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Vol.4, Ch.2, P.1

 

The meeting with our Gorkungen guests was to be held at the inn of their stay—to wit, a reception room nestled inside the very establishment itself. As requested by the other party, only few were to attend: no more than four, to be exact, with Alban and myself representing the Vílungen. And for the Gorkungen: their leader, Dušan, and his loyal jarlshǫnd.

When met at last, each side sat vis-à-vis at a table. Surrounding us was a stately space, gently illumined and finely furnished. This inn was evidently Hensen’s best, and our room certainly echoed its quality.

Like a firebrand freshly aflame was the Gorkungen jarl, Dušan. A peer of Alban at fifty, beneath his wintry age was a warrior’s mien, mighty and weathered by a great many past battles. His chin was as a chiselled boulder, his bosom solid as a mountainside, and his arms large like prized logs. Ablaze was his hair, redly framing his face as a mane mantles a lion’s. Altogether, his was a semblance much beseeming a leader of so battle-loving a clan as the Gorkungen.

Having got introductions done with, Dušan moved to speak. “Do forgive so sudden a tryst, Herr Rolf,” he said, rough and raspy at the voice, “for I wish’d much to meet you and hear your words, you see.”

“An honour, Jarl Dušan,” answered I, bowing.

“A Man of great gait and girth I envision’d you,” he noted. “Hmph! Mine imagination yet fails me not!” Laughter, loud as thunder, pealed from his beaming mouth. Such heartiness was much reminiscent of Alban’s own majesty, and yet, underneath his smile there seemed to simmer an emotion of another sort. “Lo!” he exclaimed. “How my Dita blenches afore your fearsome form!”

“S-Sire! You say overmuch…” whispered the jarlshǫnd beside him. A woman Nafíl little more than twenty in her years, this “Dita” kept her eyes cast slightly down as she shrank at the shoulders from her jarl’s teasing.

“Gentle now, Rolf,” Alban said from my side. “Bare not your fangs so bright at our honourable jarlshǫnd.”

“I’ve bared no such thing…” I defended myself. Unsought words the two jarlar were letting slip. If aught could be thought of them, let “gentle” come last to the mind.

“How now, Alban. Such fangs befit a fellow as he. A turncoat to his kingdom, a stealer of Londosian land—suspect he should seem were his face any less fierce, I say,” Dušan remarked with a smile. “No; come, Herr Rolf! Regale these grey ears of your battles!”

And so regale him I did, of the fires that raged after my arrival here at Hensen, to the taking of Arbel itself.

 

∵

 

“Ah, a tale, for true,” judged Dušan, rubbing his chin. “The Östbergs fell. And with them, the Fiefguard did fold.”

“And Arbel and Ström in like fashion,” I added.

The Gorkungen jarl had put up quite the questioning in the course of my account. Curiosity seemed a candle brightly lit in him, for sincerely had he assayed to perceive all aspects of the recent battles through the twin lenses of “tactic” and “strategy”. Lovers of the fray, indeed, the Gorkungen.

With the tale now full-told, Dušan folded his arms and drew a long breath. “Mm… battles of great burning,” he reflected. “Yet through such fires did you fight, and fight well. Dita, think you the same?”

“Yes, Sire,” the jarlshǫnd agreed, her voice vanishingly demure. “Great battles, indeed. I cannot imagine…”

“Herr Rolf,” Dušan said, turning to me. “Mine ears hear humility in your words. Embellish’d they are not, by either brag or brass. You recount, too, feats of friend and foe with equal glow,” he appraised. “Just from that, this now I know: a seldom soul you are, a gem of a generation. Meeting you was most mete.”

“You honour me, Jarl,” I returned, “though more than I deserve.”

Teeth stung by too sweet a treat—such I felt in Dušan’s esteeming of me, so estranged from appreciation over the years as I was.

“Now, then,” said Dušan, unfurling his arms and sitting erect. “You well-sense our desire to march and make battle beneath your banner. But, suppose we ally as plan’d. Afore us, then, awaits what path?”

To his question I nodded. “A path cutting next into Tallien, east of Former Ström. By the lay of the land, it is our only course. I say we ought re-muster with all speed to this very purpose—together.”

“And what espy you in Londosian designs?” Dušan pressed. “The realmlings have lost land; one guesses they mean to steal it back, and soon. Or?”

“Nay, Londosius sooner desires our destruction, I think,” said I. “After all, doubtless it foresees our intent to take Tallien; easier to fight us upon the open fields there than bring the battle to a burgh. Londosius remembers the broadness of Arbel’s battlements, you see—fondly before, and bitterly now.”

In our assault on Arbel had we drawn the Fiefguard out of their burgh, and there ambushed them in their march. Now was the gameboard turned. Of course, we intended not to suffer as the Fiefguard had.

Alban nodded to my answer. “Betwixt Tallien and Former Ström stretches plains, from one horizon to another,” he added. “Keen is the kingdom to strike us there, this I am certain. A battle sure to be decided more by strength than stratagem…” The Vílungen jarl then looked with deep intent upon his Gorkungen counterpart. “My good Dušan. You know of what I implore: a number mighty enough to meet the enemy. And what finer braves to bolster our number than those of great Gorka?”

“Indeed, I know,” Dušan affirmed. “Yes… a thund’ring threat you now face: Knight Stefan the Unsullied, and his silver-Men of the 2nd withal. Such is your enemy, or? For be they not closest to that country?”

“Closest, yes. But keen for combat?” Alban shook his head. “My Man-friend here and I have counsel’d otherwise. The 2nd means to stay put, we think.”

“They’ve got much on their plate at present,” I added. “Too much, in fact. No, it’s the 3rd that marches upon us, like as not.”

Or the 5th, to be sure. After all, much rapport there was between them and their former mareschal, Bartt Tallien. What’s more, they could scry my mind better than any other Order. Were they not so distantly based in Norden, nor too undermanned to match our mettle, certainly would the 5th have been the first pick. But instead, our eyes ought turn to the 3rd—the fiercer force of the two, by a long shot.

“I see. The 3rd…” Dušan grumbled, “…and if so, then Knight Matthias makes you his mark. Alban, long ago you glimpsed him affrighting the battlefield. You remember yet, or?”

“Yes, once. Ten and five winters past, thereabouts,” answered Alban. “That Man… He was chief to their number—then, and still to this very day.”

Sir Matthias Juholt. A knight as sound as solid steel… and a most trusted chess piece of Central besides. Finding a flaw in such a foe would prove hard-going, more so than in any other knight of the Order. Certainly a match of misfortune.

And to think: for fifteen years has that man served as mareschal. Beside such mettle did I seem a mere sproutling. Indeed, he, Alban, Dušan—they have all of them been waging war since days before my birth. Belated of me perhaps, but I felt then towered over by their sheer experience.

“How now, Herr Rolf,” cried Dušan, catching me silent. “Dark with thought you seem.”

“Apologies. It’s no matter,” I said, shaking my head before broaching the next subject. “We know our enemy; let us know our allies next, shall we?”

“Ah, yes, yes. The alliance!” Dušan said with spirit. “Let us join at once, and array our ranks as we must. Dita, I leave the niceties to you.”

“Yes, Sire,” the jarlshǫnd answered.

“Dušan, battle-brother,” Alban said, sitting straight and bowing. “You have my enduring debt.”

“As would many others henceforth, I hope,” the other jarl returned. “More, Alban. More battles must we win, that our vict’ries might echo to other clans’ ears, and call them to our cause!”

“Spoken true. The next battle serves a stepping stone. Our feet must not stumble here,” echoed Alban. To me he then turned. “Rolf. Much I lay upon your shoulders.”

“As you will, Jarl,” I answered with a determined nod.

And so was forged the alliance between the clans Víly and Gorka. At last, we now had forces enough to foray into Tallien and continue our course against Londosius.

 

∵

 

Having ended the meeting, we exited the reception room and joined with a retinue of Gorkungen guards, who had all been standbying outside for their jarl. It would seem the long years of battle-lust had little dulled Dušan’s sense of courtesy, as from there he personally led us towards the inn entryway.

“Glad was this meeting,” the Gorkungen jarl mused as we walked abreast down the corridor. “And glad am I to hear much from our new Man-friend.”

Bright was his timbre, but as yet, low in a way, leadened down by some deep emotion. Throughout our meeting had I espied this peculiarity, that though Dušan displayed a grandiosity befitting a jarl, beneath his smile loitered a shade more grey than it ought be. What that shade might’ve portended had occupied much of my thought. By this point, however, I felt nearer the truth: Dušan was come today to cut through some impasse… or find reason to forgive a past grievance.

“Pardon, good Jarl, but…” I broached carefully, “…you’ve lost a loved one, haven’t you?”

Wonder was in his eyes as he turned my way. “You affright me, Herr Rolf,” Dušan returned, sunny and sullen at the same time. “See you this scar of mine, do you?”

“Nay, but for the unbroken rue upon your brow,” I answered, “and the band about your arm.”

Sure enough, Dušan and Dita both were donned with armbands, black in colour, and embroidered through with a green line. If memory serves, such a device signifies remembrance of the recently deceased. A custom practised by a number of Nafílim clans—the Gorkungen included, it would seem.

“Never was it my mind to mourn by mien, as well,” Dušan confessed, quiet. “…It was my wife.”

“I see… my condolences, Jarl,” I said, bowing. “And to you, as well, Edelfräulein.”

Dita’s shoulders audibly jumped. She’d been walking paces behind us three the entire way, but looking upon her, I found the jarlshǫnd now full-halted. Alban looked to me with slight surprise upon his visage.

“Oh? Know you Dita to be Dušan’s daughter?” he asked. “I scarce recall telling you such a detail.”

“The details themselves told the tale,” I answered.

The same armband of black, the same curl in their ears—and above all, the glimpses Dušan had oft given to Dita, filled as they were with fatherly concern. But there his daughter yet stood, frozen and downcast… till, that is, her fingers slipped behind the collar at her breast.

“Edelfräulein,” I said, soft, but firm. “Pray stay your hand.”

Puzzled, the two jarlar bent their brows. Long had they served the Nafílim military, to be sure, with a great many battles under each of their belts. But their offices were civil now; not forever could they sustain such sensitivity to the darker, more deathly intents of others. And being Dušan’s daughter, never could Dita have earned an inkling of doubt from the duo.

But I saw different: from the very first moment I laid eyes upon her, I had perceived in Dita a hid hostility.

“Taking my life will not give back your mother hers,” I tried to reason with her.

I know.

Such was her thought, writ full upon her face. A futility, fraught and fuming, but never to be helped. Yet that mildened little the sudden malice in her eyes as a dagger flashed from her breast and flew forth to pierce mine.

“Dita!?” her father screamed, aghast. But he went unheeded; stepping forth, I thwarted the dagger-thrust with a snatch of the hand behind it.

“Eaaa───ah!!” Dita shrieked as she struggled against my grasp. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Foul Man! Foul!! You!! All of yo—ou!!” A great clamour arose as the Gorkungen guards then rushed in to restrain Dita. “You took her!! You killed her!!” she shrilled on. “My mother!! Give her baaa───ack!!”

Yet, even with dagger divested, even whilst detained by the many arms now about her, never did Dita’s eyes leave mine—eyes boiling behind many tears; a stare that meant to kill if it could.

“Gyaaa───ah!!”

Sharp was her shriek; a bellowing blade by the name of “hatred”, honed enough to hew open the very throat that begat it. And for a time, the once-quiet corridor continued to quake under the crushing echoes of Dita’s screaming.

 

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