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Vol.2, Ch.5, P.9

 

“What myst… be this…?”

Lise could but look on in awe. In her gaze of green was reflected the figure of Rolf, rending his foes, his kinsmen, upon the plaza below.

Oh, ‘what myst’, indeed.

The very first to confound her was wrapped in Rolf’s very fingers: Gweil’ǫrr’s ire, the svǫrtaskan, slashing to and fro, scything silver and finding flesh.

But what of explanation? Of reason? For the black blade had hitherto scorned all skin, had it not? A phenomenon of fangs, biting and burning the taming touch, gloved or no! Such was this sword, sheathed in stone-like solitude, knowing no warmth within all the many winters of its witnessing.

The chroniclers called it a material memory of the Tívafornár, the everdistant days when gods of eld yet graced the land. But of wielders, of masters to this sword, those same chroniclers knew not, for neither scrolls of their scouring nor songs yet sung remember now any such soul so steeped in soot.

Would that they were here with Lise, to witness the brightless blade wielded anew in the hands of one Rolf Buckmann!

The second myst to surprise the wide-eyed Lise? Why, the very metal of the sword itself. Wrought in wolfsteel, the weapon was of a weight thought beyond all wielding. And so was it long relegated to rituals, earning honour as a sword of ceremony, far from any battle where it might sooner boast of breaking its master’s bones than drinking the blood of its marks. The Hensenfolk found much reason in this, and thus had forgotten all need to bring its sharpness to bear.

But such weight was as wind to Rolf. The sword swept and sliced as though it were a dagger dancing in his hands, its every stroke striking with utmost surety. Yet Rolf himself seemed in no condition to conjure such martial miracles—he was unmended! Weathered with wounds every which way! Pulsing pain should be his principal opponent, but to pay it no mind and make battle instead? No doubt a mountainous effort certain to unmake him at any moment.

Yet, it was an effort endeavoured enduringly. Weighty wolfsteel flew through flesh, free as a feather. What skill. What steeled resolve. Lise realised it then: Rolf was of another plane.

And that itself was the third myst: in all the years of Lise’s life, never had she seen more strongly, more swiftly, more stately a sword swung than Rolf’s sooted own. A fleet flow of manoeuvres, from mind to motion: with gallantry in his gait did Rolf rush in and hew his fangless foes. One by one, they were handed their defeat, gifts from a galloping blade spurred on by unspoiled technique.

As Lise watched, fixed and fascinated by the affrighted fray, the fourth myst was made manifest: the unmaking of both Men and their argent armour. With but a swing, Rolf rent them both asunder to no resistance—and to no impossibility, either. No, a prank of the pixies this was not: Lise’s former foe’s was a physique most fit for the phenomenon. Add to that his fey and fatal finesse, and his unbending blade of ashened wolfsteel besides, then certainly such a spectacle of monstrous might was no mere mirage.

But the next and final myst was what truly baffled her.

Rolf had maimed a magick unto nothingness.

“Cutting through spells”—a phrase that fights reason. But such contest was of no constriction to Rolf. With a swing of the sunless sword was ensorcelled fire snuffed like a candle. Inconceivable, but incontrovertible.

Of what buttressed that truth, Lise knew less than little. Though suppose such unprecedented power possessed the blade. What of knowledge of its nature? What of inspiration, of gall to wield it to this very purpose? Not least within the first moments shared between sword and swordsman?

What had driven Rolf to trust the blade’s mettle against the might of magicks?

The answer laid somewhere in those throes of soot and silver, but try as she might, Lise could not espy it, even as Rolf’s fighting form earned her enduring and emerald gaze. Myst after myst, miracle after miracle, Lise was a but a bewildered witness to it all.

Still, one thing was most certain: the blood spilt, the bodies sinking into seas of red, all belonged to Rolf’s Londosian brothers. Yet more certain again was that his bloody betrayal birthed not a wisp of fear nor hateful frost in Lise’s heart.

No. Rolf was resplendent.

A wolf of noble worth.

That was her unmired measure of him. For why, she had not the words, only that her heart of hearts was firm in feeling so.

And one last wonder lingered in her awe: the streams of soot trailing each swing of the sword. The legends, indeed, had spoken true, for as Rolf rived flesh and silver, soot verily sang about his person.

In Lise’s eyes, the blackness was a thing of beauty. Like silken smoke or lightless ink lilting across canvasses of air, the raven ribbons swirled, swartening even the night, only to then fade to naught. Unforgotten, Gweil’ǫrr’s memory seemed more and more a blade mantled in both the grandness of a beast and the grace of a butterfly.

And amidst its mighty swings of soot and blood was Rolf, bathed in the blackness. But seen in the swarthy seams were his eyes, glinting with the twin vesper-stars of valour and volition.

Could this world bear aught more beautiful?

The question took hold of Lise. Nevermind the blood-mired battlefield upon which it was painted. This was a masterpiece to the Nafíl maiden, one beyond all words. She was enchanted, enraptured, by what might pass for a hilditýr’s deadly dance; little did she know, upon her cheeks had long bloomed a rosy blush, whilst her breaths rolled broken and bated.

 

 

And when the throes thinned to silence at last, Lise was lifted back to the moment at hand, finding Rolf facing his last two foes.

 

∵

 

“W-w… witch’ry…! A trick…!” stammered Karl, staring at me as I stood encircled by corpses. “Yer weak! Ungraced! Gouge me eyes, they sees a lie!” The varlet’s voice undulated with umbrage, yet his face was faint with pallour. That anger undergirded his words regardless showed that the boy was but barking away, perhaps to forget the fear so clear on his countenance.

“C-C… Commandant. How handy you be with a sword. Why, I-I never knew! H-heheh…” Ebbe broke his silence. Calm seemed hale in him—more so than Karl, at least. “An ungraced, piercing the paling? Fancy that. T-tell me, Commandant. You look t’have cut through us cuirasses, sunder’d us spells. You—an odylless bloke. What’s the trick, ey?”

This cullion, too, was quivering in his enquiry. Minced talk seemed his tactic—a valid one, I’ll give him that. A bit of parleying to parlay his dusking plight, to be sure.

“Trick?” I shook my head. “You saw no trick, Ebbe. But if truth be your craving, then come. Seek it from this sword. It can sing the answer sooner than I,” I said at length, standing newly ready. “Though, a warning: I know your worth. Of how your idle days have dulled your swords to sticks. Mine, I’ve honed under many suns and moons, more so than you ever have—and ever will.”

“Sh-sh-shhhkh—!!” Karl frothed. “Shut it, ye shite-breed, yeee—u!!”

“Sticks” seemed to have stung a nerve in this nithing as he flew fast upon me in fury. But from its flailing, his sword truly was no more a stick, fit only for a brat’s make-believe battle. One I humoured: his nearing metal was matched with a sweep of my own.

Silver brushed upon black steel. The air hissed. Karl’s sword swerved off to nowhere, whilst I next moved mine to the low guard and heaved it up in a geyser of a slash.

“Woaah!?” the sword-brat yelped, falling to his bottom in miserable retreat. Yet victory was still so craved that amidst his fall, he flung his sword at me. Only, the bladed flight was broken with a simple flick of the soot-steel.

“You cling close to life, Karl,” I remarked. “Admirable—if not ungraceful.”

Veins writhed. “Ungrrr—!? Shut it! Shut! Shut-shut-shut!!”

Amidst his cries, Karl clamoured about before filching a sword from the fingers of one of his fallen fellows. Back on his feet, he funnelled odyl into the silver length, screaming out a bladespell’s name.

“Annihilandō!!”

—Gwofhh!

Like a deep, windy drumbeat, the scene snarled as flames newly furled about Karl’s sword, illumed by which was his face, so utterly steeped in fury.

“K-Karl! Calm, my boy!” cried Ebbe. “You, me, the commandant—cut from the same Londosian cloth! That’s us! Come, we ought settle this with words than war! R-right!? Commandant!”

The hellion shook his head heatedly. “Spare th’peace-spit, Master Ebbe! Why, I’d stick pins in me eyes than parley with this pansy!”

“Likewise, Karl,” I echoed. “Funny—to only now find more in common with you than the reckoning to come!”

“Aaaegh!!” blared the bomb-like boy. “Whoreson!! Sin-breed!! Bastard!!” Karl’s boiling veins bubbled further. His eyes bulged, his gaze was as brimstone. “You be th’wayward one ‘ere! Evil incarnate! Wayside waif! Yoná toss’d ye fer th’turncoat ye be! So back t’the bottom with ye, I says! Back t’the bottom! Where ye belo—ng!!”

At once, Karl came blasting in. The searing sword in his hands swept ahead. Hellfire followed, filling the air with gusting heat.

I stamped forth head-on, firing off the blackbrand in an arch counter to Karl’s own.

 

Silver and steel.

Half-circles, sailing, crashing.

The night thundered. The air thrashed.

Hellfires faded to a hush.

Silence hung.

 

“Ah… a-aah…” my foe gasped at length.

“Karl,” I said to him. “Recall the rally against the retreating Nafílim. A rally you all executed against my command, when I was yet green upon my post.” Into his dazed eyes I stared as we stood vis-à-vis. “Remember you a certain axe-brave? Big? Yet deathblown by your bloodlust?”

His gaze twitched. “W… w-wot ye on ‘bout, eh? ‘Axe-brave’? Me pate ‘asn’t room fer rememb’rin’ rubbish!”

Mia’s father was fast forgotten to him, it seemed. How I wished he had at least the wherewithal to keep some memory of his murdered marks.

“A shame,” I said. “I’ll remember you, Karl.”

Blackness gnashed once more.

The brightless blade shadow-flashed—

—and flew through Karl’s throat.

“Hkkh?”

His silver sword clamoured to the dust.

“…kh… gwhhrr…”

Reaching up, Karl grabbed the gushing gash in his gullet. But try as he might, the redness only ran on through his fingers. Death was knocking. Perhaps pained by the unsought sound, he mustered malice and misery into his face, twisting it every which way. All the while, he stared at me, crazed.

“Hhhhaa…! ghr… rhh…”

Before long, the vessels and veins to his brain were void of vitality. Eyes, once wild with hate, waned as his thoughts thinned to naught. Hands, once desperate for deliverance, dropped and dangled limp. His knees gave, letting his bloodletted body collapse to the dust.

Just Ebbe and I now remained.

We stood there face-to-face, with only Karl’s crumpled corpse between us. His sallowed face full-soaked in frosty sweat, Ebbe quaked in his boots, his teeth rattling all the while.

“…Ha… haha… C-Commandant. Dear Commandant. Why, yo-you be more a lion than I like you t’be.”

I slowly approached.

“W-what skill! What deadly deftness! Overcome odyllessness an’ this be what’s begotten! Hah…! Who knew? T-tell me, dread Commandant. What be th’source o’ all that strength, ey?”

Closer still.

“Oh, yea. Strength, strong indeed, might’ly mete for Londosius! Er, mighty ‘nough for uh… for, for the Order, why not! Yea, bravely back t’the Order with you! With full honours! Hurrah! Heheh…!”

I stopped.

Ebbe was spending all powers of speech to delay his doom. It seemed he well-knew his swordsmanship would prove poor prevention. Still, even such powers had gone sour, for the content of his ramblings were all but rubbish to my ears—and my heart.

“Truly, Ebbe?” I spoke at last. “Is Londosian love so cheap? To have new charity for the child it has hotly hated? You saw what I’ve done: I sent steel sundering through Londosian sons.”

“D-dirty details, I say!” he cried, waving his hand. “Nothing t’sweat ‘bout, yea? L-like I said, words ‘fore war, heh! So why not wind it down, ey? Talk this over with a cheery chat. Come now, Commandant!”

Talk.

What talk?

By now, the will to wend back to Londosius was all but long gone in me.

“Ebbe. The reckoning’s reached. Ready your sword.”

The bony man’s mien fell to a frown.

Deeper now was the nightly silence, for all the hoofbeats, war-bellows, and sword-biting that once battered the air had ceased before our noticing. The march of Men, then, was unmade. The Fiefguard had failed. Faint now, too, was the fray at the west gate.

The curtains were closing at last.

The battle for Hensen: dying down to its last embers.

 

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