3 bar menu

Vol.5, Ch.1, P.2

The golden glow of noon sighed through the jarlshǫll. As we were all sat upon the matted floors of the audience chamber, bathing in the breezes from the veranda anear, we gave our gazes to our guest: Torry. There in the centre was he sat: a wiry and middle-aged fellow, sharply suited, smartly moustached, autumn-hued of hair—and above all else, a son of Man.

His reputation well-preceded him. Guildmaster he was to the mercantile giant that was the Roland Concern, itself based in Tallien—Former Tallien, that is, as of the battles six months past. And a father he was, as well, to the young woman beside him, Ina, whose close companion, Carola, was also come on this occasion. Altogether, the two maidens seemed very hale, a gladness given their past ordeals.

Seated afore our three guests was the Jarl Alban, himself flanked by a handful of civil officials and but two from the military: myself and Lise. All the other high officers of the Vílungen host were away on duty at present, including Volker, who had returned to Arbel to resume his governorly office.

“You must tell me, Master Torry,” said Alban after introductions were had. “All wheels well in Tallien yet? And your councils withal, I trust?”

“Yes, Lord, gladly enough,” answered Torry, half-bowing whence he sat. “We owe our Arbellite neighbours a great many thanks. They have served a fine example.”

Former Ström’s government was as we had installed it after the Battle of Arbel: headed by a parliament of local Arbellites. One might think: being now a province of ours, by rights ought it be Nafílim who sit upon that legislative council, but such was not the case, for we yet felt it too soon for Men to accept direct Nafílim governance, and rightfully so. And as it happened, the arrangement had worked out rather well, and in seeing them so thriving, the Tallieners—themselves also annexed by the Nafílim—had decided to follow in their neighbours’ footsteps.

“And it ought ease your mind that we of the more practical persuasion—myself included, of course—bear no ill will for Nafílim folk,” Torry said on. “Well, much less so than did our over-pious predecessors, at the very least. Indeed, we are only happy to join hands than slap them away, Nafílim or no.”

Though I confess, the warmth is much fueled by my burning hate for Londosius, I hope you understand, Torry went on to reveal. That was no lie, for sure enough, the guildmaster had been positively proactive in cooperating with us—conquerors of his home though we were.

“And thanks, also, to this lull of late, we Tallieners have been afforded generous berth for a bit of elbow grease, if you will,” continued Torry. “Our labours, I thus am glad to report, have borne much fruit, that you will find Former Tallien a territory well-fortified should ever you see us, good Jarl.”

Precisely as the guildmaster said, something of a lull had set upon the present state of war: a complete lack of major clashes, namely, and one stretching for a long while now, at that. The last to come to mind would be the fall of Artean county, itself located a ways east of Tallien. Yet, to be sure, our hand had little part in that upheaval, as following our capture of Tallien, another Nafílim clan—the Reùlingen—had arisen to wrest Artean away from its Londosian overlords.

And thus was the Crown left in shambles, having suffered defeat after defeat, the loss of three lands, the felling of knightly droves, officer and footsoldier alike, and not least a grave wound to its 3rd Order, headless and half-dead as our alliance had so left it. Londosius, therefore, could but anchor itself in silence, that it might ballast its rocking ship and shore up its leaking hull, as one might say.

For our part, we craved time and quiet no less. Freshly severed from Londosius as they were, our new lands needed leeway to get their wheels back on track. The loss of vital trade routes and partners, the sudden and sore need for military fortifications, the lingering friction against Nafílim rule—on and on went the list of things in need of address. Thus is explained the lull on the frontlines: for months now had both we and our Londosian rivals been staring down one another whilst focusing on each our internal affairs.

It was in times like these that I greatly appreciated men of action like Torry. Thanks to him, a new parliament had been swiftly established in Former Tallien, and altogether a myriad of matters were settled by his tireless hand, proving to us all that “guildmaster” was no guise of a title.

“Albeit, the lull ends right at the borders of Isfält,” he warned us. “Yes, gentles—it is as we have feared.”

The marquisate of Isfält… our next battlefield, if the predictions hold. Not only was it a darling territory of Londosius, but also sacred ground to the whole of Yonaism itself. As Torry next reported, the Quire to be found there were in tight lockstep with the Crown, and were presently put on high alert.

Our next battle, then, was both decided and soon to come. High time it was; already were the tinders lit. Indeed, despite the recent lack of large-scale warring, it was a fact that Londosius’ many other borders were asimmer with skirmishes; we the Víly-Gorka alliance and our Reùlingen counterparts were scarce the only pieces on the Nafílim side of the board—many other clans throughout the continent had been inspired to arms.

That’s not to say we didn’t desire peace, but that “peace” was yet only a promise upon the lips, for still to this moment did Londosius crave the complete and utter destruction of the Nafílim. And so long as it did, such lulls as we had at hand were naught but calms before the storm, and in every sense of the phrase, at that. Yes; grim though it was, we yet had many a battle ahead of us, a foreboding to which Torry’s intelligence only seemed a bellwether: as he then reported, men and arms were already flowing in Isfält.

An answer was sore-needed. Fortunately, the guildmaster himself had a few hints on offer.

“And with that, matters as touching Artean, too, beg much of our attention,” he said, before turning to his daughter. “Ina, if you will.”

“Yes, Master,” she answered. Then did Ina give me a glance, but clearing her throat, she then proceeded with her own report. “Intelligencers in Artean have confirmed our suspicions,” she spoke with professional clarity. “There in that county lies hid a resistance… the ‘Cutcrowns’ they call themselves, ever bent against the Londosian establishment.”

“Humph. Yes—writ in the very stars, that,” Alban remarked, folding his arms.

Against every river sits a stubborn stone; under every reign lies hid a resistance—this we had all known, yet it was the jarl who had scried in Artean the existence of a resistance more… “daring” than the rest, shall I say.

“Power for his own pleasures—such be the obsession of Artean’s chief,” the jarl explained. “Yet, when counsels or combats call for him, he but answers with poor prowess and policies. And so have his smallfolk long-fended for themselves, and to a proudness, I hear.”

“Then you hear as we have seen, Lord,” Ina confirmed. “Being Rolanders, Carola here and I have had many a dealing with Artean before. And ever are we awed by its people: proudly they bear themselves, indeed, yearning dearly to be unyoked.” Turning to Carola, Ina gave her companion a nod before revealing the crux of her report. “As for the Cutcrowns themselves… we have caught wind of their connections with the local mercenary guild. In fact, there is reason to believe that both are spearheaded by a single man.”

“Rebels and mercenaries, all in one—a worthy alliant, if so,” Lise noted. “But, whether they may resonate with our cause…”

A hard expectation, that, one facing no debate from any amongst us. Victorious thus far though we were, with many a great stride made in these past months, there yet remained tall hurdles when it came to cooperation between Men and Nafílim. Yet in this very same gathering were glints of hope: Torry, Ina, Carola, namely—they who had chosen to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Man’s old nemesis. It was just as I’d long wished for, that through understanding can we forge new fellowships and make for ourselves a future more fair.

And as though in vouch for this, Ina said to Lise, “Rest assured, my Lady. As it happens, our dear friend Frieda has kept good terms with the master mercenary of Artean.”

“Oh?” said Alban, his eyes softening with solace. “That Frieda? Rolf’s old fellow-in-arms! Or?”

“Ought be,” Lise confirmed for her father. “No surprise. Hers seems a face familiar to many a circle.”

Already had both jarl and jarl-daughter met Frieda following the capture of Tallien. It was then that we had learnt of the freelance’s loathing for Londosius, the very same as Torry’s, and of her full willingness to work for our cause. Albeit I could not doubt that within her yet lingered some cinder of distrust for the Nafílim. Still, I firmly believed that even that would soon snuff itself out, given time and intimacy.

As for tidings of her connections to the Cutcrowns’ leader—well, it left me gaping with gladness, if I’m honest. For therein laid the important bit to me: connections. Bonds, fellowships, affiliations… each tying with another unto a thread, and from there, a seam, a circle, and soon a whole weave of wills in harmony—all started by but one outstretched hand and another to accept it.

“The eyes of an eagle you sport,” debated one of the Hensenite officials, “if a resistance hid in their hole you could espy.”

“Nay, not so,” said Ina. “In truth, only of late have they cast their cloak of secrecy.”

She had the right of it. With Artean now in the hands of Clan Reù, gone was that land’s allegiance to Londosius, and with it, any need for a resistance to so operate in the shadows; communications with them ought be endeavoured soon enough. A potential alliant in the Cutcrowns; the Reùlingen ready to join our march on Isfält… verily would the Nafílim host soon bristle in number, to be sure.

Yet, the same held true for our foes. For one, the Isfälter marquisate was home to the Champions Salvator, a private and powerful legion of the Deivic Quire. Were our sources to be believed, that very legion was itself a match for any of the knightly Orders… if not more so.

Yes… the Orders. Londosius yet had four more ready to slip our way, and I doubted not in the least that it would. And that’s to say naught of the sheer size of the realm itself. Three of its territories had fallen, true, but altogether were such losses mere drops in the bucket, as it were. Thus no mistake ought be made here: despite our victories, Londosius was yet a colossus, greatest still amongst all the realms of Man. If aught, we had thus far dealt only a scratch upon the giant’s toes.

No, indeed. Not yet have we witnessed the full fury of Londosius. And knowing our next target laid in holy land—Isfält, a jewel upon the Yonaistic crown—then in a bid to protect it would Londosius move its mightier pieces against us.

And if one such piece be another Order, then… like as not…

“Ser Rolf,” a voice called, fishing me out of my mulling. Looking up, I found gazing square at me a gentleman trim of form and tranquil of face. “Your brows,” Torry said warmly, “you bend them as would a caravaner robbed of all his wares.”

“Ah,” I uttered, catching myself. “Apologies. I meant not to stifle the air, just… the coming battle. It seems all too grave, and well-leaves me lost in thought.”

“Rather peculiar for a commander, this lad,” noted Torry, smiling. “The smallest slip-up, and ‘sorry’ he says. Now there’s a modesty much missed in the realms of Man.”

“And in ours!” Lise quipped, earning a sudden round of laughter from everyone present. And met with the levity, I felt immediately a lightness easing my heavy shoulders.

Nevertheless, the coming battle—without question would it tower skies above all that I’d waged before. But all will be well. This I trusted to. This I swore in my heart.

─────────　∵　─────────