Vol.5, Ch.3, P.7
At light of morrow, Rolf and all the host of the alliance began in earnest their much anticipated march. Out from the gates and garrisons of Hensen they poured, to course through Former Ström and Tallien, and then to cross into the foe-land of Isfält, where at last they were to reckon with the holy mountain of Déu Tsellin.
Theirs was swift-going. At sun-up succeeding the second day of their march, already were they filing through Balasthea’s gates and entering the green fields of Former Ström. A man makes the journey from fólkheimr to fortress in half the time, provided he rides hard and alone without rest; and so for a host as massive as the alliance to achieve the same in such time as they did was a feat to astound, indeed. Doubtless their soaring spirits had much to do with it, and withal the deft and wisdom of their commanders.
Thence they summarily arrived at the outskirts of Arbel, and unloading their packs, pitched camp in sight of the free-burgh’s walls. Being so bristling a number, it was, of course, never in the cards for the host to take lodge in the city. Yet it was a fact still that the city itself was a trophy to their past triumphs, and thus to say that it was not theirs to savour might sit unwell in a reasoned mind. Albeit to be sure, preening and parading down the streets of the conquered was never in their desire. Only, they were all of them honoured warriors, wagering their lives then, and soon to wager their lives once more; and where were they to bed on this night but upon spans of sedge and stone, left to look longingly at the city walls and lull themselves to slumber by the cold twinkle of stars rather than the heat and hum of a hearth.
Lise took pity upon them for this. Hence, after taking counsel with her colleagues, she granted a short leave unto all the host, that they might patronise the city as they pleased. Rolf himself saw no ill in this. A reprieve for the battle-bound braves it was, then, provided they return before the deep of night. Met with the words, many of their number rejoiced and set off to the city at once with a spring in their step.
Amongst the males of this lot, some made for the bawdyhouses, to seek wine, women, and warmth before the great wager to come. Many others chose instead a hearty bit of hobnobbing in the city’s taverns. Granted, though a place populated peaceably enough by both Men and Nafílim, no haven of harmony yet was this free-burgh of Arbel.
As an example, the taverns themselves were unspokenly segregated: half for Mennish patronage, and the other for the Nafílim. Being discreet, the visiting braves sooner sought the latter. Yet there may come a time soon when the sons of Man and Nafílkind both sit and sip at the same tables; in such did several of the braves believe as they strolled down the city streets.
It is remembered, however, that the more daring amongst those dreamers, full-confident in what the winning of this war would usher in, had shown up instead to taverns of the “less welcoming” half. But whichever the way of it, all who had gone to Arbel on that night drank deep the spirits of the city, and came back to camp more flushed of face than sure of foot.
∵
“’Ey up, sweetin’. Ye look a li’l shag’d—”
“Eh, shog off.”
Down the dusk-dimmed lane walked Sigmund, alone and—evidently enough from his swift refusal of a wench’s solicitation—aloof as ever. Hardly was he in the mood for a “shag”, as it were, having entered Arbel seeking solely a tavern to tarry the night away with.
“Oy, thass no way t’treat a lady,” complained the wench upon the wayside.
“Don’t need ya, don’t want ya,” Sigmund shot passingly back, “so shog it.”
“Wot?” the wench gasped, wide-eyed; and giving a huff, growled out: “Well, ye’re a tight paddock, ain’t ye!”
Clearly was she irked. A lowly loiterer of lanes and alleyways though she may be, a damsel dead of dignity she was not. Such was what she had decided for herself upon entering this profession; such was the sort of woman, the sort of soul that she was.
But of course, none of that mattered to Sigmund. “I said, ‘shog’,” he cautioned sharply, “an’ shut it on your way off, eh?”
“Hmph! Cursin’ a corner lass,” the woman carped on. “Reight precious, that…!”
A foot stamped on the cobblestone; by now was the woman indignant. But ever defiant, Sigmund grunted back and turned his eyes upon her. The woman shook and shrank.
“O… oy…” she whimpered. That single glance of him, of Sigmund’s carnivorous eyes, had left her all but frail with fear. But finding the man afore her merely staring back, silent and still, the woman gulped and mustered up her courage. “W… w-wot now!? Wot ye wants!?” she shrilled, shivering as she slowly backed away. And then, wringing out the last of that courage, she hissed at Sigmund, “Gandrin’ like a droolin’ droll ’ound…!” And finally with a cry—“Fine! To ’ell with ye!”—the woman wound about, clutched up her skirt, and scampered away. And ever as she did, the woman’s wide eyes would flicker back and again at Sigmund, perhaps out of some fear that he might change his mind and come barking and biting after her.
Instead, however, he merely gave an uncaring scoff and sauntered off towards the very next tavern in sight. Out of the dusky drear and into the cave of conviviality he came. The place, he found, was rather spacious and warm in its air, and withal steeped in smoke and scents of common cookery; and between all the Men that filled its seats, there absolutely sang a melody of mirth and merriment.
Yet Sigmund stopped not to smell the roses; without ceremony, he passed through all the party-making and took a table at the farthest corner he could find. The tavernmaster looked to him, to which Sigmund raised a finger in the air. A nod and a moment later, the master trundled by.
“’Ere we’s, lad,” he croaked, and set afore Sigmund a tankard of ale before returning to his business. Straightway, the former mercenary drained his drink. And ordering another, he drained that one, too. And one more after that. On and on, Sigmund besotted himself in silence.
There were times like these, to be sure; times when he would fancy a gulp or seven of the strong-water. But to be sure again, it was not because Sigmund liked his hard liquors in particular. No; why, he derived hardly any pleasure from getting puggered at all. Sigmund was simply not that sort of man. But nevertheless, he needed the drink.
For whilst to other Men it brought merriment, to Sigmund it brought memories.
From days deep and dark in the past to the freshest scenes of the present, all could be recollected to crystal clarity, and by how but filling his belly with the burning bitters. A rather questionable trait, one might say. But for Sigmund, it was reason enough to crave the cup.
“…”
Merry it was, indeed, in that tavern. Lutes played lively; patrons danced and sang. All the senses could know joy just by being there, so gaggling with gaiety as it was. Yet Sigmund’s table alone was lifeless and quiet; it was for his drink alone that Sigmund had any care.
Down his throat flushed another waterfall, to feed the lake of brown ale in the belly. Such was ever the drink of his selection. Brown ale: a bitter as cheap as it was unsophisticated. And now served another, he held afore him his fifth order of the stuff. In the tall tankard the headless liquor swayed, mirky and maroon. But in one go, Sigmund guzzled it all down.
The night droned by. And sure as the tides, to his table came another cup. He then looked long into the liquor. What was it by now? His eighth order? His tenth? Sigmund’s was a stomach of steel; only after so many servings could he see them: the whispers of his past, playing upon the surface of the firewater. Indeed, at that moment, swaying and dithering, the doors to bygone days finally began to open. And to the rhythm of the ripples, his memories now emerged from the mirk. This was it. The long-awaited walk down trodden paths.
Yet what he saw was neither sweet nor soothing. No, never was it so. For Sigmund’s more faded days were ever filled with agony and disgrace—and anger above all.
Straightway, the former mercenary saw one such scene. A scene of screaming. Of running. Of hiding and hating. And remembering another, he watched that one through, too. And the other after that. And another. On and on, Sigmund besieged himself in reminiscence.
“…”
And as he did, the surrounding merriment soon melted away, leaving the man all alone within the mirk of memory lane.
───────── ∵ ─────────
Comment (0)