Vol.2, Ch.5, P.2
Across the embattled townscape I sprinted, clearing fences and cutting through the thoroughfare before arriving at an unburnt block of houses. My destination: a Nafíl lying limp upon the dirt.
Quickly I rounded by, finding him a fellow greyed by a great many winters. Kneeling down, I helped him off the ground…
“Fates be cruel…”
…only to feel no life in him. His head drooped back, baring a throat slashed redly through.
“Hwoah! ‘Allo! Now ‘ere’s a surprise, yea!”
A yelp from within the nearest home. Out of its rammed-in doorway then issued a squad of soldiers: five figures, each enrobed in reams of silver armour, which cast cold lights from the far-off fires. And their faces bore features familiar to my eyes—Ebbe’s men. Though not amongst them was the vice-commandant himself to be found.
Fast in their fists were handfuls of fineries: purses, pendants, and what seemed a comb of agate. Trinkets and treasures, all wrenched from the very home they quitted. And the elderly Nafíl in my arms: its former master, maimed upon meeting them at the foyer.
A sneer toothily glinted from the middlemost—and youngest—of the men.
“Well! If it ain’t the Commandant! Wot’s yer arse reekin’ ‘bout all th’way out ‘ere, eh?”
…Karl.
Cantankerous, conniving Karl. That grime-teethed grin of his was as unfading as a filth-stain upon a long disused latrine.
I let rest the coldending corpse and rose, requiting Karl’s question with a scowl.
“You fort-men are awfully far from your fort. I would hear why,” I sternly said.
As I should. Standing guard at Balasthea was their given charge, not marching along with the likes of the margrave’s men. To leave their post so capriciously was an action I’d forbidden more than once.
“Non non! Me lips ask’d first,” Karl wagged his head and finger both. “Wot ye be doin’ out ‘ere in this shite-shire, eh? Actin’ Commandant Rolf Buckmann!”
My eyes narrowed at him. “Your commander asked you a question, Serjeant Karl. You will answer at once.”
The youth yielded a full-mouthed sigh, next taking up a tinge of theatrics in his demeanour.
“Oh, ye bastard o’ a Man,” he said, shaking his head again. “Can scarce find a kindred spirit ‘mongst us, so ye came crawlin’ ‘ere, all t’sell yer soul t’these devils, ‘ave ye?”
“‘Soul’ be a profanity upon your lips, Karl. I see the sins you’ve savoured here,” I countered, then pointed to him. “That agate comb you clutch… it is a gift from a Nafílim husband to his wife, a commemoration of fifty winters endured together. That husband is now this very corpse—cut down by the devil before me.”
From Karl’s throat, a false gasp. “Ah… so thass why. Well-explains the nanna’s wild weepin’… when I filch’d it from ‘er fingers! Ahah! The devils! Commemoratin’! …Makes me vomit, it does.”
My own fingers rolled fast into fists, quaking along with my clenched teeth. The wife, too, was dead, then—another corpse added to Karl’s nefarious count.
The youth himself hung a corner of his lips even higher upon spying my spite. A glee also glimpsed on the faces of the other four.
“Oy, ‘e’s lost it, lads. ‘E really ‘as. Methinks ‘e were misbegot’n—shat out o’ th’wrong mam, ‘e were,” Karl sighed, before flinging his own sword down at my feet.
I gave it but a glance. “What farce is this?”
“Farce? No. A fight. Come on, Commandant. ‘Ave at it. It be yours,” he coaxed. “I’m Karl, Yoná’s blade ‘gainst these wicked Nafílim devils, an’ a proud crusader well-gilt in honour—honour ‘nough not t’wag swords with a swordless Man, even were ‘e an ungraced good-fer-nothin’ like yerself.”
The Ebbe-brutes whistled for their wunderkind, whose lips were crooked with a self-content simper. Indeed, his was a face drunk with foul justice, fair only to himself and his fellow lambs.
Sickened by the sight, I took up the sword, only to toss it back to its master’s feet.
“…The sheen of this farce has faded little. You’re but a choirboy, Karl. One costuming a crusader, come to plunder common curios as though they be relics for your toybox reliquary,” I retorted. “You know very well I’ve no odyl of my own. A vauntless victory is all you’ll savour from one whose sword scarce reaches that silver armour of yours.”
“Oh… thass right. Yoná save me, I misspake. Ye was good fer somethin’, wasn’t ye, Commandant?” Karl coyly cooed as he came close. “Good… fer rousin’ me veins!”
His fist flew fast at my face. I flung forth my arms, damming the assault, but not the burst of odyl that followed, for Karl and his kinsmen were all of them bedight to their fingers and toes in silver. An ill-fortune that found me blown clear back.
Into the ground I crashed and tumbled. “Gagh… hhah…!”
“‘Nother question fer ye… ye cockless cock-’bout,” Karl continued, strutting his way to me as I laid in a daze. Nearing by, he bent down and pulled me back up by the hair, bringing my face close to his sputtering mouth. “Wot props up that pride o’ yers, hm? I haven’t got th’noggin’ to understand why, Commandant. Really, I ‘aven’t. Why act so ‘igh an’ mighty? When yer as mild an’ meek as a limpin’ pauper!?”
An unmitigated jab, driven straight into my abdomen.
“Gwahh!!”
Through my bent body: blasting and bursting odyl. Through my mind: seeming sensations—as alien as they were ill—of my organs whipping about inside.
“Gh… ahgh…” I gagged, yet in Karl’s grasp.
“See wot’s sheath’d at us hips, eh Commandant? Swords. Ye spots us sportin’ ‘em plenty o’ times ‘fore, yea? But ‘ave ye swung one, hm? Ever? Even once?” the youth spat on. “Us soldiers, we swings it fer practice on th’weekly, we do. Ooh, I wishes ye knew wot a right pain in the arse it be, practice! Oooh, I wishes!”
“Aungh—!”
Next: an upcutting strike into my chin.
Once more into the air I flew, falling into the dirt nape-first. My brain rattled. My vision jolted. Through its flickering field was the shadow of Karl’s hand, reaching in to snatch my dishevelled hair again. With a yank, I was pulled up to my faltering feet.
“Ye be but a guppy in this pond o’ piranhas!” Karl’s voice echoed viciously. “A guppy, spittin’ on ‘ow we fights! Fussin’ o’er th’fort’s rules! Railin’ on us whene’er we sallies! Stealin’ ‘way ev’ry dear chance o’ battle brought to us laps! But then ye gots th’gall t’jump pond, in t’this pool o’ devilfish! A mistake o’ a Man! ‘Ere t’meet an’ mingle with the enemy!”
Gripping me still, Karl let loose a hail of fists into my face. The silvered knuckles crashed into its every corner, whilst crunching cracks—sounds most unsettling—cackled from my cranium. In the course of it all, through my brain shot crests and swells of odyl, each pluming out the back of my skull.
“Kha… huahh…”
The fists fell silent.
My sight seared with stars. My mind melted into mud. My breaths reduced themselves to naught but bated and broken huffs.
“I’m right tired o’ ye. Right an’ proper tired. But not just me. Us lads o’ Londosius—no, us Men. Us lamb o’ Yoná. Yer naught but an unsought burden ‘pon us shoulders, Commandant. Sinful, an’ more ‘eavy than ye’ve got ‘ny right t’be,” the youth kept hissing. “Ye could’ve done a mite good, ‘ad ye sat still in a corner somewhere. But if ye’ve got th’ballocks t’get in us way, well… get ye gone, I says.”
Karl’s blurred form turned back to his mates. Their distant faces nodded knowingly. The youth returned the gesture.
His cold grip next dragged me through the dirt, taking me to the side of the ransacked home. There awaited a well. The young hellion then hoisted me up by the hair once again, and with his free hand, seized my jaw.
Those eyes of his, wide and unblinking, stared daggers into mine.
“Piss off,” he spat flatly. “An’ don’t ye go beggin’ Yoná fer a ticket back—ever.”
With sudden action, many hands heaved my listless body over the lip of the well. A push, and there came a great rush of air all about me.
Down through the well I fell.
Black waters slammed against my ears.
Into the lightless depths I sank, sensing all sound sail away from me. A numb thud bounced through my body—another splash from above. The bucket seemed to have followed me, cut loose by Ebbe’s lacqueys.
And with it, my means of escape.
Not that any witness might’ve spied any strength left in me for the deed. But I suppose those men were nothing, if not thorough in their cruelty.
Thorough in stopping Yoná’s spurned offspring from setting another foot upon Her beloved lands.
Thorough in keeping this repugnant apostate from crawling out of his cold cage.
A fitting grave for a dreg unfit.
And so, down and down into its deep and undulating dark I drifted.
─────────ㅤ♰ㅤ─────────
Comment (0)