It was a strange and surreal thing to be holding court in the house of one’s enemy. The situation in Skandza still being rather volatile and unstable, Heruwulfaz had decided it best to remain in the country for a while, at least until he could be sure that the latest addition to the Confederacy would not violently disintegrate upon his departure. Perhaps to emphasize his triumph, or perhaps simply out of convenience, the king had set up his offices in the palace of the late Hlewagastiz, perching himself on the same throne from which the mad Skandzan had once orchestrated the downfall of his people.
Even the pettiest of chiefs and kings had been watching as the armies of Sweboz and Skandza clashed, and for good reason; Hlewagastiz and his host had represented the last true challenge to Sweboz authority in the Northlands. Now that the Skandza were defeated, the assimilation of the remaining tribes was no longer a question of “if”, but rather “when”. To prevent his neighbors from doing anything desperate, Heruwulfaz found himself playing a tense diplomatic game, trying to assuage the worst fears of the remaining tribes whilst simultaneously prodding them towards membership in the Confederacy. So far it was working, but only just.
“I have taken a census of these new lands, as you ordered,” the retainer announced with a flourish, “and return now to present them to you at your Lordship’s leisure.”
Heruwulfaz crossed his arms expectantly, stifling a tired yawn at the prospect of another long day. As far as the duties of a king were concerned, listening to long lists of statistics ranked among the worst of them. “Present them, then – lest you should forget them first!”
The other laughed politely at his king’s joke before continuing. “First, I have the account of the casualties from the battle with your enemy Hlewagastiz. My king, we have finally finished identifying all of the dead and fallen, and I am pleased to report that casualty rates were better than we initially expected. It would seem that our forces lost no more than one-hundred warriors, whereas almost none of the Skandzan host survived.”
Heruwulfaz grunted his approval, trying to present the appearance of an impassive and commanding king. “See to it that all of the dead are buried honorably, in accordance with the traditions of their kinsmen,” he insisted. “Lord Alugobaz can instruct you on the proper rites for the Skandzans – the rest, I am sure, can be handled easily enough.”
“Of course, it will be done my lord. As for the rest of my report…” the servant began clearing his throat noisily. “Your agents have traveled through the breadth of this land and taken careful accounting of everything – what little they could
not see for themselves they have gleaned from the native inhabitants. To begin with, I have been told that the people of Skandza number a little more than one-thousand persons – women and children included.”
“This land is populous,” Heruwulfaz remarked with genuine surprise. “I do not recall seeing so many villagers when I was on the march.”
“The land of Skandza is incredibly vast,” the retainer explained, carefully defending his report. “Civilization is not very dense here, true, but across so great a distance the numbers add up quickly.”
“Which brings me to my next report,” the man continued. “In riding throughout the countryside, your agents have achieved a rough understanding of this country’s borders. Let me begin by saying that, to the north, your dominion now stretches without end. The forests and crags of Skandza eventually give way a boundless expanse of snow and ice, which reaches all the way to the very ends of the earth.”
Heruwulfaz sat up in his seat, honestly intrigued. “Am I to understand that my scouts have actually
seen the ends of the earth!?”
The servant shook his head apologetically, “I am afraid not, my lord. In time, as one travels far enough north, the obstacles arrayed against them become insurmountable; I am told that it is cold enough to sear a man’s skin to the bone, and that the ice becomes fickle and untrustworthy. Clearly, as the world of men begins to transition into the world of the Gods, the land becomes corrosive to mortals. One of your loyal servants actually
died trying to press onward – he sank right into the water and froze to death.”
“A bitter lesson,” the king mourned, “but well-learned nonetheless. What else do you have to tell me?”
The retainer bowed and began to speak again. “In the west, your patrimony now extends across forests and mountains, all the way to the open ocean. You did not pass through this region during your campaign, but I can assure you that this part of the land is very much the same. Your scouts wished to emphasize, however, that the fishermen in these parts are particularly talented, and they have excellent knowledge of sailing and navigation.”
Heruwulfaz reached idly for his cup. “What lies across this new ocean, if anything?”
The other shrugged, “none of the villagers have ever crossed it before, my king.”
“That will have to change,” the king mumbled, more for his own benefit than for anyone else. “I have already seen the south for myself,” he added quickly, growing bored once again. “Give me your report of the east so we may be done with this.”
The retainer seemed to be flustered momentarily, but he recovered gracefully and carried on. “You should know first that it is impossible to go east in Skandza without also going north; the whole country is shaped like a wide horseshoe. The east, therefore, is cold and snowy as the north is, with little in the way of civilization. With enough travel, your lands soon transition into those of the Sami, who prefer to keep to themselves.” Having finished his report, the man took a step back and dropped to one knee.
“My thanks for your assessment,” the king replied between gulps of beer, “you have done fine work, and will soon be rewarded. For now, you may go.”
No sooner had the servant made his way from the hall then the door shot open again, smashing so fiercely against the wall that the whole room seemed to shudder and groan with the impact. Trapped between astonishment and irritation, Heruwulfaz pushed himself to his feet, a stern reprimand already waiting on the tip of his tongue.
It was not some incompetent slave who emerged through the doorway, however, but rather a very irate-looking Erilaz, storming across the length of the chamber as fast as his cane would allow. Heruwulfaz couldn’t avoid the tiniest pang of pity as he watched his political rival struggle to simply cross a room. Neither age nor circumstance had been kind to the old man over the past year; he looked like a man on his deathbed, the flesh of his face sunken, withered, and sallow as a corpse. Even his long hair, a gift he had once taken great pride in, was now thin and brittle, more akin to a batch of twigs then anything else.
Simultaneous with the decline in Erilaz’s health, his political power and reputation had taken a dive as well. Heruwulfaz’s triumphant victories in the field had made criticizing him akin to political suicide, and in this sense Erilaz had fallen upon his sword hard. His ring of powerful supporters and advocates had dwindled down to almost nothing, leaving only him and a small group of devout reactionaries to rally a hopeless defense against the rest of the Thing. Even
if he had still been the puppet master of the Thing, it would have done him little good. Through his victories, Heruwulfaz had made himself powerful enough to all but obviate the Thing as a political force; in particular, his recent investment as Xorjonoz by his troops gave him uncontested authority over the army, and uncontested control over the army essentially gave him uncontested control over the whole nation. Still, it was not in Erilaz’s nature to back down, not even from a king.
“Heruwulfaz!” the old man wheezed, infusing his reedy voice with as much malice and contempt as he could possibly muster.
“You do not look so well, my old friend,” the king commented kindly. “Surely your healer has forbidden you from traveling like this?”
Erilaz literally spat onto the floor, still hobbling awkwardly towards Heruwulfaz. “My
healer is a moron and a windbag – vices which seem all too common lately, I might add.”
Heruwulfaz patiently ignored the slight, motioning for his servants to bring a chair. “Since you have come so far, I suppose it would be remiss of me to waste your time with small talk. What can I do for you?”
The venerable statesman took a few moments to settle himself, stretching out his limbs with a series of discomforting pops and cracks. Having finally made himself comfortable, he put aside his cane and cleared his throat. “Your lordship, I come before you with a single, simple request: you must disband the army.”
The question was so blunt and so bold that Heruwulfaz could not help but laugh at it, nearly spitting out a mouthful of beer in the process. Just seconds later, the stony glare on Erilaz’s face had turned the king’s mirth into confusion. “Surely you can’t be serious?” he insisted, still chuckling a little to himself. “This is the strongest our host has been in living memory! Why would I send them home
now?”
Erilaz stubbornly crossed his arms, planting his feet into the ground as if to make himself physically immovable. “Do not attempt to mock or belittle me, Heruwulfaz. I ask this of you in all seriousness.”
As luck would have it, the king
did become serious, leaning forward from his throne with a distinctly un-amused look plastered on his face. “Listen, I know what you’re trying to do, Erilaz,” he whispered dangerously. “First off, even
without the army I have more than enough political support to keep you down. You’re time on the stage is over. In
any case, this conversation is pointless, because as a matter of fact I am
not going to disband the army, I am going to
keep it.”
“This has nothing to do with politics!” Erialz hissed, and this time Heruwulfaz could tell that he was being serious. “This is a matter directly relevant to the well-being of our nation. This constant war-footing is draining all the wealth from our lands!”
Heruwulfaz stared back incomprehensively. “I don’t-“
“It’s the economy, stupid!” Erilaz roared, the exertion causing him to be momentarily consumed by a ferocious cough. Instead of waiting to recuperate, the old man pressed on through his bouts of wheezing. “What do you…think happens when…people aren’t home for the…harvest season!? No crops can get picked and then…there’s not enough food!”
The king waited patiently for Erilaz to finish, already regretting his earlier threat. “I’ll admit that the economy has suffered a little, with all this constant campaigning. However I have spoken at length with my advisers about this issue and I believe that, as the Confederacy adds new tribes, its internal trade will increase exponentially. I’m told that we’re already beginning to make back some of the wealth we lost last year. Once we begin to integrate larger territories like Skandza, trade should begin to flow again.”
Erilaz grumbled and mumbled to himself, but offered no further protests. With childish petulance, the old man snatched his cane and returned to his feet, shuffling towards the exit as fast as his age would allow. Heruwulfaz smirked, taking a quiet pleasure in yet another victory. “Be safe on the roads,” he called after his rival, “travel can be quite taxing on a man of your age!”
“I am going for a walk,” the king declared, leaving a small crowd of petitioners to groan in disappointment as he started towards the door. They would just have to wait; Heruwulfaz had spent all day cooped up on his throne and his limbs with aching with restlessness. A nice walk – or maybe even a quick ride – was the only thing that could get him through the rest of this day.
Heruwulfaz had not taken more than five steps out the door before he abruptly collided with another pedestrian, tumbling backwards into the road with a painful thud. Dazed now, he stumbled back to his feet and readied a furious oath at the blurry culprit in his vision.
“My sincerest apologies, your lordship,” the figure offered as it began to back away. “I should have paid more attention.”
“Wait a minute,” Heruwulfaz began as his brain slowly processed the other’s voice, “Okaz, is that you?”
Even as he asked this, the blur on his vision had already begun to fade, revealing the familiar countenance of his friend Okaz. It was no wonder that they had walked right into each other; the old warrior, although always looking somewhat fatigued, appeared to be especially exhausted today, sporting dark, baggy layers of skin beneath his eyes.
“It seems I’ve been bumping into you everywhere!” Heruwulfaz remarked as he began his walk again. “Where are you off to?”
“Making rounds,” Okaz replied unenthusiastically. “We’ve been told to go through the settlement and search all the houses for weapons.” The simple act of saying this made the man sigh with exhaustion. “There are a lot of houses.”
“You don’t look so well, my friend,” the king commented with some concern. “It’s only been a couple of weeks, yet you look ten years older.”
Okaz turned his head away defensively. “I have not slept in a while,” he replied, trying to make his insomnia sound trivial.
“I know the feeling,” Heruwulfaz replied kindly. “I’ve been told that difficulty going to sleep is a sign of restlessness. You probably need to burn off some more energy during the day.”
Okaz shook his head flatly. “I can get to sleep just fine, usually. It’s…my
dreams that give me trouble,” he muttered, chiding himself for wasting the king’s time on his own, petty problems.
“Your dreams?” Heruwulfaz replied curiously, “what about them? They are
strange?”
“
No, they’re…” Okaz trailed off, desperately searching for the right words. “It’s like they’re punishing me –
mocking me.”
He took the king’s silence as an invitation to continue. “The job of a warrior, at its simplest, is to defend his home and his people. Every battle I’ve ever fought – every man I’ve ever killed – I justified by saying that I was defending innocent people. I tried to convince myself of it – I guess I’m
still trying…”
“I spent over three years fighting to try and to stop the Rugoz,” he recounted bitterly, “and they always seemed to slip through our fingers. Scores of villages were torched to the ground, their inhabitants slaughtered like animals – I’d never felt so useless before in my life. You can’t imagine what it’s like until you’ve seen it. You have to be there, walking through the smoldering embers of some innocent person’s life, listening to their wailing just
echo around in your mind.”
The warrior grew visibly distressed, “I thought that conquering the Rugoz would make everything right again, but nothing changed – I can
still see it all in my head while I sleep. It just added
more nightmares to torment me; I can’t stop wondering who was innocent and who was guilty. So many of them were young – barely older than boys!”
There was no stopping the flow of words anymore; they poured from Okaz’s mouth like a thunderous tide. “Then, in Kimbroz, I watched that village as it burned to the ground. It was hard to see with all the smoke, but some people must have been trapped inside their homes – I could hear them screaming. There I was, an experienced warrior with years of service under my belt, and I
still couldn’t do anything to help people!”
“I thought…I
hoped that the battle here in Skandza would change things somehow. I thought that, by defeating somebody who I really
knew was evil, I could just put it all to rest. As usual, I had no such luck. I just keep seeing all of these terrible things in my mind – they won’t ever leave me alone, I know that now. They are the curse that every warrior must bear – from the start of his career until the last mound of earth is placed over his grave.”
Heruwulfaz tried to think of something suitably to say, but he would have had better luck trying to grab hold of the wind. After a few minutes of unfathomable silence, the king quickly resumed his walk again, burdensome thoughts floating around in his head.
***
“Lord Hrabnaz,” the king commanded, his voice reverberating through the vaulted confines of his hall, “step forward.”
Hrabnaz willingly complied, quickly hurrying up to the throne and placing himself prostrate on the ground. It was an act of supplication, but Hrabnaz added a certain confident theatric to the ritual that made him seem imposing in his own right. “I am right here, King Bidajaz. What is your will?”
The king of the Habukoz smiled, relishing in watching his plan come together so seamlessly. He rose to his feet and motioned for Hrabnaz to do the same. “There is no need for you to lower yourself in my court, Hrabnaz. Unlike your kinsmen,
I hold you and your abilities in high esteem.”
Hrabnaz blushed slightly at the compliment. “You are too kind, lord. Your eye for character and talent is unmatched.”
“I trust none of your brothers are aware of what has transpired between us?” the Habukoz king asked, his tone abruptly becoming grave and conspiratorial. “Not even the slightest hint of suspicion on their part?”
Hrabnaz carefully pushed the man away, moving forward with an air of supreme confidence. “I thought you said you trusted in my abilities?” he teased. “Believe me; they are none the wiser – and they never will be.”
Bidajaz seemed satisfied, clapping a paternalistic hand on Hrabnaz’s back. “You will be an excellent servant of Habukoz, Hrabnaz. For a man as talented as yourself, I believe your career will go far indeed; and who knows? Perhaps, given enough time and loyal service, the throne could even be
yours.”
A look like that of an excitable child crossed over Hrabnaz’s face. “Do you really mean that, my lord?”
Bidajaz smiled; this impetuous young noble was far too easy to manipulate. “Time will tell – certainly stranger things have happened; and I am certainly not one to let blood ties come before ability.”
“Then tell me what I must do,” Hrabnaz implored, “so that I may perform it quickly and flawlessly.”
“Your brother’s victory against the Skandza puts me and the rest of the remaining free tribes in a difficult spot,” the Habukoz king sighed. “We do not have the military might to openly defeat the Sweboz, not even if we all banded together. Through the employment of subterfuge and cunning, however, we may stand a chance.”
“I need you to return to your brother’s court,” Bidajaz explained, “and report to me anything and everything that he does. Troop movements, new appointments to office, war plans – if he as much as sneezes, I want to hear about it. If I can know his every move in advance, then I can easily undermine him – and if I can
undermine him, my tribe…
our tribe can persevere.”
Hrabnaz digested his instructions with a single nod of the head. “It will be done, your lordship – you can count on me.”
His orders given, King Bidajaz turned away and headed for bed. “I expect great things from you, Hrabnaz. I’m sure you won’t disappoint.”
***
”Two weeks after crossing the River Rin into the lands of the Walhoz, we began to pass through territory belonging to a peoples called the Arverni. The Arverni are among the most powerful and prominent of the Walhoz, commanding countless settlements and many worthy warriors, who are decorated in fine panoplies of metal. Yet none of their wonders could compare to that vast city they call Vesontio.”
Amongst the tribes of the Northlands, it was exceedingly rare to see a
single building made out of stone, let alone an entire defensive wall. Hagaradaz and his party were still some distance away, but even now they could get an acute sense of the city’s imposing power and grandeur. Like all cities of the Walhoz, it was perched at the very top of a steep hill, lording over the surrounding villages and farms as an unquestionable edifice of power. The villagers they had passed had only spoken of Vesontio in awestruck whispers; having seen it for himself, Hagaradaz at last understood their behavior.
“There it is,” Berdic sighed, his eyes beginning to mist a little at the sight of the massive oppida. “Vesontio…it hasn’t changed the slightest bit.”
“That’s right!” Hagaradaz blurted suddenly as they started their approach up the hill. “You said Vesontio was your home, didn’t you?”
Berdic laughed and shook his head. “Not the city
itself, no. My family lived on a farm a few miles out from here, but during the harvest season, I would usually help my father bring our crops to market here. It was always really exciting,” he added a little wistfully. “The plazas are huge, and my father would always give me a spare coin to spend when I came with him.”
“Your kind use coinage then?” Hagaradaz asked, wisely bringing the conversation back towards their task. “I
thought I heard that before, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Gold and silver ones, mostly,” Berdic explained. “Sadly, we didn’t come up with the idea by ourselves; the Massalians – an odd group of peoples in the far south – spread the idea to us. It makes commerce easier, but it also introduced us to the fickle thing called ‘taxes’.”
It was clear that they were not the only people heading into the city that day; the path up the hill was clogged with a veritable swarm of travelers, peddlers, and citizens. In such terrible congestion, to be on horseback was a wonderful thing; the crowd, eager to avoid being trampled, gladly parted way for the party of Sweboz. A few travelers cursed loudly at the disruption; Hagaradaz urged his horse forward, grateful that his knowledge of these peoples language was still perfunctory.
The Sweboz knew what a city
was, of course; their knowledge of the world was broad enough that they knew of the Walhoz and some of their customs. Even so, Hagardaz couldn’t possibly have been prepared for the sheer sensory overload that assaulted him upon passing through the gates of Vesontio. It was as if all orderly constraints of color and sound had been chaotically torn asunder; a hundred voices all seemed to shout at once as conversations struggled to make themselves distinct within the din. Brightly made tarps and ornamented carpets hung over long rows of cramped merchant stalls, which stretched in long rows at either edge of the street, funneling people onward even as they tried to draw them aside. Berdic, the more experienced of the two by far, took his master by the arm and began to lead him.
“Keep your eyes forward,” he insisted, mumbling out of the corner of his mouth. “Try not to bump into anybody – and if you have to, at least try to avoid the ones with weapons. If somebody tries to sell you something, keep moving; don’t stop for anybody, even if they look hurt.” With great difficulty, he steered the pair towards the path to the governor’s office. “Make sure you keep an eye on your belongings too, because they can get stolen before you know it.”
Breaking away from the mob was akin to escaping a howling tornado; it took all their willpower to escape, and once they were out the change was immediate and visceral. The dull roar of human speech seemed to fade into a quiet murmur; all of the dizzying sights passed mercifully out of view. Hagaradaz took a huge breath, greatly relieved to be back in his element. As they got to traveling again, only a handful of venerable-looking persons traveled along the road with them; whoever the governor was, he clearly wasn’t amenable to the common rabble.
Like most of the buildings in Vesontio, the governor’s mansion was made of finely-polished stone, standing at the absolute summit of the hill in a very unambiguous expression of his authority. The guards at the front entrance appeared to be suitably well-equipped, sporting a fine kit of chainmail and padded helmets, and sharp-looking swords to boot.
“Please step aside,” Hagaradaz requested with his meager mastery of the Walhoz language. “I am a diplomat of the Sweboz. I am here to talk.”
The two soldiers seemed to get the message; one of them disappeared into the mansion, while the other held out his hand to suggest that they should wait. Nervously, Berdic leaned over and whispered in his master’s ear. “I recommend that you let me translate, from now on.”
Hagaradaz suddenly looked petrified, “by the Gods, what did I
say to them!?”
“No, no, you did fine!” the slave assured, “but I’m worried you’ll say something offensive by accident.”
The door creaked open once more, and the returning soldier beckoned for the two to follow him back inside. Quietly steeling himself, the diplomat nodded his thanks and stepped boldly through the threshold, Berdic following cautiously in his wake. Somewhere behind them, the door slowly groaned shut.
The building’s stone construction lent itself to a dark and labyrinthine interior. In less than a minute spent inside, Hagaradaz had given up trying to memorize his way out. A minute later, he was utterly, hopelessly lost. He stuck to his Arverni guide with an almost desperate attachment, terrified of the ramifications if he managed to get left behind.
In time, their nonsensical navigating led them to a wide open audience hall, where a single circular table had presumably been placed for them to sit at. No sooner had they entered than they were accosted by a burly, greybearded man, his clothes finely adorned in the sacred symbols of the Arverni nation.
“In truth, I never thought this day would come,” he exclaimed, his tone hovering somewhere between good-humored and disdainful, “a man of the east who comes to our lands not to fight, but to
parley! What has happened to your kind, easterner, that you now employ the virtue of restraint?”
Hagaradaz began to reply, hoping that Berdic could catch his words as he went. “Many things, noble lord of the Arverni, but foremost among them is an
awakening. For we, the miserable masses of the Northlands, having lived countless centuries in misery and squalor, have resolved to build for ourselves a future in which all may prosper, not merely the strongest.”
The nobleman let out a barking laugh, but a measure of respect could be seen to glisten in his eye. “What is your name, easterner?”
“I am Hagaradaz, of the tribe of the Samanoz. This,” he added with a sweep of the hand, “is my translator Berdic. Who are
you, lord?”
The Gaul puffed out his chest, “I am Aneirin, the governor of Vesonito – devout worshipper of the god Lugos, a peculiarity for which I have become quite well-known.”
“Good health to you, Aneirin,” Hagaradaz returned genially. “Now, shall we get down to the business of this meeting?”
“Indeed, and you can
begin,” Aneirin rumbled, “by explaining the meaning of these eastern raids into our lands. We have a war to contend with as it is – your kind nipping at our heels only complicates matters further.”
“I was actually just about to ask
you,” Hagaradaz returned patiently, “what cause your warriors have to be making forays into the Northlands. Admittedly, your attacks rarely reach Sweboz territory, but my noble King endeavors to style himself as protector of all the tribes. Your raids on the Habukoz and Heruskoz make things difficult for us politically.”
Aneirin clenched his fists dangerously. “We are in the middle of a
war – you easterners have
always been a nuisance at best. To keep our borders safe, it is only prudent that we endeavor to weaken our neighbors.”
“There is a war going on in the Northlands every day,” Hagaradaz countered, “a war that is deeper and more pervasive than any other fought before, or any that ever will
be fought. It is a war between two forces – two ideologies – that are incompatible with ne another. One of them – the one
I fight for – advocates for a civilization peace and cooperation with its inhabitants and all of its neighbors. The other, the one we fight against, is an ideology of chronic warfare and violence, punctuated only by despair. I ask you, which civilization would you rather share a border with?”
Aneirin chewed furiously on his moustache, his face turning redder by the second, but it was clear he had no retort. “We stop our raids across the river, and you will try and stop these two tribes from attack
us?”
“An agreeable arrangement for all, don’t you think? The cessation of hostilities is only the beginning. Once word spreads that the river crossings are safe again, trade between the Northlands and your peoples can resume again. The wealth of two nations will flow back and forth, enriching all at nobody’s detriment.”
By now, the Gaul could not possible decline; his best bet was to try and save some face. “I suppose this is a fair arrangement. I will pass the word on to our King, who will surely approve it. But I warn you – and mark me well – any negations between your nation and those of the Aedui will be seen as a hostile act.”
“Fair enough,” Hagaradaz shrugged. “I seem to recall hearing bad things about the Aedui anyway,” he added with a subconscious glance towards his slave.”
A comfortable pause passed as Berdic took a sip of water. “These are perhaps the fastest negotiations I can remember!” Aneirin laughed. “What will you do with the rest of your time?”
“I think I will partake in your city’s hospitality for another day or two,” Hagaradaz mused as he slowly stretched himself out. “But before long, I am bound to travel onward. I have more nations to meet with, at my King’s command.”
“A bit of advice then,” the nobleman offered, “you will want to head south-west first. There is a peninsula in that direction, where many nations find themselves coming intersecting together. Most of them are tribes, but I have heard stories of foreign men who also dwell in cities – ones even larger than this.”
The thought of an even larger city stung Hagaradaz’s brain like a jolt of lightening; it was both an exciting and terrifying prospect. “I guess I know where I’m headed next.”
