Vol.3, Ch.7, P.6
Raakel slammed down her cards. Table and token rattled. “What!?”
An outburst most expected.
The long-dead of Londosius do not recall in their time any loss of such scale. No, not even those in whose memory is engraved the groundbreaking of the kingdom itself many centuries past. But even absent this history, none amongst the living would deign to believe such balderdash, no matter the veneer of veracity. A land of Londosius, lost? Let alone the steadfast fringeland of Ström? Preposterous. Why, it was not long at all since came tidings of Balasthea’s fall. Indeed, such speed sooner seemed a deception.
“But the fire spreads,” Gerd continued, brows hanging heavy. “The enemy looks to be setting their sights on neighbouring Tallien.”
“Er, wha—wait, h-hold there,” Raakel stammered. “This some jest? Me pate can’t keep up. Why, even the old mareschal’s drag’d into this mullock, now?”
“And… we along with?” Sheila wondered, weak of words. “The whole of the 5th? We are to march soon, then?”
“Nay, too far’s the going. It’s the 3rd that’ll be deployed.” Gerd’s tone was stale, almost stoic. Yet the damp, nervous shimmer upon his temples told otherwise.
“…Then what’s this ‘settin’ out’ bus’ness ’bout, ’ey? We be headin’ elsewhere or what?” asked Raakel.
“This business is for us Owlcranes alone,” Gerd answered. “‘Associate adviser’—such shall be our role. But only one of us’ll be donning that mantle. ‘Who’ is the question; no doubt Emilie’ll answer that in due time.”
“‘Adviser’?” Sheila echoed. “To the former mareschal?”
“That’s the point,” Gerd nodded, “…but only half the plan.” The spellblade shut his eyes, recalling clear the words that were writ upon the scroll. Then, drawing a long, troubled breath, he spoke again. “That ungraced. He’s alive…” Gerd revealed, “…and marches with the Nafílim.”
Raakel shot up from her chair. “Wh…!?”
“Alive? And turned against all of Man?” Sheila remarked amidst the clamour. “…Our little swain?”
“So goes the story,” Gerd confirmed. “And we knowers of the knave—our part comes soon, whether we like it or no.”
Silence hung.
Raakel slowly slumped back to her seat. Sheila, first to recover from the shock, looked upon the parchment on the table before opening her lips.
“That notice… it is writ true, yes? I find trusting its words too much a trial…” she asked, trailing off. Few could go on for long without like enquiry, for not even the most sotted acceptance nor the most lurid of limnings can cook up a fiction as fanciful. Yet Gerd’s next tone grounded all gainsayings at once.
“Sheila. This is no notice. No longer, anyway,” Gerd corrected. “We have afore us our orders, Owlcranes. Lie or no, we soldiers must serve.”
“That… that is indeed our duty, yes… but…” Sheila attempted to debate.
“The loose thread’s been lying plain all along,” said Gerd, “one leading to the yarn that’s had the brigadier bound up all this time. Little wonder why Emilie dragged her along to the council—the Lady Felicia must’ve seen much, and have much more to tell.”
“Tell… of treachery,” Sheila murmured. “Cunning against the kingdom; a villainy against all virtue. But shall we the 5th share in the blame?”
Gerd shook his head, and taking up the scroll, began another scan. “Not from the look of it,” he confirmed. “‘Her Royal Highness has given exception,’ so this says.”
Raakel huffed with relief. “Right chuff’d to hear that, I am,” she said brightly, now emboldened. “But if we’ll not share the blame, give us a share o’ the action, leastways, ’ey?”
“Not if there’s a jaunt like that to journey,” Gerd shook his head again, closing the scroll. “Recall the last time we hoofed it that far. Not exactly a picnic, was it?”
Sheila and Raakel half-bowed their heads in both agreement and rueful reminiscence. They gulped. None in this room could feign any fondness for the sennight of suffering that was the expedition to the Erbelde. And whose counsel was it that had got them all through that march of misery? Why, none other than he who now colluded with the enemy.
To this very day, the indignance throbbed sore in the Owlcranes. And so long as it did, they dared not vouch for another same-veined adventure.
“If not with many, then with few,” Sheila summed it up, doubly glad now to have evaded both blame and march. “And so shall but one amongst us be dispatched. It all sorts squarely now.”
“Well let me at ‘im, then. I’ll sorts out the big-berk proper, I will,” Raakel snarled, slamming fist to palm. What uncertainty had sallowed her visage before was all vanished. Left in its wake were the eyes of a raptor, keen upon a prey newly spotted.
“Awful fain to fight some ‘alleyway pup’, aren’t you?” Gerd quipped at the sight of her.
“Even a li’l barker needs a good beltin’, if it’s left a mullock like this,” said Raakel. “An’ that runt ‘as got ‘way with it fer much too long. If Emilie gives the word, why, I’ll ‘ave ‘im crush’d to crumbs with these ‘ands, I will.”
“But will it be given?” Sheila began chiding the champing warrior. “The final word is the Lady Emilie’s to say, all told, and only after much counsel is had, surely. Though I feel she will ill-brook your brutality, Lady Raakel, let alone loose it upon her once-betrothed.”
As much as the surgien seemed a portrait of patience, glinting in her own regard was fervour, faint yet fatal, like a dagger in the dark, one long hid and honed by holy zeal just for this occasion… whereupon would be punished at last the pitiful apostate. This, Gerd espied from the side of his sight. And in so doing, he took a swig of his spirit. Strongly it bit, like pins and needles pouring down. But for whatever reason, this night found him as sober as a saint—
—one haunted by some devil.
“An’ what ‘bout you, eh Gerd?” questioned Raakel. “Me an’ Sheila hates ‘is guts ‘nough, but you—ye hates ‘im double-hard, doesn’t ye?”
“Double-hard’s half the ire,” the spellblade answered, seemingly without interest. “But Sheila’s got the right of it: Emilie decides. And if she thinks me proper for the part, fine; off to the stage with me, then. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“A soldier through an’ through, eh,” the warrior smirked, but her lips soon gaped as a thought happened, a seldom spark in the hollow attic that was her head. “Oi. Hold on, there. Summat’s fish-like ’bout this, innit?”
Plain doubt. To which Gerd simply shrugged and said, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Fish-like”, indeed. By the spellblade’s estimation, he thought himself—and his fellow Owlcranes withal—ill-equipped to fulfil the office of associate adviser. What had they to offer that another unnamed knight cannot? It was not as though they had once feigned any fellowship with that ungraced, let alone lifted even a finger to find some common ground with him. For surely none had time or pity enough to coddle the half-witted heretic, and whensoever battle was upon them, ever did he eschew company to chance the fight alone.
And yet here they were, soon to be sent by Central to advise on matters against the enigma himself. The fates jest.
Gerd sat silent, lost in thought. It was then that the heavy hour wore asudden upon the other two.
“At any rate, let us retire, shall we?” Sheila said. “A storm brews; we ought be ready to weather it.”
“Fair ‘nough,” Raakel returned, stretching. “I’ll be prayin’ proper tonight fer Emilie’s pick. I needs me some excitement!” With that, the two women rose from their seats, wearing amidst the gloom eager grins upon their faces.
“This stuff’s more to my taste than I thought,” Gerd said, reaching for the bottle. “One more cup before bed for me.”
“Don’t ye go lettin’ one become three, ye hear?” Raakel giggled, patting the spellblade’s shoulder as she passed by.
“Hmph. Yea, yea,” Gerd replied, and waved a lazy hand. “On the morrow, then.”
“Rest well, Sir Gerd.”
“Off to the sack!”
A moment, and the two disappeared, the door thudding shut behind them. Silence swelled in the dimly lit lounge. Gerd sighed. He thought warmly of his colleagues, truly. But truer still was that they were all of them young women, Emilie withal, and whensoever they gathered, much noise-making was to be had. Never had Gerd a penchant for pandaemonium, and so silence was, to him, a thing to be cherished and savoured.
Bathed in such silence, his mind drifted… and drowned in many matters.
“…Right dangerous in the dark, this,” he murmured, wagging his head asudden at his cup. “A sip… and out come the skeletons.”
As though on a whim, he then reached forth and took up one of the many cards left scattered on the table. Turning it, he scoffed.
“There we are…” he whispered, smiling bitterly, “…see what I mean.”
Upon the face of it was depicted a shadowed figure, huge and horrible, tearing to pieces with its bare hands an angel in agony, wings and all. And at the bottom was writ the suit’s name:
Furēns Gigās.
The Raging Giant.
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Thanks for the chapter.
The fact that Emilie remained friends with these fools says a lot of bad things about her.