Vol.4, Ch.1, P.3
I recall a certain story. A legend by this time, really, one about a man named Roland.
Ah, yes, Roland, merchant extraordinaire and father to the much famed and eponymous company of moneyers, middlemen, and magicians of the deal: the Roland Concern. Stories abound of this man’s brokerings and bumblings, but told most oft of them all was the tale of how he drank the mountains down.
Once upon a time, Roland, with his wits keen and quick, scried the coming of great demand for lumber. And what was a merchant as he to do but pounce upon the opportunity? And so pounce he did, purchasing claim after claim to the mountains nearby and their bounties of timber.
Trouble was, those selfsame mountains were long the stamping grounds of huntsmen, and they did not take kindly to this milksop of a claims-holder, choosing instead to dig in their heels and go about as they had for many a generation, claims be damned. For in those olden days, that a mountain could be bought and sold was seldom a thought in the common mind. Indeed, by the huntsmen’s reckoning, Roland’s sudden claim to their mountains was as much a poaching of their rightful game as it was an encroachment upon their very way of life.
For his part, Roland made to the huntsmen solemn promises of monetary recompense, not to mention assurances of good employ and good offices, all in exchange for their vacating the premises. But the men would have none of it yet. These were their mountains, their home.
Rather than relent and resort to more forceful means, Roland believed instead in the power of negotiation. He was a merchant, after all, and the spoken word was as, to him, a sword to a soldier. Hence he hoofed to and fro between the mountains, visiting huntsman after huntsman over the course of many days, that he might melt the ice in their hearts with cordial conversation and compromise. They all took issue with him at first, bringing their boots to his bum and ballocks, and burning his ears with baneful obscenities.
But Roland’s was a grit more ungiving and a groyne more granite than they gave him credit for; with peaceable patience, on and on the ambitious merchant made his visits, and just as he’d hoped, the huntsmen slowly began to lend their ears to him at last.
A peculiar discovery he soon made was that the men ever accompanied conversation with servings of ale. Perhaps it was by some nature of their occupation, or a local and long-cherished tradition. Be that as it may, the men would flap their lips only when first wetted with a good gulp or three of ale.
“I’m come for business, not booze!”—somewhere in the corner of Roland’s conscience did such words wallow. But he’d come this far; it’d be a bad hand to baulk the huntsmen’s hospitality now. Thus he quaffed cup after cup. Were it given, he would gulp. In one huntsman’s home, he slaked himself with no less than five servings. In another, he downed five more. And in the next, he drained an entire bottle. On and on this went; Roland, sousing himself at every visit.
And not just that day, but a brow-raising number of days thereafter. All the effort was not without reward, however. In time, the steel-livered merchant earned the favour of the huntsmen, and at last they vacated their mountain homes, with Roland keeping his every promise to them. Why, of course he did, and they were easily honoured, for the merchant subsequently made a small fortune from his new lumber, and with it, founded a little company he called the Roland Concern—which would go on to become Londosius’ most prolific mercantile entity as it’s known today.
That’s not to say there’s some gem of a moral or a lesson to be learnt from a yarn such as this, if looking solely at how Roland “drank the mountains down”. After all, how well a man bears the bottle is a poor measure of his regard. Yet for whatever reason, the legend left a lasting impression upon me—one coming into the clear as Alban slapped my shoulder in good cheer.
“Hwah hahahah!” boomed his laughter. “None have lasted as long as you, Rolf Mead-quaff! Lo—the sun rises! The moon is gone! Gulp’d from our goblets! Hah!”
The jarl beamed from ear to ear. Downright delighted he seemed, to have finally met another stomach that could make as much merry as his. Not that I dared complain. It was a most pleasant time, and every drink was a joy to drain, that were I as iron-bellied as Roland, I might’ve fancied drinking the jarl’s cellars dry. But alas, I was at my limit.
“It’s high time I retired,” I said, drawing myself up to my feet. “You’re more sotted than I, Sire. What of your duties today?”
“Humph! No matter! But make no mistake: merriments seldom mark my schedule. For Jarl I am, and my duties I do—with dignity!” Alban defended himself. Today was an exception, it seemed, just as much as the smile upon his face. To think, that the stern-as-stone visage of his could produce such mirth. Yet it was mirth most warm, and I was glad to be its recipient.
The sun was smiling almost as brightly when I finally emerged from the jarlshǫll. With a face as flushed as figs, I began my way to the residential districts.
Indeed, Hensen was my home now. I’d been afforded a small plot with a single-storey dwelling, one typically reserved for persons of the Vílungen military. As for my neighbours, they were all of them apprised beforehand of the situation, that amongst them hereafter would live a Man. But there was one stop I had to make before retiring for the day. Turning upon the road, I then recalled the jarl’s last words for me when I’d quit his company:
‘…One more matter…’ he’d said, cup in hand. ‘…That tiger of a Man—him, too, I commend to you… Now, go… Be as brothers…!’
∵
Situated right anear my bestowed abode was the den of that very “tiger”. And like mine, it was a wooden dwelling, flat and humbly sized.
‘….Hwoh…! O’ pine-make, innit…? Not bad…!’ he’d purred about the place; homes of timber were a favourite of his, it’d seemed. Stepping up to his porch, I gave a knock upon the door.
“Get your arse in ‘ere!” barked a rather boorish voice from within.
He and I were the sole Men in all the fólkheimr, and fellow recruits in the Nafílim host as we freshly were, it would do us both much good to get along. Thus upon entering, I greeted him more cordially than he’d done me: “A good morning to you.”
“Aye, aye,” he returned, “sit wherever, will ya?”
There was he sat: Sigmund, former sellsword to the free company of Zaharte. And where but upon the floor, for his home was alike to that of the jarl’s, insofar as sitting upon a matted floor was the main seating arrangement.
He gestured to have me sit, to which I obliged, and soon was I sat aface the fierce fighter, one who had evidently aided in the extraction of the captives from Arbel’s concentration camp. It was in that aftermath that he’d forsaken the Londosian flag, and thereon accompanied me on my return to Hensen.
“Before we talk,” I broached, “…what’s that about?”
I pointed to him. Or rather, to his head, for sitting upon his shoulders with arms wound about his wild hair was a boy of a Nafíl, small and sprightly.
“You askin’ me!?” Sigmund cried. “Li’l monkey up there keeps clingin’ an’ climbin’ ev’rywhere-like, ‘e does! Bloody ‘ell!”
Despite the swordsman’s acrid tone, the boy above only beamed with mischief. “Eh hee hee!” giggled he.
Upon closer look, I soon discovered the cheerful urchin to be the very same saved by Sigmund from the margrave’s manor. Our first meeting it was; an introduction was in order. “A bright little lad you are,” I began. “My name’s Rolf. What’s yours?”
“Arno!” he answered.
A difference of night and day it was; when last I’d seen him, this Arno was but a limp and bloodied body, having been stabbed through the sternum in some unconsummated scheme by the margrave to compel our withdrawal from Arbel. Indeed, “unconsummated”, thanks to Sigmund here who had brought the boy into the hands of our healers—and mere moments before Death could come for the claiming, no less.
“Quite taken to Sigmund, aren’t you, Arno?” I asked the boy, much glad for his present good health.
“Yup!” he bobbingly nodded. “Big Sig saved my life! And someday, I’ll do the same for him!”
“Seems like you’ve a fast friend,” I remarked, before looking below to: “…‘Big Sig’.”
“…You best shut that gob,” the swordsman hissed back, brows and all full-puckered. “This ‘ere brat can’t say me name straight for the life o’ ‘im. It’s ever ‘Siggums’ or ‘Sig-moose’ or summat. So I tells ‘im, ‘Jus’ stick to Sig’—gorblimey.”
“Not a bad idea, Sig,” I poked.
To which “Sig” clucked his tongue. “Aye, keep takin’ that piss, mate,” he half-threatened me.
It was ill to show a child bad manners, whether with clucks or scares, and so for a moment, I was worried for Arno, that he should be so fond of so foul-mouthed a man like Sig. But I relented in the end, seeing the boy in such bliss as he was. No doubt the warmth of Sig’s saving touch was a great comfort to him.
…Much to the man’s annoyance. “Oi, peel off ’ready, aye!? Ya pa’s comin’!” Sig barked again.
“Bweh—” Arno objected, sticking out his tongue.
“His pa?” I asked.
“Aye,” answered Sig. “‘Paul’—the bloke wot’s begat this ‘ere brat.”
Enheartening it was to know that Arno had at least a father to go home to. Thereafter, the three of us chit-chatted for a while, till there came a knock at the door. Paul had come as promised, and after prying his child away from Sig’s head, returned home with Arno in tow. Yet the father was pleasant in our meeting, and had made sure to thank Sig profusely for humouring his handful of a son.
“I’ll be back, Big Sig!”
“Bugger! Faff ‘round in your own damn’d den! Ya bloody brat!”
───────── ∵ ─────────
Comment (0)