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Vol.3, Ch.4, P.5

 

The sun was risen above Arbel. Our braves buzzed and bustled with preparations as we were all mustered within a market square at the fief-burgh’s north end. The citizenry here seemed long-evacuated; the townscape sat eerily still under morrowing rays.

Not long before were we joined by Volker and his contingent after their harrying of the east gates. Reunited now as we were, what remained was to reorganise and rearm ourselves for the principal push towards the margrave’s manor. Only…

“A mis’ry to admit, but no other way can I see: the sire of this city seeks flight… if not yet has he taken wing,” Volker concluded, slightly scowling at a map of Arbel splayed upon a vacant stall. A fortunate find, procured by his braves from a local bibliotheca whilst en route to our position. But that seemed where their—and our—luck ran dry. Other leaders, too, were present for the meeting. Their faces were no less furrowed.

“A pain without prevention…” Lise remarked without spirit.

Painful, indeed, to let slip the margrave from our reach. With backing from Central has House Ström presided over these lands for many generations. Such history was a harrier to us: even were we to capture this fief-burgh, so long as the margrave yet drew breath—whether in hiding or hale in the home of some other lord—ours would prove only a vain victory.

Aaron Ström, lord of a land wrenched away by Rolf the renegade and his horde of Nafílim… He has but to bellow and embellish this injustice, and droves would fast flock under his flag, and thence engulf us with numbers beyond our answering.

Yet Lise scried correctly another thorny truth: we had not the power to prevent such a scenario. Arbel was too big a fief-burgh, its walls too long, its gates too many. Superior to its defenders’ may be our number, but to surround the city itself? Would that our current count were manyfold more for such a snare, but alas. Should the margrave risk an escape, then, he would find it an easy flight.

Guessing his routes out of the city and waylaying them each was certainly actionable, but that would entail another splitting of our forces. A sour proposition, made rancid by the look of last night’s battle. There did the Fiefguard fight with newfound friends, whose mettle we’d yet to measure in full. Unreckoned risks, unsought surprises; we could but abandon the chase.

The taking of the fief-burgh, then, seemed our most requiting course, despite its danger. Thus did we devote ourselves to this very purpose. Let the margrave run, but in his absence, capture the cruces of his city and neutralise the remnant Fiefguard—if all fares to plan, Arbel, and indeed all of Ström, shall be ours… for a tenuous while, at least.

“Unfain be the Fiefguard to make a barricade of their garrison,” Volker uttered before turning to me. “Rolf. This stands true yet? Or?”

“It does,” I answered. “The Fiefguard garrison might be a military facility, but it is hardly a fastness. Mere offices make for poor protection, you see.”

To this, the war-chief exhaled thoughtfully before looking back to the map. “Then that leaves but one…” he said. A finger of his next tapped upon a particular spot on the parchment. All eyes followed. All heads nodded.

The concentration camp—one of Arbel’s cores we’d been well-set on capturing. Innocents were interned there: friends, family, fellow kin. We’d thought to liberate them as soon as the city fell… but if the Fiefguard meant to make their last stand there in that very camp, then we had no choice but to follow and fight, even at peril to the prisoners within.

“Walls, surrounding ev’ry side…” Volker muttered on, arms folded, “…and a lone gate as its mouth.”

True to its purpose, the concentration camp was completely palisaded. It had many gates, to be sure, but only the frontmost of them was of any substantial size. All the others were side doors and entrances, really, through none of which can two persons pass abreast. Indeed, a layout full-keen on keeping prisoners in—but what of keeping enemies out? Not so on paper, but perhaps in practice; a gamble the Fiefguard seemed quite keen on.

Though that made our plight no less precarious. The side gates would avail us little; our only course, then, was to crash right into the front gate and meet the Fiefguard at their fiercest.

“A word, if I may,” spoke a Staffelhaupt, hand raised, at whom Volker nodded. “Many of our kin are kept captive in the camp—nay, in all the city itself. Though I fear it… might the Men make hostages of them?”

“Mm… This, too, have I reckon’d, that our enemy should fain make demands than risk resistance. But as yet, none have reach’d my ears,” answered Volker, before looking to Lise. “What of yours, Edelfräulein?”

A shake of the head. “Not one chirp.”

Resorting to hostage-taking indeed counted amongst the few paths left to our foe. Yet just as revealed by Volker and Lise, it remained unventured to this moment.

“But absent such demands… what of injury? To our captive kin? They will yet quail in their cages amidst all the combat to come; won’t our enemy put them to the sword in some fit of desperation?”

The Staffelhaupt’s voice listed uneasily, yet his face had the look of determination. Doubtless his bosom both brimmed with worry for the captives and burnt with a dream to see them all freed. Thus I raised my own hand and spoke firmly, intent upon settling the uncertainty:

“A word, if I may.”

To which Lise gave a puzzled look. “Courteous for a commander, aren’t you?”

Embarrassed, I let fall my hand. Mimicking the Staffelhaupt was, in fact, a courtesy on my part, albeit one as vain as it was a vice: cautious of conduct though I’d been thus far that I might earn recognition from my new comrades, it seemed my awkward ways weren’t doing me any favours.

Clearing my throat, I tried once more. “…I say, his concern hits the mark: our enemies make no demands now, but corner them enough, and they might soon see the appeal of holding innocents at swordpoint.”

Words bitter upon everyone’s ears. Going by the gravity in their collective regard, it was clear this Staffelhaupt was hardly alone in worrying after the captives.

“What’s more, these Men’ve made mice of themselves, huddled in their last hole,” I continued. “If past battles have taught us aught, it is that fraught footmen seek solace above all. But allowed none, they will find it where they can—even from the death-wails of innocents, as though to crave companions on their way to hell.”

Grim grimaces from all around. A natural response. Grief, not gaiety, would be ours to bear if the trophies of our triumph were the corpses of the very souls we sought to save.

“Then… then what be our hand in this ill game?” asked the Staffelhaupt. Any unease he had before now simmered with urgency. My guess: one amongst the interned was most intimate to him.

“A swift one,” I answered. “We move as a gale. Blitz the gates, speed a squad into the bastille; once inside, they will secure and extract the captives, each and every one.”

The concentration camp was none too complex. It had but three buildings of note: a bastille, a watchtower, and a warden-house. In the first were the captives kept, and come the final clash, the turnkeys on duty would likely all be deployed to dam our offence. This was the moment, the prime opportunity to pierce the chaos and collect the unguarded captives.

“Simple, yet sound,” reckoned Volker. “But that begs the question: to whom falls the task?”

“Those with mettle enough unaided—the standalone soldier,” was my answer, to which everyone began exchanging looks, as though to seek out the candidates for the undertaking.

In the midst of all the measuring, one voice spoke out. “Rolf has my vote. For his mettle can I vouch.” The words of an intermediate commander, himself a participant in the northern offensive this past night.

“But not for mine, hmm?” the jarl-daughter poked, lips pouting. “‘Lise’s mettle is unmatched’; whose often words were those, I wonder?”

A mere jape, of course, but not to the commander’s ears, supposedly. “N-nay, Fräulein, yours be mighty enough, for true…”

“Well? What think you all?” Volker asked the other leaders. Silence gripped the group once more, till one amongst them stepped forth.

“Rolf’s is a sword swift and true,” he said. “This have I seen. And so do I measure him… a Man worthy of our trust.”

…”Trust”.

For me. A Man. Their erstwhile enemy.

Yet none uttered a wisp of dissent. Some even nodded.

“You have their hopes, Rolf,” remarked Volker.

“And I will answer them,” I returned. “Only, you all trust to me more than is due—I can’t go it alone. A few under my wing should well-suffice; Man that I am, I fear the sight of me will sooner cow the captives than comfort them.”

“Mete words. The assignments be mine to make, then,” the war-chief agreed, at once drawing his attention down to a muster roll. At his side was Lise, who gave me a glance of some urgency.

“One more matter, Rolf,” she said. “On the sellswords, if you will.”

“Right,” I nodded. Then, standing afore the leaders, I raised my voice. “Braves all, listen close! The margrave has turned to mercenaries, that his diminished men might be bolstered. And by the look of the last battle, already are they arrived and ready to fight. I’ve seen for myself their symbol—we count amongst our foes now the Zaharte Cohort.”

Intelligence delivered, with eyes looking all through the leaders’. They deserved to know every detail… it might very well save them. Such was the merciless mettle of our new enemies.

“‘Zaharte’?” echoed another Staffelhaupt. “A name I have heard. Two siblings lead that legion. A deadly duo, if memory serves—the sister, more so.”

In the course of his words did his face increasingly pale with apprehension. The Zaharte name, the Östberg brand—both were infamous even to the Nafílim, evidently.

“It serves well. But strength attracts strength; all of the Zaharte fighters are a force to be reckoned with,” I confirmed. “They sport arms and armour no Fiefguardsman wears. Easy foes to find, but not to fell. Keep your wits whetted, everyone!”

“Face them always with greater numbers! Alone, and only death will be your reward!” Lise chimed in. “Indeed, ‘number’ be our key advantage; use it, sustain it, and stay alive! Let’s not greet our captured kin as corpses!”

A tide of nods for the jarl-daughter’s words. Volker, too, seemed no less agreed.

“Worthy of mention are the mercenaries’ leadership,” I added. “They are the deadliest of them all, and—”

“Enemy!”

Ears perked. Eyes flashed.

“Enemy sighted! In our vicinity!”

Interrupting was a messenger brave as he broke into our gathering. Tension and shock shot through us all at once.

“They have sprung…!?” Volker said with clenched teeth. Truly an ill upheaval; at this stage in the battle, the concentration camp should’ve proven the best bastion for our foes. But to ambush us, instead? I glowered at the very thought, as did Volker as he growled on, “Right under our noses…!”

Yet the messenger only shook his head. “N-nay, Chief! The enemy… something’s amiss…!”

 

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