The Witan of Caestenwalla

The hall was usually silent. It wasn't used very much any more. The other hall was used for most festivities. It was larger and open to the people. This was but a hall used in the old days when war was rife. It had grown dusty and unkempt now. The old campaigns of the past had fizzled down and borders had been established. Ørkady had been at peace, Well- what passes for peace amongst the Valkrygr, for nigh on a hundred years.

Since the great invasions which concluded the firm domination of Valkrygan rule over the vast domain they call Raderic, there had been internal strife between the realms they had created. There had also been clashes with the Imperialistic Artuan Empire to the west and with the Thorungian populace to the east - a people akin to the native Eriskarian's who were driven out by the marauding Valkrygan's. A people who gave sanctitude to the fleeing native population ahead of the ravaging Valkrygan hoard. A people who long felt a hatred towards those who caused a mass influx of migrants into their lands.

Such wars were now a thing of the past in Ørkady. The hall was usually silent these days; until the morning came, and the crowing of the roosters fell silent.

'My friends!' cried the man stood at the head of the table. A great bear of a man. His proud beard well groomed but no less bushy for that. His hair greyed with age and his skin wrinkled with worry lines. His hands were rough, as a man's should be. He was garbed in fineries of which only the very rich and the very important could wear.

'My friends! We face an ordeal of which we have not been plagued with since the time of my great grandfather's grandfather.' He spread his arms wide as if to add emphasis to his words. Around his neck hung a vast golden chain with a enormous pendant featuring a sword and a bears head. A symbol of the power entrusted to the sons of Ældelwalbhert; the great chieftain who led his people from the cold harsh wastelands of the north and in to Raderic. This badge of office was placed around the necks of those who came to follow. From father to son down a great and unending line. This was the symbol of those who ruled the many kingdom's within Raderic. It was now placed firmly upon the shoulders of Brenjulf, King of Ørkady. His line descended from Bharac son of Ældelwalbhert.

'We are at war. The season of Praias is upon us and the enemy is on our doorstep!' he peered around the room gauging every reaction to his words.

'We are once again beset by the treacherous Åscatorians. King Crægeric has failed to heed the lessons of the past. Our land has always been coveted by him. He seeks to rule over us when he cannot even rule over his own territory!' the latter was met with a ripple of laughter as the memory of Åscator's civil war surged through their minds.

'We may be ill prepared for war. Our enemy may be one step ahead of us this time, but I know in my heart that we will once again best the old foe. Our lands are better. Our people mightier. Our swords stronger and our purpose greater.' He was a great orator and many loved hearing him speak. But they were empty words. Those stood in audience of the King knew that he embellished too much. That his confidence was smoke and mirrors. But they laughed, they cheered and they stamped their ale horns on the table in unison at their King's words. A king should be a good speaker. He should instill pride in his people, but most importantly, he should believe he can win.

'We must see to our defences. Our Burgh's must be manned and ready to repel these invaders. I expect every man able to wield a spear armed and ready to march on these runts.' he sounded calmer than he felt. Perhaps he'd been better prepared for all eventualities than he had given his father credit.

'All supplies from our farms must be stored behind solid, defended walls. We will starve them out of our lands if need be!' It was nothing new. He had been taught by his father long ago on the standard procedure against invasion. Garrison the Burgh's. Secure the food. Pray to the gods. His father's words echoed through his mind.

How had war come to his Kingdom again? The news was broken to him by messenger two mornings previously, while the sky was still black. While the torches were still lit and the owls were still hunting their prey. Bleary eyed he had waved away the messenger and paced his room still in his night garb. Ill news seemed to plague him lately. First he had heard disturbing tidings from the Marcher Princedom's. Then the rumour of birds flying west while summer was yet in its youth this year. Then the night had been dark. Darker than he had ever seen in his forty years on this earth. He had sent his man, Cren, to investigate, yet, he had failed to return. It was unlike Cren to be late. It was unlike Cren to shirk his duty. Was it his lot in life to suffer dark tidings?

There was nothing to it. He would break the news to his Gesis. His warriors. He would tell his lords to prepare to march east. But even as he sat down to collect his thoughts his mind filled with concern. Was this part of the trouble he had considered so pressing to the west? Surely not? What could Crægaric have to do with the Marches? Perhaps it was nothing more than an opportunist taking advantage of the distraction? Now that sounded more like Crægaric. A sly cunning craven of a man.

'Damn him!' he yelled to the wall as he balled his fist and crashed it onto the wooden desk. How can such men not see the bigger picture? The wars were over. A few minor border skirmishes were all his men had to deal with and yet the message was clear. A vast army was mustered east of Jorvinburgh.

In older days the Burgh's along the border were garrisoned with a force large enough to repel invasion and able to engage any enemy raiding parties attempting to pillage the small scattered towns beyond. Now though? It was difficult to afford the upkeep of a constant army. Some lords here and there still had a few hundred men they would train "On the off chance" because "You never know, my King". How wise those words seemed now. In hindsight he would have prepared a constant force along the borders.

In hindsight he would have sent his Gesis throughout the kingdom to better prepare the peasantry who were assigned to the levy as part of the hidage burdens - a system established in the days of his forefathers. It declared that every lord was required to provide workers and three armed peasants for every two hundred acres of land that they possessed. It formed a part of their duties as lords over the territory granted to them. In this way, the kingdom would be able to field a more formidable peasant army than simply mustering inexperienced and poorly armed peasants.

This came to an end during the times of peace, when the nobility complained that the burdens were unnecessary and that their efforts should be put to other focuses. Hindsight was just that though; hindsight. He would make do with what he could. He would discuss battle plans with his marshal tonight and the nobility would he given their instruction.

His lords were now summoned to this old stagnant hall. His loyal retainers and his house warriors all seated around him at this great table, hastily cleaned by the servants ready for this rare meeting. They had been roused early by messenger's sent out to every corner of the kingdom. They had made great speed to arrive in Caestenwalla. Few men these days relished war. Few men appreciated the interruption to their peaceful, docile lives. Yet, the atmosphere in the hall that day was awash with emotion. Excitement, anxiousness, fear and anticipation. At one point or another each man went through these emotions in different stages. The King read the faces of every man present. Saw their eyes flicker through each thought as he declared the news.

The hall echoed with murmured chat. Conversations between different groups began to grow heated as men argued over this crisis. Ale flowed over the table as was often the case when the Witan was summoned - his gathering of nobles. Brenjulf sighed a contented relief. It was still a Valkgrygan hall and the Gods favoured a hall which bristled with discourse.

'The Eastern Burgh's stand ready to repel these dogs, my King!' cried Lord Gerat. A loud crashing of horns on the grand table before them welcomed these words.

'They won't take Ørkady until they've killed every last one of us!' cried another.

Drunken words by this point, no doubt. It was wise to let the spirits of his nobility rise. They may wake up tomorrow and feel less confident as reality sets in, but for now they will drink and revel in their boasts.

'There will be time enough for boasts once we pile their dead up high. Now is the time for clear heads and brave hearts. When dawn breaks we will ride to Jorvinburgh and prepare our defences.' Brenjulf knew that initial march was going to be a mixture of sore heads and weary minds. Still, it was preferable to having his banners thinking too much about the days to come. No tonight in any case. 'You will see that your horses are fed. Your men rested and your lands secured in your stead. Send riders home to prepare the levies should we need them.'

Once the King finished, the hall fell back in to a raucous of sound. Legs of mutton were feasted upon. Ale and mead flowed and serving girls negotiated their way through the cramped hall to refill tankards and provide more food. It was interesting to consider how much a war should cost a king before battle had even taken place. Rallying the banners to his hall was necessary, but every man expects to be fed for their troubles. Therefore, the King would provide a worthy feast. Ale brought in from Helnsviig was always well received.

Fresh spring water, which runs down from the Estmere-Frische Mountain's and forms in to the ­Clethið river, is gathered by the local brewers and used in the brewing process; making a higher quality ale. So the king would have it brought in for gatherings where lords and gesis alike would eagerly anticipate the hearty taste of a Helnsviig ale.

Such festivities were usually joined for less serious matters. The blood month, where the lambs would be slaughtered for the coming cold. The feasts of spring, where the leftover stock from the frosty months would be consumed and all would pray in unison to the gods for a favourable harvest. Now, however, they joined together to eat away their fears, to put their worries at the bottom of a tankard and drink away their woes. For the morrow they would march to engage in conflict of the like none of them had ever seen.

He summoned Kjartan, his marshal. A man rose from his seat and took up the empty place next to his king. He had a youthful appearance, more so than the Brenjulf. His hair was long and sleek. An unusual trait for a man in Ørkady one might have thought. His eyes were bright blue. As blue as the sky on a summer's day. Yet, the most striking aspect of his appearance was his long pointed ears.

As Kjartan sat, he firmly grasped his right wrist and nodded to the King. A customary symbol of fealty to a king within Raderic. It meant nothing in truth. Brenjulf knew no better, more loyal man than Kjartan. The act was merely tradition.

'We must make the best preparations we can, Kjartan.' declared the King. 'What think you of the palisade in Jorvinburgh? Can Lord Pyrelig's men hold out long enough for us to support him?'

Kjartan took a long draught from his horn. The sweet taste of mead swam down his throat and warmed his belly. He always took a moment to drink and collect his thoughts before imparting news he knew the King did not want to hear.

'No, my King. I would be very surprised if the defences of Jorvinburgh could hold.' Kjartan could see the hope fade from Brenjulf's eyes. He surely hadn't convinced himself that a small force of poorly experienced men could hold against an army? Perhaps not. He knew his King was wise enough to know better.

'If the truth must be said, I do not think we would serve much more of a purpose even if Jorvinburgh was still held when we arrive. I know your mind on this.'

'Pray tell. What is my mind on this, Kjartan?'

'You would have us garrison inside the Burgh and that would seem like wisdom if I did not know war as I do.'

Brenjulf chuckled. 'indeed, you do know war. I doubt not that you're the only man in the kingdom who truly does.'

Kjartan had fought in many wars in his time. He had commanded many battles. He was not a native of Ørkady. He had come from the Marches and fought in many conflicts with the Artuan Empire. He knew his business well.

'Advise me then, marshal,' the King continued, with an air of resignation, 'how then should we mobilise our forces if not to support our defenders? Must they then die?'

'We would prepare a force north of the Burgh. If they had a risk of battle on two fronts we may yet scare them back across the border. Make them reconsider coming here.'

'And then our forces outside the Burgh would be exposed. What makes you think the enemy wouldn't gain the advantage?'

Because they would have to commit to battle on our terms. Attacking either force would open them up to the other attacking on their rear flank.' He drew his hands wide forming a circle with his fingers. 'We would encircle them and destroy them.'

Brenjulf considered this for a moment. 'And better yet, we convince them that an attack on either force would end poorly for them.'

Kjartan smiled a wry grin; his eyes glowed with mischief. 'They would become the prey and we the hunters. Then we would drive them from our lands with little risk of battle.'

It still felt awkward to refer to Ørkady as "our lands. The local lords had often taunted him as an outsider. He wasn't from here; why should they need his advise? Some marshal!

The King had appointed him though. Not these pampered lordlings. He supposed he had as much right to be at home here as any of them. His ancestors had owned these lands long before it was called Ørkady. Yet, he knew he would never be accepted. He was, after all, an Eriskarian.

The King knew all too well of the younger man's origins. If the ears weren't a give away then his nearing certainly was. Whole Valkrygan men were stocky and stood tall and imposing, the Eriskarians were slender and much more graceful. Kjartan was all too obvious an Eriskarian. The King liked the man nonetheless. They talked long about the necessary preparations for the defence of Ørkady. Planned for every eventuality and discussed possible placements of troops. They had, of course, previously discussed who to request aid from and where to send messengers. They had even discussed which lords were likely to answer the summons. He would later discover that almost all of them had.

Once they had decided on the best course of action, Kjartan left to attend to his own preparations.

The King thumbed his pendant. He knew of the wars his ancestors had fought. They had believed war to be the only worthy cause a man could engage in. They had shed blood and conquered lands with impunity. No people were as skilled in warfare as the ancient Valkrygr. Even the great Artuan Empire had sued for peace after long and costly battles with the sons of Ældelwalbhert. Mighty warriors who fathered lines of great men.

Yet blood only runs so deep and when the Valkrygr turned on each other, they had nearly destroyed themselves. Ørkady was the first to recognise the need for internal stability. War unending would have been the death of their people. How quickly some forget their history, he mused.

He rose from his seat leaving his Witan to their exchanges. He was not in the mood for ale tonight.

'My King. A word if you may' came a voice from behind. It was Lord Baelson. A man whose family Brenjulf had nothing but contempt for. His father had disapproved of this sentiment and told him "A king does not judge his vassals for idiots. You never know when you may become a bigger fool yet.".

'Lord Baelson,' he met the man with an expressionless glance, 'you may have more than a moment of my time if you can settle my fears.' He waved his hand, indicating Baelson to follow. They sat in an alcove offset from the hall. It was a space Brenjulf often liked to conduct conversation. One could not see the king without him seeing you first. He felt that, from that particular location, the risk of eavesdropping was lowered.

Baelson sat beside the King. His boar fur cloak, which was wrapped around his shoulders, draped down over the back of the seat. He too was younger than Brenjulf; though the Valkrygr were a hardy people and even the young had a worn look about them. As though the harsh weathers of their native lands to the north had forever imbedded in their blood a weariness to the skin. Unlike the other lords present he was yet to have grown a beard and had all the innocence of a young man who was still growing into his new position as a lord.

'My King,' began Baelson at once, 'I wish to know your mind on this matter of war.

'My mind on the matter of war? I think you'll need to be more specific.'

Baelson swallowed. He was always nervous when speaking to the King. He was a blunt and direct man at times.

'Do you truly believe that King Crægaric seeks land? What benefit is that to him?'

'I would think any scrap of land would benefit a man who has lost half of his own, Baelson.'

'But, surely he cannot hope to maintain his southern borders against his cousin, nor his eastern borders with the Thorungian's. How can he invade us with any real hope of success?'

It was true. Northern Åscator was only a shadow of its former glory. A kingdom split in two by civil war was often less of a concern than it was presenting itself to be today. Most of the great houses were in too much turmoil to fuel the foolish ambitions of their young king.

'Whether he hopes to defend his southern border or not, does not change the fact that he might try.' Brenjulf replied.

'It's madness though. To even try to invade... We know he hasn't got an army big enough to defend three borders as it is! Let alone enough to invade land.''

'We must assume that this invasion force is serious.'

'He's nothing but a fool...'

'Crægaric is many things,' Brenjulf interjected, before Baelson could finish, 'he's wild and ambitious. He's craven and surly; but he's no fool.'

'I'm not so certain I agree, my King.'

'I do not believe he would risk an attack on our borders if he did not seriously believe he had a reasonable chance of success.' he creased his long greying hair back from his eyes and shook his head in resignation. 'For all we know he has made peace with his cousin and they are in this together. For all we know he has settled his eastern border. We cannot trust to what we think we know.'

Brenjulf interrupted Baelson with a wave. 'It is fruitless to play a guessing game right now, Baelson. I appreciate your concerns but we must ride out nonetheless.' He gestured for Baelson to leave him be, thus ending the conversation.

'Thank you for your time, my King.' Baelson rose from his seat and bowed low, spun on his heels and left his King to his thoughts. Brenjulf watched as he left, deep in thought. He had enough concerns without entertaining foolish hope.

After a few minutes, Brenjulf rose from his own seat and made his way towards a small corner of the room. It had been difficult enough addressing the crisis to his Witan; especially when his own mind knew the truth of things. They were not prepared for war. No army had been fully raised in Ørkady for a long time.

He could raise the peasant levy and field a sizeable force; but everybody knew the usefulness of peasants in battle. The few hundred or so men that some of his lords retained and, of course, there was his Gesis. His Royal house warriors. Yet even they had little experience in the shield wall. Border skirmishes and the occasional drills were not enough to prepare men for war.

Åscator had been fighting internally for many years; had been warring on their eastern border with the cynical Thurongian's for even longer. For all their flaws they had warriors who had seen battle before. No, he did not have time for vain hope. It was fruitless to believe that this attack was born of desperation. It was calculated and burned with a serious intent. He knew deep down that hard times were ahead of them. The misery would keep piling up until he suffocated beneath its weight.

Sat upon a collection of tables were icons dedicated to the Gods. There was Tûn, god of the wind who brought renewed frost in Winter with his icy breath. To his left was Nûnë, father of man and of all gods. The god who warriors prayed to for their favour. He made a silent prayer to each in turn. A prayer to Nûnë to give his men the strength and courage to face their foes. A prayer to Tûn to keep the cold out of their joints and bring favourable wind for their return.

Finally, he made a prayer to Praias, the god of war, who gloried in the shedding of blood. The god of cunning and deceit. The season of Praias they used to call war. Of course, back then war was so constant that it was often considered as much a season of it's own as winter and summer. To PRaias he made a silent prayer.A the cunning to defeat his foes. A prayer to intervene with some form of wickedness. To throw their foes down and scatter their forces. Hope was all he had, yet he did not need a fool's hope. He needed a miracle.

Lightning struck the morning sky. The deep boom of thunder followed shortly after. The gods were impatient. They revelled in the troubles of man. In such times, men truly turned to them. In these times, the gods were truly in control. The clamour of the hall halted. Every man listened out for the omens. Their ears twitching as though straining to hear the silent whispers between the gods and the ancestors. Were they to survive this war? Were the gods spelling their doom in the heavens above even as they drank to victory? Only the druids knew; or so they claimed.

They were not present here today. They were convening in their own hall channeling with the ancestor spirits. They would know what to do. They would whisper their messages from the gods, utter their advice and then return to their slumber. Brenjulf would visit the druids later and learn what was to become of Ørkady. For good or ill, the ancestor spirits had always guided the kings of Raderic since the time of Ældelwalbhert. To forsake the advice of the ancestors was to forsake the gods themselves; and no man was so brave or so foolish to turn their backs on the gods.

As the last embers in the halls fire burned low. Many had moved to their provided accommodation for the night. Others had fallen asleep at their place by the large oaken table. They would remain there until their servants summoned them for the mornings ride. All was silent. None were awake. None, save the King himself. He would not sleep yet. He would wait until it was time to meet with the druids. He hated the thought of it. Why should his final night with his wife and Queen be spent waiting on the murmurings of old men.

Who had decided the rituals of gods? Probably the same old men he now waited on; or men like them. He doubted that the gods really cared who, how or even when mortal men would attempt to commune with them. Their response was only ever a whim anyway, so what would it matter if it was early afternoon, while the sky was bright and the day still ahead of them? What would it matter if he himself woke the ancestors from their slumber? No, it was foolish to question the druids. He was a king. King's did not trifle with that which they did not understand. Peasants would. Peasants always moaned and muttered about their betters. No, he was a king. He knew better. He would wait patiently in his darkening hall and hope beyond all hope that the news was favourable.