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Vol.5, Ch.4, P.12

No magick for a mêlée that was. Before my blade could ever touch him, up Alfred went, whisked to the winds like a paper doll. And there, backwards he glode, alighting faraway with a feather’s grace before loosing from his lips another spell.

“Brimbil!”

Mists were roused once more to spew forth a serpentine stream. It had rent asunder a Nafílim vanguard before; now was it intent solely upon me.

Halted, I re-poised my weapon, and when the serpent came whipping in, I swung the soot-steel through its seething waters. With a shriek, its form failed straightway, and the “serpent” that was once the bane of our braves now spilt uselessly upon the slope. And there, beyond the splashing, Alfred stood, his aspect yet solid and serene as ice.

The Fiþerġiefu… Immediately, I readied again the soot-steel. High caution was due against this foe, who had in his repertoire a magick to meddle with even the very pull of the earth.

“I see now,” Alfred declared, unmoved of mien as ever.

“See what?”

“The check upon your king.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Interesting. Try me.”

Only too fain to oblige, my opponent took up his staff once more.

What’s next? I wondered. Doubt and confidence mingled in my mind. I’d dealt with such devilry as the Slihthund and the Kōkūtós before, and I could again, if needs be. The rub was, Alfred here seemed a colder and more cunning foe than Felicia herself had.

There’s nothing for it. Keep calm and cut true—with that thought, I readied my every sinew and stared upon my opponent. Only, not even that could prepare me…

“Sċeaþatán.”

…for what but a fundamental magick. But the incantation did not lie, as branches of levin leapt next from Alfred’s staffhead to strike me down.

Still, not some common conjurer he was, and thus neither was his Sċeaþatán some middling magick. Bright and brimming, the spell drowned the surroundings in stark light and shadow for the instant that I beheld it. But being a magick in the end, it was thus all the riper to be riven by my blade. Thus I challenged the lashes of lightning with a sweep of the soot-steel, and after a spewing of sparks and a dry crackle, the spell wholly disappeared.

…However.

Without delay, another lashing lunged from Alfred’s staff. Mighty and menacing it was, and vociferous withal, just like the last. Equally undelayed, I wound back the wolfsteel blade and swung again. Lightning pealed—and perished.

I guessed then Alfred’s game. And duly, he stuck to it: not a slice of a second later, levin roared forth, blinding and deafening the battlefield once more.

How long might he maintain this magick of his? And from what but a single incantation of it? As apparent from all the sorcerers I’d faced, magicks are a thing much concerned with the capability of the conjuring hand. From potency, size, and speed, to quantity and timing—as a sorcerer plies his craft, so, too, do his magicks improve in myriad aspects. Sustainability, as well, is left to such whims; with practice, a sorcerer can come to repeat a spell for as long as his concentration holds—or his reserves of odyl last.

This Alfred Isfält himself seemed a master of such an aspect, with his Sċeaþatán a rare and deft display of it. For on and on, the span betwixt us absolutely bristled with levin. Unceasing it seemed; one long torment upon eye and ear both as the magick shrieked and flashed. And the only thing to stop them: my own unceasing labour as I broke each bolt with a brandish of the black blade. But ever as they failed and faded, so would another volley surge upon me like vipers snapping for the kill.

“Gh… grruaaahh!!” I thundered, throwing swing after swing of the soot-steel. My hands, my arms, all assayed with speed beyond the naked eye to see. Heart pounding and lungs burning, I slew the flashing fingers afore me. “Hhrraaa───ahh!!”

A constant cackle scratched at the air, its electric crescendo stayed only by the song of wolfsteel. My ears rang, my eyes stung, but I dared not blink nor halt my hands. This was a Sċeaþatán towering over all others; stall even for an instant, and I would be lashed by levin with utter immediacy and swiftly find this day to be my very last.

“Hwwuooaa───aah!!”

When would it cease? When would it slow? That I could not guess. There was no clue, no time. All I could think to do was hew away at the harrying flashes, the twigs and fingers that left strange shapes in my vision as they vanished against my blade.

“…kh!”

But there, beyond the violence: a flagging frown upon Alfred’s face, the first to be seen in this battle of ours. Sweat flickered bright above his brow—he was nearing his limit.

“Gngh…! Nnghaa─ah!!”

And so I soldiered on. I and the soot-steel. I and my every sinew. Tendrils of levin teemed, only to die and dance again, die and dance again. How many was it by this point? These swings of my sword? The flashes slashing at my eyes? As the thought writhed in my mind, so did my body begin to break; I, too, was at my limit.

Nay—I had already crossed it.

My bones burned. My veins convulsed. More and more, the soot-steel grew leaden in my hands. But then, a silver lining, for before my defences could fail, the flurry of levin stopped asudden.

“Ghah… hah…!” I gasped, buckling to lean upon my weapon as the last licks of lightning died. “Hah… hah… hakh…!” Never before had air tasted so sweet. Ravenously, I quaffed it into my lungs, and turning my eyes up, found Alfred doing very much the same.

“Haauh… haa…” he wheezed as he languished no less pitifully against his staff. “A storm… silenced… by a single sword? Diablerie…!” But fatigued though he was, a fire yet flared in Alfred’s glare, hot with anger and humiliation.

That had been a race too close-run. All the air in my lungs was spent; all my sinews cried for it. Still, things could’ve ended more ill. Were it not for all the drills with Sig these past several moons, certainly would I have been lying cold as any stone upon these slopes.

Nevertheless, if there was ever a time to strike, now was exactly it. Only, I was just as depleted as my opponent. All the body dared not budge, and my hands ached horribly. A few seconds more, then. A few more, and I could—

“Dyeaa—ah!!”

—at that moment, a spirited cry soared above the battle. And there, as I half-stood gasping for air, I saw it square afore me: a lone brave, having broken through the surrounding fray, now rushing to cut Alfred down. Like as not, he had espied the same opportunity as I had.

But this was not well. For soon enough, he was beset himself—a Salvator, battling behind Alfred, turned a watchful eye and at once leapt to the lordling’s rescue. The silverspear in hand flashed swift…

“Gohwah!?”

…and ate into the brave’s flank.

Redness ran. But not a second sooner, Alfred himself stood and raised his staff.

“No!” I cried instantly, urging my embattled body to bolt forth. There was no haste as great, nor despair as piercing. All the braves here in this battle I considered my companions, and thus charges I must protect, if even with my life. But this particular brave, to whom Alfred’s staff was intent—his life I could not afford to lose.

For he had a name. And a wife.

Frank. Husband to Emma and neighbour to this ungraced.

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