Knights of Aralia Book IIII: The Conquest

Chapter VI-The King of Norland

A chilling rain began to fall as the Aralian party passed through the village before the hardy wooden castle of King Svenn II. Unlike the folks of Roanor, the people of Konungsskóg looked on them with an air of wonder and suspicion as they passed. Why, they seemed to ask, was this motley assortment of foreigners approaching the home of their king at this time of year?

It was an attitude the Aralians had increasingly encountered the deeper into Norland they ventured. Of course, the locals had good cause to feel this way, as they knew. The only reason large foreign parties had ever crossed their borders throughout history was to try and tame this proud land, a game at which none had yet succeeded. Aside from this, the journey had not been as strenuous as the knights imagined. They had managed to avoid entangling themselves in any disputes with the locals, and apart from trudging through some ankle-deep snow along the mountain road, the weather had not gotten in the way either.

In due course they reached the wooden bridge spanning the deep, narrow gorge cut into the land over many millennia by the Varghallen River now far below. It made a formidable natural barrier to any invading army, and with the endless resources of the surrounding forest at its disposal, even a prolonged siege could scarcely bring the keep to its knees. Right now, of course, this gorge was but the last hurdle between the Aralians and their audience with King Svenn. As the six neared the opposite end of the bridge, Evander cast a warning look toward Drakor.

“I won’t say anything, I promise,” assured the drake.

A guardsman wearing a wolf hide atop his shoulder signalled them to stop before the gate.

“Hail, Southerners,” he said rather coldly. “What brings you here?”

“We are Aralians,” spoke Fordain, once more impressed by the impeccable grasp of Western Speech even the common soldiers of this country had. “We come on an errand from Elder Vargon of Hengoroth to speak to your king. It is imperative that we see him immediately, if at all possible.”

“What proof do you bring of your errand, Aralian?” pressed the guard.

“I bear a letter signed by the Elder.”

“Might I see it?”

“Keep it dry,” directed Fordain, handing him the letter and holding his cloak above it at once. The guard took it and immediately hunched over to read it. He looked it over carefully, front and back, examining first the seal, then the signature. He handed it back, and Fordain quickly tucked it away.

“Everything is in order,” spoke the guard, much to everyone’s relief. “I shall guide you to the keep.” The other guard stepped aside, permitting the five Aralians and the tagalong drake to proceed through the gate, which was propped open.

Within the walls of the castle, the wealthier merchants and nobility lived in relative comfort and safety beyond the reach of the commoners. Their houses were naturally much larger than the little dwellings across the bridge. Big enough to have multiple rooms, in some cases. Still, all were wooden. It was as though stone craftwork did not exist in this kingdom, or if it did, then it was deemed unworthy for use as a building material. Whatever the case, all of the houses in the village, large or small, were overshadowed by the keep, which loomed just beyond the barracks of the castle garrison.

Approaching the doors, another guard stopped them.

“These knights have come to see the king,” said the one who led them along. “It is important business. Let them pass.”

The second guard looked them over for a moment before obeying the order. His look did not disguise the mistrust and loathing he had for these outsiders. Nevertheless, he turned to the door and knocked on a vision port. It popped open and a mumbled conversation was held in Norian.

The doors were unbarred and opened from the inside. The Aralians and Ralor rode in with the first guard walking in front. The doors were at once closed behind, making them feel instantly cut off from the outside world—much like the Norlanders themselves, they supposed.

The courtyard of King Svenn’s keep was not at all like others they had visited in the West. It was little more than a flat, open area, completely unpaved but for a single path leading straight to the door of the keep itself. On either end of the keep they could see two barrel-shaped towers with slitted windows overlooking the great yard: a purely practical design. They looked impressive, Fordain had to admit. But a wooden castle like this, however well built, would not stand up for very long against Algoron’s massive war machines. Of course, such a thought was not in the minds of those who had built the keep all those ages ago, and the Norlanders probably never expected invaders to get this far into their country in the first place. Nevertheless, the Aralians felt a sense of unrest lying over Konungsskóg, and knew that they were being watched from those narrow windows as they came up to the keep’s doors. A burly man of middling years with a well-groomed beard—as most of the men here in Norland seemed to have—stepped up and addressed their guide.

“Who are they and what do they want?” he asked in a dry, bored voice.

“Aralians,” replied the bridge guard. “Here to see the king, Captain Berkana.”

“I should think of no other reason to come to the king’s doorstep,” remarked Berkana wryly. “A matter of state, is it?”

“It is,” replied Fordain.

“Fehu! Wunjo!” called the captain without taking his eyes from Fordain. Two beardless youths rushed over, nearly tripping on their own spears as they came to attention before their officer. “Take their horses to the stables. Feed them. Tend them. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain!” they both replied.

“You knights come with me,” ordered Berkana in the same toneless voice.

The Aralians took this as their cue to dismount, then followed the captain as their horses were led away by the two young soldiers. The guard who had led them thus far saluted Captain Berkana, then turned back to resume his watch over the bridge. The doors were opened wide for the captain without a word being spoken, and the whole procession followed him in. They found themselves in a narrow reception hall with numerous passages leading off to the right and left. One particularly grand set of doors to the right caught Fordain’s eye. No doubt the throne room lay behind them—their journey’s end at last! Despite himself, he allowed a sense of relief to overcome him.

“King Svenn is attending to local affairs right now,” spoke Berkana. “You shall have to wait here while I go and inform him of your arrival. It will take but a moment.”

“Thank you,” replied Fordain.

The captain promptly disappeared down one of the side passages, leaving them to idle in the entry hall under the watchful gaze of the House Guard. Of course, every eye in the room was on the outsiders, and even the servants cast furtive glances at them as they shuffled about between duties. Most looks were hostile; all of them curious. What were these scrawny Westerners doing in their kingdom, and asking after their king, no less? Their suspicious glares were directed particularly at Fordain and Evander—the two who were most obviously of Imperial origin. But oddly enough, they saw Elagor as the worst of the lot. For because he was a Vildegraad and looked the part, the Norlanders, many of whom counted Vildegraad among their ancestors, considered him a traitor to their own kind by associating with those they saw as past and potentially future enemies.

It was not long ere Berkana re-emerged from the side passage and came to the Aralians.

“The king bids you welcome and says he will see you in private when once he has finished with his current business.”

“And how long will that take?” asked Drakor.

“It may not be until sunset. The Council of Norland does not come to decisions in great haste.”

“And what are we to do in the meantime?”

“You are to be given accommodations of the finest sort in the south wing of the palace, to which I will show you now.”

“Lead the way, sir,” replied Fordain.

They followed Berkana down another corridor in the opposite direction, leaving the entry hall and the uncomfortable stares behind them. They proceeded up a set of stairs and came to a small dining room complete with table, fire, and eight chairs. He walked over to where another passage joined this room and gestured down it.

“These shall be your chambers for the duration of your stay,” spoke their guide. “Take as few or as many as you require. The king will see you as soon as he can. A court messenger will come and fetch you when the king is ready. In the meantime, I must ask you do not stray too far from these rooms. I leave you now.”

“Takk fyrir allt, herra,” said Fordain in his basic Norian.

Captain Berkana showed neither surprise nor interest in the Aralian’s knowledge of his tongue, but merely nodded and left without another word.

“Not exactly dragon-sized chambers,” said Drakor, poking his head into one of the proffered rooms. “This is the best they can do for distinguished guests?”

“We’re here on business, not for pleasure,” Fordain reminded him. “It’s good of King Svenn to offer us lodging at all without first knowing whether we’ll be needing it.”

“Does ‘e really imagine we’ll be ‘ere that long?” said Evander.

“You heard Berkana,” said Elagor. “They do not come to decisions quickly here.”

“There’s one thing they have in common with the West, at least,” remarked Ingred.

“And that’s their excuse for confining us to quarters?” spoke Drakor.

“Obviously they want to make it easy to find us when their messenger comes looking,” said Fordain. “It could take them a while to search us out if we were to scatter.”

“Arden forbid we should put them through that,” snorted the drake.

“Well, Drakor, if you don’t like these rooms, just inform the king when we see him. I’m sure no one would object to your sleeping in the stables.”

Drakor glowered at Fordain, his ears twitching with ill-concealed annoyance. But he held his tongue, took a deep breath, and let it out with a sigh.

“I’ll take the corner room,” he muttered. “At least I get two windows there.”

“I’ll take the one beside it,” said Ralor.

“An’ this one for me,” said Evander of the next one down.

Fordain let Elagor and Ingred select their rooms before taking the one opposite Drakor’s. They settled themselves in as best they could to wait for the court messenger to call them in. With most of their belongings still in packs with their horses, however, there proved little enough to do. Drakor, Ralor, and Evander soon discovered that their westward-facing windows looked out over what seemed to be a practice yard for the king’s House Guard. The knights gathered round the windows to watch as some Norlanders lined up to practise hurling spears at targets placed halfway across the yard.

“They can’t possibly hit those so far away, can they?” spoke Ralor.

“Just watch them, mate,” said Drakor, not without some hint of admiration. “They’re trained fighters. They’ll hit them all right.”

The knights watched as the throwers hauled back and let fly. Ralor’s jaw nearly dropped as the spears whizzed through the air and nearly all hit their marks. Only a few fell short, and these were tossed by none other than Fehu and Wunjo. The two were immediately called over to the side and stood before their instructor. Though the Aralians were too distant to make out his words, it was clear from his raised voice and wild gesticulations that he was not pleased.

“Looks like those two are getting a fine dressing down,” remarked the younger drake.

“Probably just blaming them for his own faulty instruction,” scoffed Drakor. “I’ll bet I could teach them a thing or two that they’d never forget.”

“Why don’t you, then? Show them how a real warrior trains. And while you’re at it, you can show me too.”

“If we do end up stuck here long enough, I just might.”

“I daresay I’d join you,” said Elagor. “I imagine it can get pretty dull here in the colder months.”

“Let’s hope we’re not here that long,” said Fordain, though in his heart of hearts, he knew they just might be.

It was some time before the messenger finally came and summoned them to the king’s court. To their surprise, he did not lead them back downstairs to the main entry hall, but to a smaller room on the second storey with a window out the back. They followed the messenger through another set of ornately carved doors into the court chamber, where he bowed before his sovereign and announced:

“Sire, the ambassadors from Aralia come to speak to you.”

“Then let them speak,” said the king as he gestured the messenger aside.

Fordain had not expected the formalities to be so brief, and had only the shortest look around before being called upon to say his piece. In this one glance, however, he saw that they were in a well-lit chamber slightly wider than it was long with a few courtiers standing to either side. Several banners and tapestries hung from the otherwise plain wooden walls.

The most notable part of the room was the dais on which the throne was placed. The throne itself was quite big, and rightly so considering its occupant. King Svenn II of Norland was a formidable man, tall and well built even by his own people’s standards. His hair was completely grey: lighter on top and darker around his braided beard and prominent moustache. On the wall above the throne was mounted his great war axe. It had seen its glory days many years before, but would no doubt still be deadly in arms strong enough to wield it.

To either side of the king stood two burly men with reddish brown hair. Fordain took due note of them and the other guards standing around the room, and wondered with some doubt whether he and his knights would be able to stand up to them in a square fight. The young man standing behind and just to the side of the king looked to be a match even for Drakor. His vibrant blue eyes emanated nothing but contempt for the Aralian party, and especially its leader. For his part, the king seemed the least inclined of any to do his guests harm as Fordain began to speak.

“Greetings, sire,” he said with a respectful bow that his cohorts imitated. “I am Lieutenant Fordain Abendroth of the Fifteenth Aralian Wolf Section, and these are Ingred de Haas, Evander Licinius, and Drakor and Elagor Vos of the same unit. Ralor Dekker is the younger drake’s name. We come on behalf of King Frolin and Elder Vargon to present you with this letter, and to negotiate a possible alliance between your nation and ours.”

The king said nothing, but motioned for one of his bodyguards to fetch the letter that Fordain presented. He took it straight to the king, and Svenn immediately began reading it. In the ensuing silence, the youth behind Svenn never took his eyes off the foreigners, and the knights looked around uncomfortably. Only Fordain, focused as he was on bracing himself for any questions that might follow, kept his gaze fixed on the king. When Svenn finished, he refolded the letter and looked up.

“You are planning an offensive move against the Kingdom of Cairaga then?”

“We are, sire,” answered Fordain.

“That is an ambitious undertaking,” continued Svenn. “Do you truly believe your nations of the West are capable of success against such a vast realm as Cairaga on their own soil?”

“We are confident in our abilities, yes,” replied the young knight, not certain where all this was leading. “We have fought the best the Cairaga could muster and emerged victorious. Now that our armies are finally united behind a single cause, we believe that we are in a very strong position for an offensive.”

“And you do not think it possible that perhaps the forces of Aylland could come to the assistance of their ally should you invade?”

“It is always a possibility, sire. But I’ve no doubt our own commanders will make the necessary plans for such an eventuality.”

“If the full might of the Eastern Union converged to stop you, you would no doubt be gravely outnumbered. I know that the legions of Emprius are not as strong as once they were. The Grand Army of Hengoroth has been significantly lessened by time and disuse. And the others, of course, are of little consequence even at their fullest strength.”

“You question the wisdom of such a move, then.”

“No,” answered Svenn promptly. “I question only why you believe, in such an eventuality, any contribution to your efforts by the Kingdom of Norland would be able to make a significant difference one way or the other.”

Some of the courtiers gasped at this revelation of why the Aralians were truly here, and several angry murmurs circulated around the room. Fordain could sense the tide turning against them before they had even begun, and so acted quickly to save their position.

“By all accounts I have heard, the men of Norland are tenacious warriors, fierce and brave in the face of all odds. Against the massive resources of Hengoroth and Emprius combined, Norland held its own in the war ten years ago. Now the greatest threat to this land comes not from the west, but from the east. Unless that legendary skill has deserted the warriors of this land, I should think that they would be eager to again demonstrate their prowess before the world on the field of battle.”

Fordain looked around to see the impression these words made on the king and the court as a whole. It was hard to tell at first, but it did seem as though the warriors standing around the room were more attentive than before, and a few exchanged fleeting looks. For it had indeed been a long time since any there had had the chance to properly use their talents. They had constantly trained, of course, and there were often competitions held in which warriors from the various districts fought each other for local glory. Towns and fighters in Emprius also participated in these war games, but these were more for fun than anything. And in a culture that considered fighting fitness to be an essential part of life, this was simply not enough. Suddenly, the young man behind the king saw fit to speak up for the first time.

“What you have heard about our warriors is true, Imperial. But you seem to think that after all this time we’ve forgotten who started that war.”

Fordain was too slow to answer, so the prince continued:

“Well, we haven’t. And yet, you expect us to join those same nations in invading another kingdom. If you ask me, that would be no different than if we had surrendered to them all those years ago.”

“Peace, Björn,” replied King Svenn with unfaltering calm. “When I have need of your wise counsel, I shall not hesitate to ask for it.”

This was enough to silence the young man, though he continued to glare at the visitors.

“I must apologize,” said Svenn. “My son is rather outspoken, but his attitude is not uncommon here. The very sight of an Imperial makes many Norlanders uneasy even now.”

“‘Tis understandable, sire,” replied Evander. “I can’t abide the sight of ‘alf of ‘em meself.”

This caused a subdued round of laughter throughout the room.

“Are you all of Imperial origin, then?” continued Svenn.

“Not all, sire,” replied Fordain. “I hail from the tribes of Northern Emprius.”

“So I can tell. A very hardy folk, the Noronir.”

“Aye, sire. And Evander here is from a bit further south.”

“Ergamar, by chance?”

Evander shook his head. “No, sir. My origins are more ‘umble ‘n that.”

“Ah! Well, no matter. I once knew a soldier from Ergamar. A great man he was, too. I met him during the negotiations at the end of the war. His name was...”

“Titus Maritius?” offered Ingred.

“Indeed, that is he,” replied the king with some surprise. “You are a friend of his?”

“Aye, sire,” replied Fordain. “We knew him quite well. He trained us for a time.”

“Did he indeed?” said Svenn with evident delight. “I have not seen him in years. How is the legatus these days? Or has he moved up to general by now?”

Fordain and his friends glanced at each other uneasily.

“Have you not been told then, sire?” spoke Ingred.

“Told what?”

“Lord Maritius of Ergamar was killed over two years ago. He fell in the Battle of Arrentum during the Imperial Civil War.”

A sudden change of demeanour took hold of the aged king. He no longer appeared sturdy and spry, but frail and ancient as the wood of the throne on which he sat.

“I am most sorry to hear that. He was a dear friend of mine.”

The Aralians again regarded each other. They knew that the legendary knight had been important in ending the Great War, but he had never mentioned his friendship with King Svenn.

“Lieutenant,” Svenn began again very slowly, “as far as I am concerned, you have my support in this matter without question. However, you must understand that this concerns all Norlanders, and whereas I do have the authority to act on my own accord, I feel I would be doing them an injustice to declare an alliance with the West without their input. I have, after all, been called a good king by many, and even a great king by some, though those who say as much are no doubt too generous. But to betray their trust by leading them into a war without their knowledge would be as good as forfeiting my crown.”

He paused, and the Aralians instantly felt their hopes melt away. It had been a slim chance from the start, and deep inside Fordain had always felt that their endeavour was doomed. But the king went on in spite of their evident disappointment.

“I need not explain to you that there is no great love for the West among my countrymen. However, I am willing to put the matter before my district leaders to discuss it among their communities and come to a decision based on their wishes. I must warn you, it may take a very long time to send runners to every district. Months, perhaps. And the outcome will very likely be unfavourable. But, if you are not pressed for time, and your invasion will not be delayed by our lack of an answer, then I will gladly make the necessary arrangements.”

This was not exactly the answer that the knights were hoping for. However, the very idea that the King of Norland was willing to go to such lengths for them showed how strongly he favoured their cause. And if the people of Norland truly loved their king as he seemed to believe they did, then Fordain did not see how they could lose.

“The invasion will not take place until next spring,” said the young knight. “The Cairagan winter will see to that. And if there is the slightest chance that we may succeed, then we are willing to do whatever it takes.”

King Svenn nodded.

“Very well. I shall dispatch runners immediately. I will do everything within my power to get you your answer by Blidemaaned, but I can give you no guarantees.”

“Thank you, sire.”

“During that time you are, of course, free to remain here,” continued the king graciously.

“You are too kind, lord. But we could not impose on you for so long.”

“It is no trouble, rest assured, Lieutenant. The winters of Norland come swiftly and early, as you may know, and travel becomes far more difficult even for those who are accustomed to them. I would be an ungracious host indeed if I sent you out to chance the elements this late in the season. Therefore, I advise you to stay, and if there is anything at all you need, I will be happy to oblige. Please, take advantage of my hospitality.”

“Very well, sire. We will do as you advise. And thank you.” Fordain bowed once again. The other five did the same, then turned to exit. There were no more formalities. Their audience was over as suddenly as it had begun.

When they were back in their rooms, Drakor immediately inquired as to what on earth Blidemaaned was.

“Mild month,” said Fordain. “It’s the Old Norian term for what we call February.”

“Great! So we’ll have our answer just about the time the snow’s piled up to our necks. An excellent time to take off with our reply.”

“Well, if they do say aye, at least we’ll ‘ave their support for the campaign season next year,” said Evander hopefully.

“And who knows what trouble the Cairaga could stir up between now and then?”

“Really, Drakor, you’re worse than my brother sometimes,” said Ingred.

Drakor shrugged. “All I can say is, if we miss out on a good fight just to get a no, I’ll never let you live it down, Lieutenant.”

“I don’t doubt you, mate,” replied Fordain with a sigh of resignation as he cast a glance out the window. A breeze stirred the boughs in the nearby forest and caused the timbers of the palace to creak. Whatever happened, success or failure, this was going to be a long winter for the Aralians.