Vol.5, Ch.3, P.1
Arbel seemed as sprightly a city as ever. But I had not parted the gates of Hensen for some sightseeing on this day. No; with me were the jarls Alban and Dušan, along with their retinues of civil officials. Lise, too, included herself in our company. On the agenda was business, and as one might expect from an entourage to include two jarls, it was one of passing importance, to say the least. The Reù clan and the Cutcrowns of Artean—today were we to treat with their representatives, to share our minds and make known our resolve before the long-expected march on Isfält.
All sat and waiting we were at the meeting venue: a parliamentary chamber normally reserved for the law-layers of this city. In loose twain was the room divided: two long arrays of seats faced one another, separated by an amply broad aisle used for standing oration. With the other two parties yet to arrive, however, the opposite half of the hall sat empty. Amidst the anticipation, I sank deep into thought.
How very long it felt since last my feet stood upon the stonework of Arbel, though the absence measured not more than mere months, in truth. Yet in those months had come myriad changes, enough to leave the eyes dazzled and the lungs tired, and for things recently passed to feel like forever ago.
Pining for a breather, I had fancied today a visit to my former residence here in Arbel, though with time being so scant, there was nothing for it. But were it possible, I should like to take Mia along one of these days for a trip down memory lane. Our quaint and coincidental life together there in that old, dusty home… Looking back, it was to me a time of much meaning and much worth. How glad I would be if Mia herself thought the same.
“Rolf,” Lise whispered from her seat beside me, “our Cutcrown guests’ve just arrived, I heard. We ought soon see their faces at last.”
“Very good,” I answered, before plucking from my breast pocket and re-perusing a certain sheet of paper: to wit, a letter penned by Frieda for the eyes of the Hensenite vindarþing. In it was related the agreement with the foresaid resistance in Artean—one reached without hitch, I must note.
This was glad news to us, indeed and the very best we could’ve expected, even, that we now owed Frieda a great and well-earned debt. Always had she been a soul as staunch and true as could be, thinking on it, from as far back as our fateful meeting down in the Albeck dungeon.
My thoughts turned next to the others: those who were joined with me now in this great, historic enterprise, their every step braving the one same road, their every effort furthering the one same cause. Frieda, Torry, and other former Londosians who now spared no idle moment in seeking out both intelligence and negotiation; the clans Víly and Gorka, speeding day-by-day the hands of their high officials to the formulation of many plans; and last but not least, my fellow fighters, each training sweat-and-blood for the next battle… amongst whom were those like Dan and Tomas—those who gave new vitality to our conviction.
These people, these living hopes; they were all of them scouring the same sky, seeking after the same star. A heat in me throbbed just from the very thought of it. Indeed, it would seem that even Rolf the unrousable could not help but feel a little fired up himself. And how could he not? Wishing together to protect the same precious things, working together to realise the same purposes; such was the spirit of the people now in my circle. And what a wealth of meaning they imparted to my every passing day.
Amidst the meditation, my eyes wandered about the paper in hand. How very curious. I had thought it once before, but seeing it now anew, I must confess: Frieda’s script was rather charming to look at. Round and flowery it was; certainly not what comes to mind when considering a hand more honed of sword than quill. An impolite appraisal, perhaps, but no time remained to dwell on it further; with an announcement from the speaker and a groan echoing through the chamber, the entrance doors rolled open. Appearing and processing down the aisle now was the Cutcrowns’ party, at the head whereof strode their long-striving leader. The chamber rustled as we stood to greet our guests.
“Grateful we be for your coming,” first spoke Lise’s father, grave and resounding. “I am Alban, jarl to Clan Víly.”
“And Dušan am I, jarl to fierce Gorka,” said Dušan next, rasping yet regal. “I, too, give thanks for this day’s tryst.”
“A warm welcome,” replied the Man foremost amongst the Cutcrown file. “Dennis be me name. Master mercen’ry of Artean, an’, er… well, leadin’ blade to the Cutcrowns, I s’pose.”
Easy and yet sharp was the voice of this Dennis, like a keen sword held lax. The trait trickled down to his mien as he received the rest of the greetings from our entourage, Lise’s and mine included. Thereafter, all the assembly then settled into their seats, with the Cutcrowns occupying half of the opposite side. And there a thought lingered: if my imagination hadn’t played me wrong, I should say that, during the course of my own introduction, Dennis’ attention had seemed particularly undivided, as one might say.
Right as he sat himself down, however, the master mercenary sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Never thought I’d see the day,” he said. “Drops me jaw, ’e does.”
“The day you deign to join swords with our folk? Or?” Dušan probed, light in tone, but deeply intent all the same.
“Well, ‘deign’ be a bit of a word, innit, Dušan-ser?” answered Dennis with a smirk. “Alliance bain’t what binds us, I’ll give’ee that, but if we be aimin’ arrows at the same beast, we might as well shoot’ee in jolly concert, if thou gets me meanin’.”
“For true,” Alban remarked. “There be neither ‘high’ nor ‘low’ between brothers in battle. Let that guide us, then, each and all, in both counsel and combat henceforth.”
The last two had the right of it: so long as the glue of agreement holds, Men and Nafílim may yet fight side-by-side, alliance or no.
Still, coarse and constrained seemed the air in the hall now. Not that it was to be helped. Though, come the curtain call of the next battle at Isfält, that ought change soon enough. Yes; a precedent—that was precisely what we needed and what I myself hoped for: a precedent of rival races achieving a common victory under a common banner. Such a miracle, I firmly believed, would be as the finest jewel to the appraising eye of history.
And as well, an appealing impetus for any undecided sword to join ours.
“An’ thou—Rolf the rebel, was it?” Dennis said to me from across the aisle. “Frieda sends ’er regards.”
“Speaking of,” said I, “she’s rather absent, isn’t she?”
“Aye. Back in ol’ Artean she be, roundin’ up me guilders,” answered Dennis. “They bain’t bickerin’ an’ bitin’ back at ’er, if that worries thee. In fact, Frieda be a gurt favourite amongst us lot; fame an’ fancy an’ all that.”
Frieda a favourite? That I could nod to. Lovesome of looks, lethal of sword, and warm of heart withal—it strained no one’s imagination that amongst warriors would she be a magnet of admiration.
“Reminds me; she ’erself’s a-prattled on a pretty bunch about thee, sure enough. Aye, ’ow ’er eyes light up ev’rytime ‘Rolf’ leaves ’er lips,” Dennis revealed, before leaning forth intently in his chair. “If I was thee, Rolf-lad, I’d be real careful ’round ’er from ’ere on out,” he warned with a wink. “’Cos ’tween thee an’ I, the other mercen’ries—they can be a grudging lot.”
“Been naught but careful, I’ve done,” I assured him. That is, till a thought occurred to me. “Well… it’s twice seen her bare, but that’s—”
Dennis burst out laughing. “Easy there, stallion!” he cried.
“What?” I said. “Nay, it was pure happensta—”
“Rolf-lad,” he said, and winking again, gestured his chin towards my side. “Careful, now.”
My eyes followed, and there I found Lise fuming in her seat and staring daggers back at me. I’ve done it now, I thought; Rolf the ribald seemed a meeter title for me in this moment. For any man, no matter the circumstance, ought never set his gaze so capriciously upon a woman’s bare body, lest he tempt the evil eye as I’ve done. Indeed, explaining it away as a mere “happenstance” certainly helped my case not in the slightest. By the look on Lise’s face, it might’ve spelled my doom, even.
I coughed. “Right,” I said. “Careful, it is.”
“…”
Lise merely narrowed her emerald eyes at me, to which Dennis laughed again to much mirth. “Ain’t seemin’ like the lesson’s learnt. But, fair enough,” he quipped, and then, turning a gaze of growing intrigue upon Lise, he said fadingly, “Man an’ Nafíl, eh? Will’ee work out, I wonders? Hmph… maybe not. Or… maybe.”
A musing of much mystery. Yet, inexplicably did its tone echo in the ears, teasing from the heart more emotion than could be prepared for. Our two jarls, for their part, seemed convinced as they both nodded in response.
But before more could be explored of this, the chamber speaker rose from his centre seat and announced, “Now to arrive: the last party of today’s council!”
They were here at last: the representatives of Clan Reù. Over dangerous roads had they trodden, for it was long a fact that to cross from Reùlingen lands—or even from newly annexed Artean, for that matter—it was most necessary to cut through Isfälter soil, and by extension, the dragnets of Londosius. Albeit was it a way well-travelled. The disparate Nafílim clans have ever been on communicative terms, after all, and so a secret route between them here or there is hardly a baffling thing to consider. Still, particularly for persons of any import, such routes were never to be endeavoured at leisure.
Yet, on this day was he come, nevertheless.
“G-good day,” he greeted us. “I’m Walter.”
A hero of the Nafílim; the storm that sundered free from Londosian reign the territory of Artean—Walter the vaunted. Yet the young Nafíl’s looks scarce became the legend. Grown-out and untended was his hair, like a bush forgotten in the corner of a garden. And with a stature as slender as a twig, he altogether seemed very much a scholarly soul, one who spends his days deep in his books, forgetful of all the world as it wheels outside his windows.
Greetings were then exchanged as before, during which Walter would merely reply with a simple “Pleasure, pleasure” or a “Yes, yes, good”, scratching his head or bowing up and down all the while. Wayward he seemed, as if he knew little of addressing eminences and was openly sorry about it. The fellow Reùlingen in his sparse entourage, on the other hand, looked none too pleased upon espying in their presence both myself and the Cutcrowns. With the world as it was, however, I couldn’t blame them.
“Let us now hold our war council,” Alban declared after all were seated and settled. “First, the rosters of the Víly-Gorka alliance. Lise?”
“Yes, Sire,” Lise answered, who then began in earnest a briefing of our numbers and the war situation at large. And thus was started in earnest the final council, upon the eve of a battle not seen in centuries.
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