Vol.5, Ch.3, P.15
A favourite phrase to Erika those words seemed, and to Walter by this point, a frequent visitant in his ears. But he did not grudge her for it. For whensoever they left her lips, warm and gentle would be her timbre, and sad and soft would be her gaze. But most of all, set and sincere would be her heart.
“You know,” Walter said to her, “I’ve long thought this, but…”
“But?”
“…Can’t I protect you, instead?”
Not for being coddled all day is a hero renowned. No; to serve, to protect, and to shoulder sacrifices for the good of all—is that not the hero’s calling? Of such did Walter’s conscience assure him, yet ever would Erika’s ‘favourite phrase’ leave him doubtful of himself. Being now at the brink of a great battle, he had thought to put this to Erika and clear the air, so to speak. But the jarl-daughter herself simply smiled and chuckled.
“Not for a second,” she answered. “I’m the babysitter and you’re the baby.”
“Hey,” began Walter’s objection, only to trail off with an “…I’m no baby.”
Try as he might, Walter’s adamance could only melt away. It seemed Erika’s words had yet a kernel of truth in them, and not in her presence was he to protest it.
“Oh, that you are and were,” Erika insisted. “Crybaby Wally. A tub of tears by now I’ve dried from your cheeks.”
“I wasn’t that much of a crybaby,” said Walter, pouting. “At least, I think not.”
“You think awrong. Remember that one time? With the book?” Erika softly brought up. “You cried a pond then, you did.”
Since his smallest years had Walter been a bookworm of a boy, spending his days less in the sun and more steeping in the quiet corners of dusty archives. And once upon a time for such a son did his parents purchase a particular book: namely, one on dragons and dragon tales.
For little Walter, that was a glad gift, indeed. So fond was he of it, in fact, that wheresoever he went, always would he have in hand his precious book. And when the rare wanderlust waxed strong in his sproutling heart, most assuredly was he to be found sitting under some tree or atop some breezy hill, reading intently in one moment, and gazing dreamily yonder in the next.
But being so lank and reclusive a boy, he was, to the other children, very much a bookworm—one to be picked at and prodded, no less. And so it happened one day that the biggest prodder in all the neighbourhood, as it were, came upon him for a bit of bullying. A one-sided struggle later, and Walter soon found his beloved book missing.
It was scarce the case that this bully of an urchin had the faintest fancy for the book; only, it seemed at the time, that in watching Walter saunter about with it had inspired some inner urge to purloin it from him.
“There on the wayside you sat,” Erika recalled aloud, “crying and crying… and crying.”
“No, I wasn’t,” countered Walter. “Your memory’s all a mess, Erika.”
“Not as messy as your face was,” Erika giggled. “On and on you wept, stopping not till I stole back your book.”
To be teased for tumbles taken in one’s littlest years—a common occurrence for the common adult. But for Walter, it was perhaps too common. He endured it daily, in fact, as the passing of the summers had done little to fade the memory of his many foibles. Why, they were as fresh as morning dew to Erika, for in her heart, Walter was as the runt of the litter: precious, but ever in need of a good poke to get going.
“I said it then, too, didn’t I?” she continued. “‘I’m here for you, Wally. Here to protect you’.”
Walter cocked his head and bent a brow. “…Mm? Hold there,” he said. “Wasn’t I the one who said that?”
“Were you, now?” Erika returned. “All weeping like you were?”
“Weeping like… oh,” said Walter, before fidgeting in a fluster. On top of his acumen, it was for his memory, too, that Walter was marked a marvel. But ever there to attest to the contrary was Erika with her quips and witticisms.
And gently, she laughed. “Whose memory’s a mess, I wonder?”
“Ah, er…”
And as was his wont, Walter scratched his head. So certain he was of that particular memory, and the look of racking brains upon him well-showed it. Erika, however, merely giggled and grinned away with mild mischief.
A brisk breeze then blew. The grasses rustled. The stars wheeled. But before they could indulge in another topic, a pair of figures approached them from behind.
“And whose bedtime is it, I wonder?” one quipped.
“Uwah!?”
Walter jumped, crashing out of his contemplations—a sight not unlike one from mere moments before. And turning to the interlopers, he found afore him his fellows Guido and Gunthar with half-smirks on their faces.
“Apologies for the ambush,” said Guido.
“For a while we thought to call you,” explained Gunthar. “But the moment was, er… hard-intruded, let’s say.”
“Oh, stop that,” groaned Walter. “Call if you must. Goodness me…”
“I knew they were there all along,” Erika revealed, and there was shared amongst them a song of laughter… and of peace. A scene misplaced, one might imagine, upon the eve of so great a reckoning. But for these life-riskers and death-darers, it served all the more reason to relish in what little levity was left them.
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Through throngs of fog blushed the first breath of sun. Morrow was come at last. Upon the southern slopes of the mountain were they rustling and arraying: the knights of the 2nd Order. Fresh from the eastern reaches of the realm they were, having vanquished completely the perils that affrighted the fringes there. And now, here at Déu Tsellin were they keen to continue their successes once more.
“The blood stirs…” came a grave whisper. There he stood upon a stony precipice: Stefan Cronheim, commander to these mighty men. And his gaze was sombre as it watched the slopes disappear into the glowing gloom.
For over thirty winters had he lived, yet he seemed still in the spring of his youth, much less unweathered by the winds of war. Indeed, he did not stand altogether too tall, and bearing still a babe’s softness in his eyes, Stefan might have appeared puerile amidst the presses of stern and solemn men.
Men—amongst whom none dared doubt him for it. For this they knew: that this mareschal of theirs, steady upon the pedestal as one of the fiercest lions alive in Londosius, was no charmer to be trifled with.
“Anette,” he called to the side, “how stand our men?”
“Sir. They are positioning all to plan. We expect readiness within moments’ time,” answered a woman beside Stefan. The Dame Under-Uareschal to these knights, Anette was high of height and hoarse of heart, but harboured for her mareschal a reverence as fathomless as it was famed.
“Excellent,” said Stefan. “And Felix. What of our friends north and east?”
“All to plan, as well, sir. The Salvators step into rank as we speak.”
That answer came this time from a fellow man, shorter in stature and more worn in his years: Felix his name was, Chief Adjutant to the 2nd. And as per his report, the Champions Salvator were indeed tasked to the defence of both the northern and eastern fronts. A strange strategy, one might think, but it was sound enough. Of the three Londosian forces, the Salvators numbered the most. Thus was it their commander-bishop’s thought to split them atwain, to challenge with their chief force the Víly-Gorka alliance to the north, and with their surplus, the Cutcrowns—least numerous of the enemy—to the east.
That left, then, the south, whereupon the 2nd was to reckon with the Reùlingen.
“And bolstering all of our backs: the lions of the 1st,” Stefan reflected aloud. “Naught encourages the heart more.”
“Indeed,” said Felix, drawing up with a nod. “Even should sword bend and spear splinter, the hero-dame herself will save the day, I foresee.”
“A fool’s foresight,” snapped Anette. “It shall not come to that.”
“P-pray pardon,” whimpered Felix as he winced under the stern stare of his superior. Much alike to his contemporary Edgar Bailon of the 5th, Felix had come aboard the 2nd amidst the military expansion so precipitated by the capture of Mt Godrika some years prior. But that seemed the extent of their similarities, for Felix in his nature was something of a chicken-heart: though hardly a greenhorn in the 2nd by now, he was hobblingly humble, and seldom stood with any spine.
“Come, Anette. He speaks true enough,” soothed Stefan his frowning subordinate. “The Lord Balbreau plays his pieces well, you would agree; with the 1st to watch our napes, our situation is ill-challenged.”
“Yes, I doubt not His Grace’s game,” Anette was quick to concur. “Tallien and Artean—neighbouring lands and lords now lost. A vengeance for them seems to have served a grindstone for the bishop’s axe, I should imagine.” And there, Stefan espied a spiteful tinge in Anette’s tone. Mirthless, too, was her mien, as it moiled with unmistakable enmity for the enemy now marching on the mountain. “But we ought not fall as have the late lords, bravely though they went,” she added, glancing grimly at Felix. “No; we must needs avenge them, together with His Grace. And at the last lay upon their graves a fine flower—of Nafílim heads.”
Stefan gave a wistful look. “‘Bravely’, you say,” he said. The mareschal then turned to the unfading fog, as though to search the uncertainties beyond. “To every soldier, a heart. To every sword, a purpose,” he began again gravely, and turning back to Anette, said, “Wield yours as you will. But leave me to wield mine as I shall.”
Anette blinked. “Sir?”
“I’ll put it plain to you, Anette,” said Stefan. “Though I am loath to disparage the dead, I must admit, never did I love the late lords.”
“Surely, you do not mean that, sir?” stammered Anette. “The Viscount Bartt—Yoná bless—was himself your very peer; a mareschal and marvel both. And the young lord of Artean; why, what was he but a saviour who shouldered the will of his weakened father and shepherded his people out of their stricken plight?”
Stefan’s stare turned soft upon her. “Many see as you do, my dear Anette,” he replied. “I number not amongst them, sadly. No; to my eyes were those lords hedonists too-hungry, steeping themselves in velvet and vanity whilst their folk withered beyond their very windows.”
Anette gulped. She knew not what to make of that remark, and so surrendered to her beloved mareschal with a breathless “…As you say, sir.”
“Mind you, that is merely my piece, and mine alone,” Stefan emphasised. Albeit one to earn its encores, given the absolute state of our aristocracy, he kept to himself. And inly sighing, Stefan continued, “Whichever the way of it, we have a war afore us. The dearly deceased; the future of our folk—for their banners, at least, may we fight, I’m sure you will agree?”
With eyes rekindled, the under-mareschal nodded. “Y… yes! Of course!” she followed, fast and submissive. Stefan smiled upon Anette, almost pitifully in a way, and there sank deep into thought.
What thinks Her Highness of this, I wonder? he said in his heart. Surely it aggrieves her, this rot that so corrodes our realm. Indeed, nary a feeling is ever unfurled upon that fair face of hers, but I see it in her soul: our princess wishes desperately to save Londosius. From its failings—from itself.
But though ‘Her Highness’ she may be, ‘Her Majesty’ she is not. Our king—mercy upon him—yet occupies the throne, after all, sooner to be found fevering upon his bed though he is. No; being so just and so gentle, never would his dear daughter even think to supplant him, much less reign beyond her given prerogative.
What is left us, then, against this other rotted tide? Londosius yet looms large over the Nafílim, whether in might or mass. That much remains true. But no advantage endures ever long. This flood—for years uncounted has it coursed against our feet. But something happened there in the fall of Balasthea. Some gate, breached; some spring, struck, giving new speed to the wicked waters… that now to our waists do they surge. How much longer, then, till they take up to our necks?
And swallow us into their sightless depths?
Nay. No longer must the waters wax. Now must the flood fail. For Londosius that I love, I—we, must win here.
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Chapter 3 ─ End
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