Vol.5, Ch.7, P.1
There I stood in silence, panting and staring at the wreckage of stone. And then, as if the strength in me was sapped all at once, I buckled to my knees and leant upon my sword. My bones blared; my wounds wailed. And it was at that moment that footfalls met my ears. But I worried not, for soon in my sight was Sig, coming nigh as he wended his way around the rubble that laid all about.
Verily; staunch of trust in him as I was, I had paid not a hint of heed to his half of the battle. He would not fail, I had thought. Not least at such an eleventh hour as this. Why, it was not till this very moment that I fathomed just how far I’d been flung from his side of the terrace. All that leaping and lunging—a ”slippery hare”, indeed, in Cronheim’s words.
At any rate, it well-appeared that Sig had settled his affairs right about the same time I had mine. Albeit, triumphant though we both were, the gaze upon him seemed none the gladder. In fact, he might’ve seemed a mite annoyed.
“Oy,” he growled, “wot’s the bright idea, ah? Ya gone mad?”
Me, mad? Balderdash. I had every intention to live as measured a man as I could. But looking behind Sig, I soon understood his grudge; for the ploy I had sprung upon Cronheim had wrought, as well, some ruin to other parts of the terrace—so much so that yonder there laid a collection of particularly large debris, one whereof might’ve had missed Sig too closely for his comfort as he came.
“What? I just thought to get a better view of the stars,” I said to him. “Hardly the first time I tried it.”
Sig gave me a sour look. “Aye? That right? Well, don’t let there be a third, ya crack-pate!” he quipped. And stopping, he gave me a north-to-south. “Hmph. Look at ya. All ablood an’ busted ’bout. Battle’s busy b’low still, but you’d better get yaself sorted-like at the surgiens’, ain’t ya?”
Despite his words, Sig then came nigh to lend a shoulder; but I refused, saying, “Nay, just a tourniquet or three’ll serve. But I’m afraid I’ve had my fill of fighting for the day. Go on, Sig; see to Lise. I’ll not be too far behind.”
Indeed, Lise was neither to be forgotten about. Had she found and cornered the marquis at last? Or had she, too, been met with a mighty foe unforeseen? If so, better for Sig to succour her than I. Albeit, I suspected she’d scarce need the help.
∵
All the oratory shook for a short while. Candles at the altar quivered; dust fell from seams of stones disturbed; and a guttural echo galloped through and back the marbled space—something had gone on outside. Nevertheless, Lise’s eyes dared not leave her mark, who stood sweating coldly and scowling back at her.
“Well, Marquis? Loath yet you are to yield, or?” resounded Lise’s voice. “The offer still stands, you know.”
“…‘Yield’? Faugh,” scoffed Balbreau. “Hark, devil-daughter you, and hark you well: by my death shall you savour but a shallow victory. For soon or late, Yoná Almighty shall shine upon the earth and extinguish the taint that is your kind!”
Such words were to become the very last upon his lips—words perhaps most sating to a man of faith so fast. And thus was it remembered on this day that Lord Balbreau—marquis of Isfält; prelate to the Deivic Quire; eminence to Londosius; and withal the commander to the Dēlūbrum’s defence—was slain at the hands of Lise, jarl-daughter to the Vílungen, as she sent scything through his neck her twinned longdaggers.
A thud wuthered through the oratory as his lifeless body fell, and then all was silent.
“Phew…” Lise then sighed. And from her breath there brimmed, indeed, a bounty of emotions, all beyond any to name.
For at last, at long last, was the battle ended.
∵
“Oy. Lo, Dan,” wheezed Tomas. “Ye see that?”
“Aye,” answered Dan. “I does. Blummin’ ’eck, I does.”
The two bent their weary eyes far and ahead into the fading dusk, and in them was seen a scene to stun their good senses: the enemy, Salvators and knights of the 2nd both, were all of them drawing back. And whither they went was not the Dēlūbrum wherein to barricade themselves for a final defence, but rather, further southwards. South past the temple premises. South to the summit’s edge. South down the slopes.
This was a strangeness; with the Reùlingen routed earlier by the 2nd, there ought remain none down that way that might dare resist the Londosians in force. And to anyone’s knowledge, no rumour had come of any southerly reinforcements that might have earned the enemy’s alarm. Nay; what laid yonder south of Déu Tsellin’s spurs was Reùlingen country—and between them a Londosian road that slithered by it and back into the safety of the realm.
Put plain, the enemy were in full retreat.
“It be o’er, then?” panted Tomas. “The battle… the blood?”
No vivacity lived in his voice. He could scarce believe it. To be sure, ever did Tomas trust that victory would be theirs. And the great noise of crashing stone that minutes ago had echoed from high up the Dēlūbrum, he took to be a favourable sign. But now met with the very moment, he could not help but feel it all a mere dream. The foesome footfalls, fading now in their thousands; the sea of silver, receding into the distant dusk—indeed, it well-felt the work of faeries upon his senses.
Dan, too, gaped on no less incredulously. He felt numb, as would a boy who had shouted too surely at the shadows and then heard them breathing hotly back. For to capture this sacred mountain was as a monumental challenge levied upon both World and History long undisturbed. And that was to speak little of the battle itself; enquire him but a few days ago, and Dan would have reckoned it far beyond all hope. And even at this moment was he doubtful, fancying that there might spring from the slopes some ambush, or that he had heard the cackles of cloistered conspirators from far behind the horizon.
But then, there ran through the summit air a voice victorious in timbre.
“The foe flees!” it cried. “Balbreau Isfält is slain! Stefan Cronheim withal! The foe is defeated!”
All the braves answered with silence, mulling over every word just now pronounced. And before long, the meaning welled up in each their minds: that their few but daring comrades, after breaking into the Dēlūbrum, had, indeed, hewn dead the enemy commander and forced all his men into flight.
And with that thought, and after a heavy heartbeat, there next broke from the braves and over all the battlefield a collective cry.
“Wwuuooo—ooohhh!!”
Passionately they pealed; wutheringly they wept—braves, beating their shields and throwing their hands high to the heavens. All were wet with tears. All were aboil with jubilation.
They had won.
By all that was good, they had won.
“It’s done! The day’s ours!” so shouted the braves.
And when he heard it, Tomas grew weak at the knees. But no sooner had he than did a shock shake all his body. He coughed terribly; a brave nearby had slapped his back and was now embracing him bullishly over the shoulder and grunting gleefully into his ear. Beside him, Dan, too, was taking his fair share of celebratory back-slaps as some other braves veritably bubbled and said to him:
“Hear this, my fellow? The songs of vict’ry! Songs for us to sing!”
“Aye. Loud an’ clear,” answered Dan, smiling weakly. “We’ve done it… Blood an’ sweat, we’ve… we’ve…” And then, swooning swift, the Man crumpled flat to the ground. The day’s toils had finally caught up to him.
Gasping all together, the surrounding braves bubbled louder. “Lǣċas! Fetch the lǣċas! The fellow’s lost his wind!”
“And his twig-friend, too! Hurry, hurry!”
Tomas, too, had joined Dan on the gravel, fading away into a deep doze. And there the two Men laid, limp but mirthful in their sleep.
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