Vol.6, Ch.1, P.9
Rather of late, the Rolanders had finished erecting here in Hensen a branch office for their Concern. It well-seemed a sign of the times; speeded by the inception of our new alliance, the economic sphere that comprised the three Clans’ domains, in addition to three of the four former fiefdoms of Londosius, was nearing its completion. The next task was to ballast the ship, as it were, and with their branch newly built, the Rolanders were all hands on deck.
The arrangement of the place was rather simple, with Hensenites filling the lion’s share of the posts, and a smattering of Men from the main branch present to counsel and mentor them. Yet, at Torry’s insistence, it was still to be a Nafíl who presided over the office as the guildriff.
Speaking of, the master merchant himself had been keen on that very post. Indeed, Torry had wished to pack his bags, bid Tallien farewell, and transfer himself to the Hensen branch. Doubtless he’d deemed that the fólkheimr would be vital in the coming years, enough to warrant the sudden move; yet, as far as I’d seen and heard of him, his ever-deepening fondness for this place might’ve had much—or more—to do with it. After all, his visits were, by now, to be counted with both hands, and many of the folk here had grown quite accustomed to seeing him mingled amongst them. And if that weren’t enough, Torry had even found for himself here a favourite inn, a room whereof he’d bought out for the entire year.
Altogether, however, I marked the Rolanders exceedingly enterprising and agile in these recent affairs. Indeed, it wasn’t everyday that so large and looming a giant of the mercantile world could make so many inroads so quickly. Though, as the Rolanders might’ve put it, steeping themselves in the culture of a new market, as they were so doing, was all just a part of the job, and an important one, at that. Still, they had little choice but to take issue with their guildmaster’s passions, scrambling to catch his ankles before he could fly the coop. After all, mountains of work yet remained back home in Former Tallien. So it was that, conceding to their pleas, Torry had relented and unpacked his bags. Albeit I suspected that he very well could’ve juggled two offices at once, being the marvellous merchant that he was. Nay; after coming to his senses, it was consideration, like as not—and maybe a pinch of pity—that might’ve calmed his wings. Otherwise, the poor Nafílim guildriff surely would’ve been left to sit and twiddle his thumbs whilst the guildmaster manned all the reins.
At any rate, this was all in good sign of further deepening relations between the two races. As for the alliance, it’d been given a new name: the “Himmel”; and its army: the “Decke”. Not the most sophisticated of names, I know, and being a momentous coming-together of disparate races, we’d all thought that something a mite more… well, clever would’ve better suited. But in the end, we’d settled on a straightforward name, one that might more readily harbour the heart of any who so gleaned hope from its simple cause.
On that topic, things have been positively bustling in the Decke, what with new chains of command and all having to be seen to—the Mennish side whereof being particularly busy. In their case, a great re-ordering had been undertaken, one that saw the Cutcrowns, once a resistance comprising mercenaries and uprisers, being officially elevated to the status of an army and division of the Decke. And to this moment were they recruiting from within the three former fiefdoms any Man with the wit and will to fight.
Of course, the move had garnered no small dissent from the Nafílim side. In their eyes, this bold allowance was but a wilful arming of a people conquered. Fair enough, I suppose; the Cutcrowns being born from rebellion, who’s to say that their revolutionary spirit wouldn’t “spur” again? Yet there was nothing for it. We needed to be united against Londosius, and in letting these rebels rise from their ragtag origins might we gather more Men to our fold, and withal bolster our borders with the enemy realm. By my measure, however, the worries were unwarranted. It was Dennis who helmed the Cutcrowns, let’s not forget, a fellow fighter at Déu Tsellin and an alliant as trusty as they come.
I’ve called them the “Cutcrowns” thus far, but in truth, they, too, had undergone a bit of a name-change. Indeed, they now went by the “Turnlancers”. Rather innocuous and not terribly different from their former name, all told, especially given that they’d openly accepted any and all suggestions—the most popular having been the “Dennis Division”. But the master himself would have none of it. He’d taken some gripe for his blatant refusal, naturally. Finally free from Londosius, only to be overruled on the first big topic on the agenda? Whatever happened to “decision-making by the masses” and the “will of the people” and all? But in the end, Dennis had put his foot down and denied what he deemed to be naught but a prank:
‘…Blige… Quit that ’ogwash… Boils me piss, ’ee does…!’ were his words.
And so did we have the Himmel and its Turnlancers. But when people started pairing the names in a sentence, they realised an oddity: what does rebellious “turn-lancing” have to do with an all-including “sky”? That’s like water and oil, they’d say. And to be frank, I had to agree. That was rather ticklish to think about. But it ought be fine, I thought. Besides, chequered-ness was a part of our charm, if anything.
Which brings me to the matter of Isfält. As with their three predecessors, the Isfälters, too, were allowed to establish and maintain their own parliament. But having long been in the tight clutch of Yonaism, much difficulty lay ahead as the people of that province came to terms with their new rulers. For that, doubtless would great energy, ingenuity, and time be needed.
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“Ah, lo! our guest,” cried Alban, who then pointed down the wheelway. And sure enough, trotting hither in the distance was a single carriage, aboard which was a military attaché.
With Men and Nafílim now joined in alliance, it’d been arranged that between the Turnlancers and the rest of the Decke, there should be sent diplomatic officers, their duty being to liaise, as well as learn intimately the other’s martial methods—through which, it was hoped, the hosts may emerge a military more harmonised. Not that it might prove an easy task, but every bit counts.
Today, of course, were we to welcome one such precious liaison from the Turnlancers. The sun soared high as I stood there at the roadside, along with Alban and a retinue of other Hensenite officials. And when the carriage finally pulled up and its door swung open, Alban was first to speak.
“Well met,” he greeted the female attaché as she emerged. “From afar you are come. This jarl welcomes you.”
“Why, many thanks, Sire,” she warmly returned. “But the journey was scarce a jaunt, if you’re worry’d, seein’ as it’s both barrack an’ banner we share now.”
“For true,” said the jarl. “And ere long may it, too, be mind and heart we share.”
“Aye, that I can drink to,” agreed the attaché. “I reckon it’ll mean more elbow greasin’ on my part, but that’s a glad grudge to bear.” With that, she then turned my way, flashed a sunny smile, and said, “Lookin’ forwards to workin’ with ya ’gain, Rolf.”
“Likewise, Frieda.”
Indeed, it was good old Frieda who was to be our resident Turnlancer liaison. She had the merits for it and more. Never mind her passing keenness, capability, and acclaim; her accomplishments alone vouched for her enough, for on the frontlines at Déu Tsellin had she fought, enduring the onset of both the sword-devout Sven and the mighty knights of the 1st. And that’s not to mention her already-glowing favour from the Nafílim, after having helped them court the Cutcrowns and ultimately take Tallien all those moons ago.
She’d wavered at first, as I’d heard. Parting from her dear friends Ina and Carola had been a saddening prospect for her; but at the last, she’d steeled herself and decided to take the dive, having realised that all our fortunes were at stake, and that taking up this post was sure to help it greatly along.
Besides, there were no lustful lords left to molest the two merchant-maidens. From what they’d told me, however much carnal lust the viscount and my former mareschal Bartt Tallien had, he utterly lacked in leadership over his land. But that was a chapter closed by none other than Frieda’s own hand. What’s more, the land of Tallien itself was not so far away. As she herself said, the journey between here and there was truly no jaunt: being now within the same Himmel, new Hensen-Tallien roads were being wrought and looked after by the day. Indeed, if ever should Frieda long for them, her dear friends were but a carriage ride away.
That’s not to say those very friends were themselves so stoic. In fact, they’d wavered much the same, with Ina herself for a time conspiring to transfer to the Concern’s branch here in Hensen, just to be closer to her dear Frieda. Like father, like daughter, truly. That she was stopped like Torry himself had been, on account of the main branch sore-needing her expertise, surprised no one at all. The poor trio; if ever they should visit again, I think I’ll prepare for them as snug and easy a stay as may be arranged.
“The higher-ups will meet you on the morrow,” I then said to Frieda. “Why not take it easy till then?”
As she ought. Doubtless did she have a boatload of busy days ahead of her.
Frieda nodded. “Good idea. But what ’bout yourself?” she asked me. “Out for duty soon?”
“I already am, as a matter of fact,” I answered before bowing. “Rolf the escort, at your service.”
“Oh? Awful smooth now, ain’t we?” chuckled Frieda. “But thanks. Well, all right, then. What say we start with a bit o’ sightseein’?”
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