Vol.7, Ch.1, P.1
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Under sun of noon sat Hensen, seat of the Vílungen jarl and heart of the Himmel. Yet on this day were his halls hollow, and his garrisons missing many of his braves—Rolf and all included.
Perched ahigh at a window, watching the bright streets buzz below, was a man folded of arms and quiet of eyes.
“Not ’alf bad,” he murmured as he hummed.
“What is?” asked another voice.
The man shrugged. “Beats I. Can’t quite put a finger on ’e. But not ’alf bad. Not bad at all.”
A sigh. “Well, get that finger proddin’, then, ’cos you’re makin’ small-arse sense.”
There, further in the room and furrowing a fed up brow at the man, was Frieda, keen swordhand and officer of the Turnlancers. It was not long since the counter-kingdom Cutcrowns had renamed and rallied themselves, and even less so since Frieda, as their new military liaison, had been posted here in Hensen.
“’Ow now, Frieda-love,” said the man, turning away from his street-watching. “What need for words when we be bosom as squirrel an’ tree? Thou oughtst see me meanin’.”
“…”
“Or I trusts thou dost, leastways. Aye?”
“…”
No answer, no care—none save Frieda’s tapping toe and unamused mien as she prowled for an explanation.
“Come on, Frieda. Mind-to-mind communication!” the man persisted nonetheless. “Us ’earts can ’ark what us mouths may miss—a pillar gurt important in us line o’ work, thou’lt agree, surely.”
Despite his silken beseechment, however, no nerves were assuaged. In fact, they were only getting more and more frayed at his continued waffling. Sensing them close to bursting, the man hoisted his hands in surrender.
“All right. Thou’st a-won. I gives up!” he said. “Now, what were we on about again?”
The man, smiling wryly now at Frieda, was none other than Dennis. Once the long-serving leader of the Cutcrowns, and their valiant captain upon the bloody slopes of Déu Tsellin besides, he now headed their reformed ranks as high commander of the Turnlancers. This made the simpering simian an eminence within the Himmel, and withal Frieda’s superior—doubly so, at that, though it might seem hardly the case at the moment. Nevertheless, on this day was he come to see his friend and subordinate at her office.
“You, gawkin’ out the glass?” she emphatically reminded him. “Mumblin’ on ’bout welkin-knows-what bein’ ‘not ’alf bad’ an’ all? Get a grip, ya greybeard!”
“Ah, that,” chuckled Dennis. “Well, I ’aven’t got a good word for ’e yet, but if insisted, I ought say I meant the tone o’ this town.”
Frieda’s face softened at once. “…Oh,” she uttered. If it came to that, then truly could she but concur. Ever since her first visit did the fólkheimr seem to her a fresh breeze upon the face. And indeed, of late and daily had Hensen been flowering all the more, and in a way that Frieda herself could scarce articulate.
Folk flowed hither and thither outside, busy about their day. And waggons wheeled, and markets clamoured, and hammers rang in myriad makings and mendings. Such activity amounted not to an incessant noise, mind, nor was all the traffick a confused and frothing flood. But all the same, a sprightliness could be espied in the citizenry. With cheer they spoke, and with benevolence beam upon one another. Indeed, all the town seemed in good spirits and in good sprouting.
But O! the ashes that slept in its soil. Though the capital town to Clan Víly in all but name, and as foresaid the seat of their jarl, as well as the meeting place for the vindarþing’s members, the fólkheimr had the misfortune of bordering the lion’s den that was Londosius—and with merely a stretch of woodland as a natural ward. Thus for long had Hensen sat in uncertainty, to say the least. As a matter of fact, not two years ago saw it sacked by fire and Londosian steel. But availed by the valour of Rolf, rebel and former lordling of Londosius, the braves of Hensen were able to turn that tide, and thence go on to win territories time and again from the reeling realm; that eventually were the frontlines furled back from Hensen’s sight, and its citizenry bestowed some semblance of security at last. And not solely security, but the winds of change, as well.
For now was seen in Hensen a sight once thought utterly inconceivable till just a year past: the sight of Men mingled amongst its populace. As it happened, the folk of the conquered fiefdoms had not despaired, but simply lived on, choosing trade and exchange, compromise and rapport—and peace with their Nafílim neighbours. And in steady reciprocation, so had the former Londosians been allowed to enter and walk the streets of Hensen.
And walk they did. Shoulder-to-shoulder, Man and Nafíl filled all the fólkheimr, fretting little as to the frivolities of race, but instilling the town with civil vim and vigour. Elsewhere was the destitute district, where lived the ill-fated, famished, and war-forlorn. Yet even they were not forgotten, as new and especial aid and policies were out in full force to deliver their lot. Indeed, Hensen-living on the whole was improving by the day. There was yet a long way to go, of course, and by no means could things be considered well-off. But true to Dennis’s perceptions, the pall of optimism was palpable.
“There’ll come a day, I reckons,” he mused, studying the streets below again, “when ‘Hensen’ shall be writ bold on Hist’ry’s pages.”
So he said, but in swift retrospect, he frankly felt that appraisal a bit overpriced. Obstacles yet abounded, after all. Hope was yet fleeting. Still, no one, not even Dennis himself, could doubt that the dire day at Déu Tsellin had been a sign of a world in shift. Thus, though it went against his grain to do so, the Turnlancer leader could not help but keep a candle lit for this strange and changing land.
“Lovely dream, that—though, one I’ve seen sometimes, too, truth to tell,” Frieda dismissed mixedly. It rather frustrated her to must agree when another matter sat heavily on her mind. So, with a short sigh, she went after it. “Well?” she said sharply. “Mind explainin’ your sudden appearance, then?”
“Thou’st call’d,” Dennis easily answered. “Why else?”
“Me? When?”
In a manner of speaking, she had, indeed, called. Rolf, Lise, and all war-chiefs alike were presently away at Rahm for the reconciliation—they, along with a great share of Hensen’s garrisons. At this moment, the innumerable braves were bivouacked some ten mīllia from Merkulov’s gates, that their swords might answer any “emergencies” to arise. Naturally, however, that left Hensen itself susceptible to similar hostilities. Neither were possibilities to be passed off. The Himmel’s prior counsels had scried as much: that Londosius yet teemed with dissenters all too ready to act, and that whether in Merkulov or Hensen, wariness was warranted. For its part, though the fólkheimr was absent of its jarl, it still presented as prized a target as ever, between its resident vindarþing members and the many buildings of import within its walls—to say nothing of its defenceless citizenry.
Thus concerned, Rolf had put this to Frieda before his departure, leaving in her capable hands the peacekeeping of Hensen. And accepting the duty readily, the former freelance had got busy, enlisting her Turnlancer peers to patrol the streets and squares. But unable to baulk a foreboding that yet brooded in her, Frieda had gone further and sued Dennis for reinforcements. He had answered, and sent to Hensen’s protection an additional contingent of Turnlancers.
But imagine Frieda’s surprise upon finding the very man smirking at the head of that host.
“No dodgin’ this, Dennis,” she declared. “’Tis succour I call’d for, not the tip o’ the Turnlancers ’imself, goodness.”
A point most fair. With the mantle of leader laden upon his shoulders more than ever, Dennis could ill-afford to frolick about. Why, he ought now be at Former Artean, nest of the Turnlancers, to govern their guard over the Londosian borders, at the very least. It was well to have reinforced Frieda as requested, sure, but to add his body to the ranks here seemed very much like some prank.
“Pray forgive a man for cravin’ a li’l sightseein’, canst thou?” he said.
Frieda snorted. “Sightseein’?” and spat. “You’re just tired o’ desk-workin’ all day, I’ll bet!”
“Guilty as charged!” Dennis laughed, shrugging theatrically. There was no hiding it: since the inception of the Himmel, his bottom had become more intimate with his chair than he would like; and he could swear his fingertips were callusing from quilling papers all day.
“Oh, don’t give me that, Dennis,” groaned Frieda. “Alban’ll bite my pate off for lettin’ ya lark behind his back.”
“Bah. Not to worry,” assured the Turnlancer leader. “The bawcock’s got a gentle jaw, ’e does.” Frieda remained unamused. Visits from eminences like Dennis require prompt and prior notice, not least some preparation. Or at the least, that is how things ought have gone here. “Come, Frieda-love,” said Dennis, unperching himself from the window. “Thou knowst I. Not so aimless would wise an’ wary ol’ Dennis act in this sort o’ thing.”
“Well… no, I s’pose,” Frieda could but concede. She knew, despite how gratingly easygoing he could be, that at heart was Dennis a man of duty, as well. He would not make light of laws, as a rule, nor test their teeth, as it were—that is, so long as he had no reason to. “…Hence my askin’ the ‘why’ o’ it, ya bumblin’ gadabout,” Frieda pressed him, to which she found him assuming a serious air all of a sudden.
“’Cos Rolf-lad might’ve been right,” answered Dennis. “Deadly right, I fears.”
Frieda lowered her voice. “…Summat’s really afoot, then, ya think?”
“Maybe,” said Dennis. “Just maybe.”
Though “likely” was more the word, an assessment the two inly shared. “Well that beats all,” said Frieda, sighing anxiously. “Question is: ‘who’, ‘how’… an’ ’ardest o’ all—”
“‘Where’.”
Hensen’s townscape veritably sprawled. Sentinels had been assigned to the vindarþing members, to be sure, and wards posted at the doors of institutions besides. But this meant little that all the fólkheimr was secure.
If only the minds of these malcontents could be scried, then some measures may be set up to stop them. But therein lies the rub: as yet, such could not be scried. Less than a wisp was known about these malcontents—if they were here in Hensen at all—save only their “dim view” of the reconciliation in Rahm, as Rolf had warned. Why, to go by that criterion alone would but mark the greater millions of Londosians liable. Indeed, Frieda and Dennis had their work cut out for them, if peacekeeping was not difficult enough. To get through this, they had to be ready as for a second Déu Tsellin.
“There be scant li’l to work with, Frieda, an’ too many ’oles to cover,” Dennis observed. “We needs a plan—as sure an’ sharp as may be.”
“Let’s get to it, then,” Frieda said with a grave nod. She swiftly then sat at her desk, cleared its surface, and unrolled upon it a map of Hensen and its vicinities. Dennis closed the shutters and seated himself opposite his friend. And there, with lamplight and a grim air now between them, the two started their close study of the map.
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Notes
Fólkheimr
(Language: Old Norse) “Folk-home”. In Soot-Steeped Knight, a large, central Nafílim settlement where resides the jarl of the region’s dominant clan.
Himmel
(Language: German) “Sky”. In Soot-Steeped Knight, the formal name of the Nafílim clans and former Londosian entities that have joined in alliance.
Jarl
(Language: Old Norse) A highborn noble or warrior; also, an “earl” who rules a region for a monarch. The j consonant is pronounced with a y sound, as in the words “yes” and “yawn”. In Soot-Steeped Knight, a jarl is chieftain to a Nafílim clan.
Mīlle
(Language: Latin; plural: mīllia) Shortening of mīlle passūs. A unit of measure used by the ancient Romans; known as the “Roman mile”, it spanned 1,000 passūs in length. 1 kilometre is equal to 0.6757 of a mīlle. A mīlle, therefore, can be roughly equated to 1 and a half kilometres.
Vílungen
(Schemed language: Old Norse/German; singular: Vílung) The Víly clan. Adhering to the naming scheme of Norse clans, “Víly” is converted to the more formal “Vílung”, while it then follows German declension (as Old Norse declension is reserved for more ancient terms). Thus, “Vílung” refers to a single member of this clan, while “Vílungen” refers to multiple or the entire clan itself.
Vindarþing
(Language: Old Norse) A “thing of winds”. In olden times, a þing or thing was a meeting held amongst the leadership of clans within a region. The word thing derives from this very term, albeit its meaning has morphed over time. In Soot-Steeped Knight, the vindarþing refers to much the same: a council held amongst the high personages of a clan to deliberate and decide various affairs. The þ consonant is pronounced with an unvoiced th sound, as in “think” or “thumb”.
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