The longhouse showed its true purpose up close. It looked hastily made out of sheet metal and hastily reinforced with iron plates. It had a short amount of steps leading to large double doors to emulate the grandeur of longhouses of old, but they were fake and for show. Built into them were two, modern doorways that were propped open.
Out front were several fires where soldiers stood around and laughed and talked. Tapio noticed several officers standing around as well. Many held large tankards and feasted on large mutton legs. A few ate at a thin, metal table, glasses and plates and everything. The contrast was odd for Tapio.
He was not given much time to dwell on it when a figure broke off from a group by the front door. The lead figure marched confidently toward Tapio, and he was flanked by two soldiers on either side.
Tapio tensed, but tried not to look alarmed as they got closer.
As they approached, he recognized them. The middle man was a tall sort, with blonde hair. His beard had filled in since the last time Tapio saw him, and was now kept in a professional, rounded style. Even his hair was cut short and parted to match the stylings of other leaders of the age. He wore a suit and tie, but was recognizable by the furs that draped over his shoulders and the hood made from the face of a dire wolf.
"Tapio," announced the man as he approached, "I can barely believe it with my own eyes."
"Roland Skarsgard," Tapio greeted, "Now you look the part of a modern Chieftain."
"I am a modern Chieftain," said Roland.
The two embraced in greeting, but neither looked happy about it. Roland scowled at Tapio's outfit.
"What is this? People are expecting a war hero. Not 'farmer Sven'."
"I was summoned," said Tapio, "And I am a soldier no more."
"I did not summon a moping old veteran," said Roland, "When one says they are bringing the 'Butcher of Rovaniemisk' they-"
"I would much insist you keep that name from your lips," demanded Tapio.
The two soldiers tensed, and Roland blinked in response.
"I simply... expected-"
"You did not ask. I was summoned by the Warchief."
"If I had asked, you would not have come," said Roland, "And if I had ordered... I did not think it wise."
"Why am I here?" asked Tapio, "What is so important-"
"Oh, come now, Tapio," said Roland, "Even I have heard the rumors you have already encountered them. Rusviet invaders."
"That's not good enough."
"Look, it is not for me," said Roland, "However, Chief Carl Adlersparre needs you. He is your new Chieftain. However, he does not know what I know."
"So you sold me?"
"Hey, where is your honor?" said Roland, "His lands were hit the hardest during the Great War. Most of his subjects have yet to resettle home, or will never be coming home. He is in a bad position for this mission."
"So you are paying off my debt by me paying off yours?"
"Please, do not be obstinate," said Roland, "You left us, remember? The war is closer to your bed than mine."
"And I have paperwork from the King that says my duty was satisfied."
"Then go home," said Roland, "But you owe me. And I will be unable to save you from a draft from your new Chieftain should it come to it."
Tapio crossed his arms. Roland's face softened, and he stepped closer to Tapio, lowering his voice.
"Come now, Tapio. Just join us in the meeting. Step forward when I ask you to. Your action could save a lot of lives," Roland placed a solid hand on Tapio's shoulder, "One mission. It is dangerous, but we've been through worse. Do this, and I'll see you returned to your solitary life. In peace."
"Am I going to hate it?" asked Tapio.
Roland nodded, "Yes, but then again, we all hate this. Who gives a reindeer shit what you hate."
A horn's blast rang out. Everyone turned to the door of the longhouse, where a young man, almost a boy, stood with an old signal horn. He turned and walked inside.
"Let's go," said Roland, "It begins."
With that he turned and marched towards the longhouse. However the two soldiers looked to Tapio. Tapio rolled his eyes, and took off to follow Chief Skarsgard.
Inside the longhouse, the atmosphere was tense. Even as Tapio entered, he could hear shushing and lowered murmurs between people. Many soldiers and officers filled the room.
The room was standing room only, as on either side going down the length of the great room were desks filled with clerks. Around them was plenty of walking space, but dead center of the room was a large, elongated oval table. Maps were strewn out over it, with small figures representing armies and armored units.
Roland was far from the only Chief in attendance. Several others standing around the room had similar furs denoting their status, and were dressed in a variety of styles. They were surrounded by their entourages in Uniforms of the Nordic Army. Some looked more traditional, while others spouted crisp uniforms and new styled peaked caps.
What did catch Tapio's eye was in the far corner, a group of foreigners stood. Two of them wore greenish-tanish uniforms that stood out amongst the blues and greys. They had peaked caps and crisp ties. However, one of them wore the distinguished patterned kilt and glengarry of an Albion Clansman. His skin was dark, and he listened eagerly to a uniformed Nordic Officer speaking to them in hushed tones.
Tapio also managed to lock eyes with the soldier from earlier, Oran, who nodded his own greeting to Tapio. Tapio joined Roland on one side of the table, stepping down uneasily as the room continued to fill. The door behind them closed, filling the room with a thrum. Looking back, Tapio noticed the messenger, Oscar, had made it inside this meeting as well. He was attempting to push his way to the front, by the table, but other soldiers were moving him back, making way for Chieftains and the officers.
A man wearing bright red and blue uniform with the draped furs of a chieftain stepped up and greeted Roland with a hushed word. He wore the traditional four winds hat and garb of the Sami tribe. Roland pointed from Tapio to the Chieftain.
"Chief Carl Adlersparre," Roland noted.
However, a hush went over the crowd. The back door opened, revealing the noisy, cluttering room with radios and telegraphs and people speaking loudly. Out walked a group of men, and all attention turned to them.
The head of which was a large, muscular man. He stood tall, and was wearing a blue uniform with an ornate leather belt across his middle. He had epaulettes on his shoulders, and shiny golden buttons running the length of his uniform. He wore on his head a helm of a Chieftain, open faced to show him, but gilded in gold and silver.
When he approached the table, he removed the helm, and placed it down. The resulting thunk was heard throughout the room with the resulting hush. When the back door closed, the room was again thrown into a tense hum.
"Long live the King of the Nordic Lands," said the man, his voice not yelling, but booming to fill the room.
"Long live the king!" came a uniform roar from all those in attendance.
"I," started the man immediately, "Am Hugor Sorenson, son of Soren Haraldson. I am the King's Warchief. In matters of war, and that being discussed here today, my words shall be that of the King's. Are there any who challenge this proclamation?"
Again, in unison, every Nordic person in the room slammed their fists to their chests. A salute, as well as recognition. To challenge a Warchief meant certain death. In olden times, it was a fight. However, in modern times it was most likely a court martial, or a trial.
The King's Warchief was the highest General and Admiral. Entire wars were won or lost on their word. And Warchief Sorenson looked the part. He was greying, going on white, but his physical fitness matched that of any younger body in the room. He frowned and glared, creating wrinkles, but his eyes shot fire and lightning into whoever dared meet his gaze. He did not seem one to raise his voice, but when he spoke fields of men heard.
The Warchief pointed to the map.
"Two days ago, forces from Rusviet charged our border guards. Several spearhead assaults breached our borders. One, at the Kemijoki, has burrowed deep into the Kingdom."
"It has not come to light as to the reason for the attack, but we have received news in the King's courts that a situation has developed in the south. It would appear Rusviet forces have launched an offensive against the factory."
The room erupted into murmurs and whispers. Aides and soldiers whispered to their Chieftains and officers. A younger officer by the table reached out with a pointer and began to move pieces on the table, assembling a map, where a large number of Drekkar models were at or around Byskaar, and many other mechs and models were moved around. Large, black wooden hammers were moved into place. Tapio recognized the imagery from similar war meetings. Oil pumps.
"Rusviet has gotten... abusive in trade talks concerning oil as of late," continued Warchief Sorenson, "And I have been assured they recently began making threats. Our King was in talks with his cabinet about embargos to change their tune, however we never got to it. It is the belief of his Majesty and myself that the Rusviet intend to take this line of Oil fields, with the facilities located there, for the oil they need to fuel their campaign against Nikola Tesla's factory."
This gained even louder gasps and whispers, but the Warchief's sudden glare brought the room back into order.
"We shall be deploying troops to ensure this does not happen," said Warchief Sorenson, "If they can hold these oil fields when winter comes, it will be a long, bloody, campaign to take them back. However, if we can fortify these oil fields ourselves, the Rusviet advance will be stopped dead, and they will be hard pressed to continue this campaign through winter."
A metallic thunk rang out in the room. A Chieftain on the other side of the room took a half step forward, drawing attention to him.
"Excuse me, Warchief," his accent sounded almost Saxonian. Probably from the Southern lands bordering Saxony.
"If I may. Would this mean Rusviet is in violation of the St Petersburg Accords? Do we have any right to call on signatories to pressure them?"
"Sadly, that is complicated," said Sorenson, "First off, you forget the Nordic Kingdom was neutral. There is no need for a peace treaty when there was peace."
A small wave of halfhearted chuckles filled the room.
"As such, we were not invited to Tsar Nikolas' little signatory. In essence, the conflict between Rusviet and the Kingdom has never ended. Or that with Saxony for that matter."
"If I may," said a man, the same Nordic man speaking with the Albions earlier, interjected, "It would not matter if we had. It has come to our attention Rusviet is currently enthralled in some sort of... domestic matter. Our King and our agents have lost contact with Tsar Nikolas or his court recently."
"Revolution," spat Warchief Sorenson, "Anti Monarchs. Rusviet's aggressive nature has allowed the infection to fester and now their forces are spread thin and they are ripped apart."
"Time," Sorenson continued, "Is of the essence. All Drekkar class ships have been drafted back into service and called here. Listen closely, as you will be responsible for commanding your Captains."
Warchief Sorenson outlined a tactical plan that involved deploying Drekkar walkers with troops to several regions and contingencies on securing oil pumps and then certain cities of interest before reinforcing front line companies still holding out. He expertly split up ships and armored battalions to maximize the effect they would have with limited, last minute resources.
They had sent Drekkar walkers into the sea, recalling any and all, and the major armies would be sending additional troops to reinforce this operation after securing the other borders and major cities throughout the Kingdom. He outlined how they were better equipped, but under prepared than the war.
Until he came to a region Tapio recognized, and the one where the massive Rusviet spearhead was digging into the Kingdom.
"As for addressing this, we must push back this advance with strength," said Sorenson, "But they are on point to reach their target first. We have no time to spare in this instance. These ships will move out immediately to reinforce the Oil fields here, but our goal is to secure the town of Hammakko, here. There is a blacksmith working on a specific commission for the King's military and he moved his workshop to be undisturbed. We have only a week before-"
"Days."
The room turned their eyes to Tapio. The Warchief's gaze cut the stale air on a path to where Tapio stood. Even Roland looked startled, and he took a step away.
"I was just brought from that direction," said Tapio, "I engaged a Rusviet scouting party just outside of Södomuonio. They would not have sent a party alone without a mech if they hadn't secured the town. It has been some time since I left on my way here. If they are truly moving as fast as they are, Hammakko is their next target, and we have days. They may be there already. The Sleipnir should have never left."
"Interesting," said Warchief Sorenson, "with this news, we must act now. Our plan was to send a strike force to these pumps here to hold for the main force. Move them up to Hammakko. However, we cannot risk losing such a skilled blacksmith of the King's. I am afraid I must send this strike force directly onto Hammakko or risk losing it without a fight."
The Warchief leaned forward, tapping the table for emphasis, "I require volunteers to step forward. They must leave with haste."
"I step forward," said a man off to one side. His smile presented himself, "You will have my mech."
"Excuse me, blacksmith Moller," Warchief Sorenson winced, "Your new... design is untested. I would prefer you to help an established squad secure the fuel pumps."
"My Stridsvalker M/14 is faster than a non-Drekkar craft," stated the man again, "And they have been tested. You and I both know it is time for the field. If you need volunteers to succeed, you know as well as I they will need armored support. We are most likely to come across infantry forwards anyways-"
"Can they... make the trip?" asked Sorenson.
"They must," said the man, "Hammakko's fate may very well rest in the balance, Warchief."
Sorenson breathed audibly through his nose, the breath filling his chest in a strained manner.
"So be it," said the Warchief, "Three of the new Stridsvalkers."
"I volunteer," came a female voice, "You will need an experienced leader."
The woman who stepped forward was impressive, but a unique sight in the Nordic Kingdom. She was tall and built solid, but her most noticeable trait was her dark skin, making her stand out in the room of mostly pale, Nordic men. It was not unheard of for Nordic citizens of all races to be represented, but the combination of dark and female in a war room was enough to silence any group.
"Hersir Larson," came the strained moan of a gentleman behind her, "Must you always?"
"Larson?" Warchief Sorenson's eyes narrowed, "Hersir Selma Larson?"
"Daughter of Neil Larson, aye Warchieftan."
Sorenson shook his head, "I would have never guessed. Your deeds are discussed even in Anslo City. You will be Hersir on this operation. I would have it no other way."
"A woman?" came the gasp from across the room.
Hersir Larson slammed her hands down on the table, her eyes scanning the room, "Who dares question the Warchieftain? I have been bestowed this command. Who offers a challenge of Ledelse?"
"Silence," came the booming voice of Sorenson, "I have spoken, there will be no challenge. You will keep your tongues on her sex to yourself and educate yourself on Hersir Larson's war record. She will lead this."
Tapio felt a shove at his shoulder. Roland had a stern face, trying to show no emotion. But his eyes widened slightly at Tapio when he investigated the shove. Tapio understood, now. This is why he was here. Why he was 'summoned'.
When he returned his attention to the room, he saw the shove had not gone unnoticed, and the Warchieftain was gazing straight at him.
"I step forward," said Tapio, his voice coming out uncertain.
"And who is 'I', one who has already faced the Rusviet?" said Sorenson.
"Tapio Virtanen," said Tapio, more forcefully, "Son of Roth Virtanen."
"Virtanen..." Warchief Sorenson was in thought as he eyed Tapio.
"I step forward," came another booming voice, Tapio was disheartened to see Oran Kristiansen had stepped forward.
"I step forward," came Oscar's voice in the back.
Tapio rolled his eyes. That boy was going to get himself killed. What was he thinking!
But the thought was lost in a new sea of volunteers. The Warchief making note of them.
"We have no time," came the order of Warchief Sorenson, "If you are not an officer or a Chieftain, and you volunteer, you are dismissed. Hersir Larson, you are in charge of getting a force together and heading out immediately. If you find volunteers lacking, I trust your judgement in choosing from infantry battalion the 114th. Lykke til."
"Long live the King." came a response from some in the room.
"Long may he reign," came Sorenson's dismissive tone.
Tapio looked to Roland, who nodded his thanks and clasped a hand on Tapio's shoulder. Tapio sighed. He turned to leave, but found Chief Adlersparre waiting for him.
"Thank you," he said in a lowered tone, "May the raven oversee your mission."
"It is an honor, my Chief."
"No, I was not your Chief," responded Adlersparre, "But after this, I will be more than honored to accept you. Now go. Save my people. Know I will be right behind you."
Tapio took that as a dismissal, and he made his way towards the door, shuffling silently with the few other figures making their way out of the longhouse.