Vol.5, Ch.3, P.14
Darkness sighed down on Déu Tsellin. The winds warbled; the stones slept. All seemed at peace on this starry night.
A far distance from the southern slopes, opposite of Rolf and the alliance in their northerly approach, there mingled in the mirk a mass of Nafílim. The Reùlingen they were, encamped upon a circuit of green before it gave way to the great, grey wastes of Déu Tsellin. This was to be their final rest. On the dim of morrow would they march to the foot of the mountain, and there commence at last their long-expected reckoning.
But for now, after having meditated their many plans, and inspected their arms and armour, and took mead and meal, and altogether set their affairs in order, the braves posted a watch, quietly bound themselves in skins and blankets, succumbed to an uneasy slumber.
“…”
A ways from them, however, silently upon the meagre turf, there was sat a soul staring up at the night-draped mountain. Ruffled was his hair and lithe were his limbs, like a twig fresh-plucked from a tree, or a scatterbrained scholar dazed from days of book-delving. Yet he was, in truth, the unchallenged champion of the Reùlingen host: Walter, hailed hero to the Nafílim.
With star-speckled eyes, he admired the holy heights. Not that there was much to discern; dark the mountain was, like a precipice hanging afore the infinite cosmos. And yet to him, the mountain, too, was as much a marvel. Indeed, being freckled with the countless campfires of the Londosians, Déu Tsellin itself seemed a sky encrusted with its own stars; or, by a snowy whiteness that danced dimly along its summit: a gem-speckled bow pointed at the empyrean. The work of the waxing moon this was, conferring the faintest of lights upon all the treeless ridges of the range.
What a vista it was to Walter. From edge to edge, the whole of his vision was consumed by it, filled with it, down to the very depths of his heart. The “seat of the sacred”, indeed. So was it called by many, and in that moment, Walter finally knew—nay, felt for himself why.
“Magnificent…” he murmured aloud, “…so, so… magnificent.”
“What is?”
Walter jumped. An answer was the last thing he expected. Turning about, he found standing over him an unimpressed Erika.
“Ever the heedless hero,” she said to him with narrowed eyes. “You’d be stewing in a pot by now, were you a hare to be hunted.”
Walter scratched his head. “Well… I do like myself a soup,” he jested with a simper. But it helped his situation little, and he knew as much. Erika was a wonder of a swordmaiden, after all, who, with but a small effort, could evanesce into her very environs as would a hunter on the prowl. Never against such sleight-of-hand had Walter the hare any hope. But was he to be blamed? He was a bookworm, it must be understood, for whom war was better a thing to be read about than wrought. Why, that he had a knack for magicks at all was wholly due to his scholastic curiosities, and practising his spellcraft had only ever been to him a beloved pastime.
But despite knowing this all too well, Erika relented little. “Oh, don’t you go humouring me,” she admonished him. “Show some spine for once, straight and strong.”
Walter unbent his back. “I-I am. I do,” he answered.
“For true, now?” Erika said doubtfully. “We’re camped in enemy country, need I remind you? Any moment and they might eat us alive. And yet here you are, daydreaming in the dark.”
“I know, I know,” Walter groaned, before trailing off, “…no need to mother me.”
“…What?”
At that, the hero inly gulped. He had done it now. To the ears, Erika’s tone had hardly changed. But to Walter’s, he knew that a nerve of hers had been strummed sharp, and thus panicked as he then tried to appease his puffing companion.
“Ah, er, I-I mean,” he stammered. “L-lo—up there. I wasn’t daydreaming, see? I was surveying. You know, the mountain. The next battlefield.”
Erika narrowed her eyes at him again. “And ‘magnificent’ is your measure of it?” she said. “You describe more a banquet than a battlefield, Walter.”
“Well… y-you must admit, it—”
“I do?”
Walter nearly shuddered. “W-why, of course,” he managed to say. “I mean, just look at it, Erika. It is magnificent, don’t you see?”
With that, the hero looked back to the mountain. Erika followed suit. And there, afore the two pairs of up-gazing eyes, there spanned all the benighted depths of Déu Tsellin. A silhouette sad and silent, grand and gaping, watching and waiting.
“…”
“…”
Speechless, the two companions drank in the vaulting vista. At length, Erika sat herself softly down beside Walter.
“…True enough,” she relented. “Enemy mountain or no, a beauty’s a beauty, all the same.”
“One graced by the gods, they say,” noted Walter. “I well-see why.”
Myths and mountains—a pairing entwined since time out of mind. For to any mortal imagination does a mountain summon swift the ghosts of gods. Déu Tsellin was no different.
“Don’t let the ‘gods’ scare you, now,” Erika quipped quietly.
“Who’s scared?” came Walter’s quick answer.
Indeed, though seducedly had he been staring upon it, this hero did not let the mountain overmaster him. It was, at the end of the day, a fastness of the foe, and come all the combat tomorrow, it would be a beast, swallowing a great many lives and making of them a meal truly fit for a mountain. But Walter, having taken it upon himself to stop it, dared not yield now or ever.
And with that thought, and a wistful and steely change to his timbre besides, Walter said, “Erika. Let’s win this through.”
The jarl-daughter looked to him. “Oh?” she said, smirking. “Ready at last, I see.”
Ready to assume the mantle of “hero”; ready to answer the Reùlingen cry. Such was Erika’s meaning, and such was the weight heavy on Walter’s shoulders.
It was never by choice that he was so hailed. Walter had the talent to play the part, and by his people was he chosen for it, naturally enough. In a way, it was his talent itself that had set him on this course. But having accepted it full, any hesitation, any half-heartedness now would never be suffered from him. No, not upon so fraught and unforgiving a fray as a battlefield. This, Walter knew. Weak of will and timid of mettle though this young soul was, he knew.
And embraced to the best of his ability.
“Ready to raze that idol of divine vanity, yes,” he answered gravely at the mountain, “…before it razes us anymore in turn.”
“Idol” was more fitting than either of the two would have liked. Déu Tsellin, symbol of Yoná Almighty; that alone was reason enough to wrest it, to return it to what it once was: an old, grey mountain sitting under the wheeling sky. Surely would such a move mar the morale of so Yoná-loving a lot as the Londosians.
“Sounds much a promise, that,” Erika remarked. “I better not see you trembling again when battle breaks. You hear me?”
“Hey,” Walter began complaining, “I tremble oft, maybe. But not always.”
“I wonder that,” returned Erika. But though banter was her intent, she did, in fact, think Walter more than fit enough for the feat. Of felling the foesome fastness afore them. Of forging a new future for them and theirs. From the bottom of her heart did she believe in this. For she believed in him. The smile, now soft but sure upon her lips, was proof enough.
“The holy mountain itself…” she whispered after a wordless while, “…never dreamt the day would dawn.”
Hers well-sounded a broken thought, much less one ever meant to meet the air. But Walter understood it well enough. Besetting Déu Tsellin in assault—up till too recently was such more a pipe dream than a plan of action. And looking up at the mountain with his own eyes, in such circumstance as he now found himself in, Walter felt very much the same as Erika: that the natural fortress afore them was nary a thing to be felled.
That is, were the Reùlingen alone in the struggle.
It comforted Walter, then, to know that they were not.
“We owe much thanks,” he said softly. “To Víly, to Gorka—to the Cutcrowns.”
Erika nodded. “We do, don’t we?”
“Yes… Víly, in especial,” Walter added. And as he gazed thoughtfully at the mountain, he remembered a mirthful day. A day not long ago at all; a day in the Mennish city of Arbel, wherein he had met the harbingers of the new hope, as it were. “Striding from strength to strength, from triumph to triumph; now to stand aface Isfält,” Walter regaled of them spiritedly. “All in a year!”
A year.
It was the grandfather of the Margrave Aaron, late lord of Ström, who had seen to the construction of Balasthea in his time. And in the generations thence that it stood, never once had the Vílungen vanquished the stronghold, much less penetrated it. That is, till within this year when it seemed some secret fire had been stoked, setting in motion a great and mighty momentum that saw the capture of all of Ström itself, the crushing of the 3rd Order by an alliance with Gorka, and the taking of nearby Tallien. It was victory after victory for the Vílungen, a miracle bringing them now to the hallowed province of Isfält itself.
“Indeed,” said Erika. “So swift have they set the world astir… The fair winds fly with them, for true.”
“The fair winds?” said Walter. “If headed by Herr Rolf is what you mean, then sure.”
“Rolf”—the name of his new friend; his very first from the breed of Men, no less. And yet, how strange that their interests should so align. Lovers of lore and lettered works, they even shared a passion for dragons. Strange, indeed, this “Rolf”. But there was more to the Man than that. Stalwart he was and wise, and above all, magnanimous to an unfathomable degree.
Their meeting had lasted for but a day, to be sure. Yet that was all Walter had needed to glimpse the heart of the rebel. Ever was it true when it came to Walter for his friends: he understood them all very well, weak of wit and will though he may seem at times. And in Rolf’s case, Walter was certain as stone: that he was the Man behind the miracles of the Vílungen.
Erika, however, could not concur. “Hmph,” she huffed, and in her doubt, brought up her knees and embraced them, as though mounting some sort of defence. “Rather a puff from the bum, this ‘Rolf’.”
“Oh, you can’t mean that, Erika. He’s immense!” said Walter, vivid of eyes. “You saw it for true. My magick—he cut them all down, he did!”
“…All right, then,” said Erika with a sigh. “He has mettle enough for a Man. An explosion from the bum he is, then!”
Walter gave a grave look. He minded not some well-intended mockery and merriment, but in that moment, he saw the trouble hiding in Erika’s heart. “‘For a Man,’ you say,” he said sternly. “You yet mistrust them?”
Erika paused. “I… do,” she answered, unsure of herself. A winter yet whirled in her when it came to Men. And despite her better intentions, not in a day could any such winter go away.
“The Herr Dennis himself seemed no less receptive,” Walter noted.
“I know,” Erika said into her knees. “And I give him my trust, if only for the cooperator that he is. If only… for now.”
Not without conditions could Erika have taken that leap. Trusting Men—now that was a fruit most unripe upon the tree. But were this war… nay, this battle won, would it then gain a riper colour? This Erika pondered. For deep down inside, she, too, wished for change. Change upon the world. Change upon herself.
And as if having perceived this thought in her, Walter’s face softened, and quietly he insisted again, “Let’s win this, then.”
“Suppose we do. Don’t you go dying in the deed, you hear me?” Erika said unsteadily. And looking away, she said on, “…Even peace has need of heroes.”
Peace. The sort to follow a long and beleaguered battle. And not just one that would see the fall of the mountain afore them, but also the laying down of all Londosian arms once and for all. Such was Erika’s meaning. But till such time comes, they must see it through safe and sound. Such was Erika’s wish. One most natural—and one most sincere.
“To serve a symbol?” asked Walter. Wistful eyes turned to the stars. “Hm. Can I do it… I wonder?”
“Can or cannot, you must.”
“But I’m so unsuited for that stuff.”
“That’s not true.”
“Mmm, is it? Is it?”
Worthless words, wandering between the two. Worthless, and yet to them, worth more than all the world. And when that sputtered to a stop, silence came to visit. But they did not trouble about it. In fact, they savoured it, for never was silence a bitter beverage to these bosom friends. And ever as they did, they peered intently upon the mountain, where war awaited them.
“Win that,” Erika said after many moments, “and we turn the world upside-down. You think the same?”
A rather belated observation. Erika, however, could hardly help it. Perhaps to her, it yet seemed a possibility sitting beyond the pale. Such was the scale of the coming battle, casting a long and dark shadow over even the future itself. But were it to come to pass, with all the fearsome foes defeated and the flags of Isfält aflutter with different colours, there remained no question that the course of the war would forever be changed.
“I do,” Walter answered Erika. “Upside-down and feet-to-face!”
“Only, a battle blocks our way,” Erika noted. “A battle… bigger and more beast-like than all before it.”
“Too true,” said the hero.
“…But don’t you worry, Walter,” said Erika. Her voice now was changed, naked and genuine. And with a chin resting atop her knees, Erika turned intently to Walter and said to him, “You have me to protect you.”
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