeing also its reparations still underway was a whelming reminder that it was no fewer than five days that spanned between its deliverance and the downfall of its offender: the fiefburgh of Arbel, the Fiefguard, the margrave… indeed, the whole of Ström itself. No doubt a thunderclap of a campaign, one to be remembered as a military miracle by a great many generations of chroniclers to come—whether with reverence or rue.

Yet the quill of history never halts. Our battle may have been won, but the war would only quicken from hereon out. With the stretches of Ström captured and new horizons hewn open, many foundations must needs now be laid, and withal many more decisions made and preparations completed. Londosian hands, too, ought haste soon to sow an answer and steal back their lost lands. From the convocation of councils, the mustering of the Orders, to the devising of tricks and strategies, there was much wound-licking and prowling on the part of Londosius’ lions before they would pounce upon us.

A most precious lull, a single day whereof we could ill-afford to fritter away. For this very reason was I come to Hensen.

“First, a giving of gratitudes. Hensen, Balasthea, Arbel: these you have saved, you have captured, you have conquer’d respective—all by your ken, all for my folk. A mighty merit earning mine ev’ry thanks, son of Man.”

Bowing to me now was the great head of Alban, Jarl to the Vílungen. There we were, aface one another in a lantern-lit chamber of his jarlshǫll. Night was fallen. No other soul was present in this rather secluded room—Alban’s way of showing faith in the Man afore him, like as not.

“Your gratitude humbles, Jarl,” I returned.

Chairs and stools are hardly foreign to the Nafílim interior, yet it is more common for these folk to sit squarely upon matted floorings. Such was our present arrangement, and so did I find myself sat cross-legged, hands upon my knees, bowing in kind to the jarl’s courtesy. Yet, unaccustomed as I was, I could but hope the gesture was not ill-taken.

“Too-heavy hangs the humbled head,” was Alban’s appraisal of it.

“Ah—” I started, and raised my neck halfway higher. “Hereabouts, then?”

“Thereabouts,” he nodded with a reassuring smile. I ought remember well this angle. Then, drawing a breath, Alban spoke again. “Now, seeking their answer are many matters. Foremost: the sword of soot—that, I trust to you.”

Upon hearing those words was a ponderous weight swiftly lifted off my shoulders. I had worried much over what end awaited the weapon, but to have it now named as my own in a snap of the finger conversely awoke a new worry in me.

“I am most grateful, Jarl,” I said, befuddled, “but… truly?”

“You seem a child cherishing much the troves of Culture and Custom; small surprise you hesitate to claim a token of our tales. But it is no matter. We would rather you wield it,” he assured me, quiet yet confident with his deep timbre. Such depth was echoed, too, in the scry of his eyes and the reach of his wisdom as he continued on with a familiar phrase. “‘A sword wastes unswung.’ Long has it linger’d amongst us, the blade of black—a spire standing through ages uncounted, watching over the fortunes of my folk. Only in your hands may it have meaning anew. Yes… I daresay it has chosen you, son of Man. And so must we: the sword of soot be yours to swing.”

“So I shall. Your wishes I bear upon this weapon, might and main,” I accepted, bowing once more in thanks—and to a more moderate angle.

The jarl huffed with satisfaction. “Very good. Next: from arm to army. You have your Sword. Now, you must know your Task,” he said, now more sternly. “Rolf Man-foe once you were. Rolf Man-friend, now you are. And so you I declare: a brave to the Vílungen, and War-Chief to your own Gewölbe.”

A “Gewölbe”—amongst the Nafílim is it a force equal in arms to the Londosian cohort. And just as the jarl implied, each is headed by a war-chief. Lise, Volker—they, too, stood at the helm of their own Gewölbe… and Berta besides, in her time.

“The fangs of a Wolf, the eyes of a Raven—traits most treasured in a war-chief. Rolf Man-friend, in you I espy these powers,” the jarl stated with a sharpened gaze. “But, use you now such powers for my people? Take you now this solemn Task, raven-wolf?”

“I do and shall, Jarl,” I answered. “It would be my great honour.”

Once more I bowed, head heavy with responsibility. Sending steel against the savagery of Londosius was my resolve, and so to refuse such a weight was never my intent. Certainly were there folk here who yet harboured reservations for my resolve—or my presence altogether, for that matter—but there was nothing for it. Henceforth I must needs lend myself to every labour, to earn their trust and show them my worth.

“Most mete. However, my word alone speaks not the will of my people; the Task be yours only after full blessings are bestowed by the vindarþing,” Alban explained. “Already have I commended you to the others. Acceptance seems their mind. But, your voice and visage must be shown to them. I bid you come when next we convene.”

“The vindarþing…” I said with some wonder. “…Very well. I shall duly attend.”

Beforehand had I learnt that many Nafílim clans, including the Vílungen, govern themselves through a parliament of sorts. An excellent opportunity, then, to see governance in action in their legislative assembly—or this “vindarþing”, as the jarl called it.

“By the by, a mere mouthpiece cow’ring from all combat becomes not the war-chief,” Alban broached anew. “No; with your own hands, affright the fray and fell our foes as you like, Rolf Man-friend—whether by wish or wisdom of need.”

A rather unexpected concession. Startling, even. For what wealsman willingly lets loose his own commander into the maw of battle? Indeed, I had suspected it during our first meeting, but now I knew it in full: the Jarl Alban’s was a mind most broad, as it were.

“Hmph,” he smirked knowingly. “This freedom you welcome. It is writ on your face.”

“…Should my sword serve any succour, then it shall be swung,” I conceded, aware asudden of my eager expression. The freedom to fight personally was a glad thing, to be sure. But to presume that every operation hereafter would expect my direct participation was doubtless a step too far—though I had a hunch my sword would see much use, at any rate. Still, battle is a fatal matter; I must needs wage it with as cool a head as I can.

“Prudent you appear. But the past knows otherwise,” Alban observed. “The battle at Balasthea—from tower-top you plunged; with sword in hand you sally’d.”

“Now that you mention it… yes, I have, indeed, dared such a stunt,” I affirmed.

“A stunt much story’d,” the jarl nodded. “Mighty aroused Lise was, in her telling of the tale.”

Leaping from on high, only to fling myself into the fangs of the Fiefguard below—quite the reckless course taken, I’ll admit, though I’d believed it for the best at the time, truth be told. Nevertheless, I don’t suppose I should chance another such charge in the future… without due counsel, at least.

“Be not abash’d. We folk of the fair winds find valour in the vanguard,” Alban assured me. “My daughter is no diff’rent. She, too, longs for gallantry, and so challenges the fray at ev’ry chance. As should you, if our trust you seek. But you may find it easy won, as you are. This I assure you.”

True enough, Lise herself had fought upon the frontlines alongside her braves no few times before. The battles at Arbel were a clear token of this.

Be that as it may, I somehow felt myself a target board afore Alban’s arrows. Rather informal though his tone had been tonight, his words were as shafts shot by a master marksman, piercing my worries and reservations one after another, no matter how hid I thought them to be. For sure enough, it was exactly as he said: showing brazen bravery in battle ought easily win over the hearts of the Nafílim. “A sword wastes unswung” indeed; if the svǫrtaskan is mine to wield, then so it must be, that I might avail my new friends at every fold.

The very thought was a fire kindled in the dark, as I felt then my resolve steeled anew for the battles to come.

“Ease the bend in your brows,” the jarl said. “Volker and Lise are at your side.” He then beamed bright and strong, like a sunrise over a mountain, as though to soothe the sternness hardening my heart. Perhaps I’d let slip to his eyes a strained look, burdened as I was with the new weight of many lives under my command. But he was right. I was hardly alone in this. There were others I could count on. For an ungraced, it was an encouraging thought.

“‘Londosius shall fall’—that is your will, your words. Amongst other matters at the vindarþing, much is to be discuss’d of it and its furtherance,” the jarl said on. “This, too, includes the coming incursion on Tallien; for that, we must account ev’ry niche and nicety. If vict’ry be our aim, we must let ev’ry sword, ev’ry spear know their place and play upon the board.”

To his words I nodded. With Ström captured, we now had a new foothold in Londosius. Adjacent to it were the provinces of Tallien and Vesal, the latter of which was certainly an option for attack… were it not for its myriad mountains that barred our march. This left only Tallien as our next course.

“Now, the final matter,” Alban said. His face straightened, as though by uncertainty. “…This… ‘Roun of Orisons’ of which you have spoken.”

“Yes, Jarl,” I returned, before taking up and offering forth a sealed scroll that had lain beside me. “As to that, I’ve prepared for you this. Though I confess: much of it is but my own speculation.”

Alban took the scroll and soon began reading what was the sum of my ponderings upon the Roun, ones began in earnest starting from my post at Balasthea. But as the jarl read on, his former warmth and surety slowly shrivelled into many furrows, grave and grim. In time, a sheen of sweat upon his brow shone against the lantern light.

“…The Roun of Orisons…” he said at last, mystified, yet miserable, “…it is a magick, so you guess. A conjured covenant…” Then he paused, glanced up from the scroll with a sharp glare, and whispered in a sword-edge hiss: “…And brainwash wielded brazen?”

 

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