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Vol.4, Ch.4, P.1

 

“Passing gracious of you to offer head to headsmen,” Sheila threatened with unthinned mirth and a tone as tender as ever.

“This head’s in no hurry anywhere, Sheila,” I said back, in spite of the perfect circle of knights caging me in. Poised to pounce at the slightest signal, the ten lions of Londosius each stared me down from behind their silver sallets, all as their surgien stood safe in their midst.

“My, my,” she chuckled. “Has it been so long? That your tongue would forget its manners?”

“A foul taste is best forgotten,” I quipped.

“Very good,” Sheila purred. “I must confess, your coarser wordcraft conjures a jolt in me, my strapping swain. As do your new raiments in mine eyes.”

“Oh? Then gawk whilst you can,” boasted I of Dita’s gifts before bracing my blade once more. But after studying the spaces between myself and my foes, my confidence coldened: there seemed not one weak link in this ring of arms and armour. Capable and calculating they were indeed, these knights; getting through their guard might prove as hard going as threading a needle through stone.

“Nay. If I must be frank, I do prefer your former self,” Sheila said cocksurely. “Modesty most becomes a man. In especial one so frail, who ought know to bow his head to his betters.”

“Then bow yours.”

To my retort, Sheila sighed and shook her head. “…And here I thought you turned over to a new leaf,” she said without tone. “Unfortunate that I must find you miserable and maundering as ever.”

“…Hmph.”

My lack of words earned from her a melodious laugh. “…O lovely swain,” Sheila began again, her timbre now soft and sunny as spring. “Much a mind had I for your unmaking. But meeting you now after so many moons, I feel in me an ember breathing back to life. For were we not companions for five long winters?”

I kept my silence. And Sheila, her smile.

“Come. Surrender, my sweeting. No evil shall visit upon you,” she went on. “Why, I should even sue for your clemency—as would your dear Emilie, I am most sure.”

“Your mercy is moving,” I remarked, “but you waste it here, Sheila.”

“‘Reject not another’s largesse’,” she debated. “Such have I said to you once before, have I not? Silly swain, mayhaps you have forgotten what you are? An ungraced, for whom gift and goodwill are never deserved. Why, then, must you be so blind to the generosity sheer and shining afore you now?”

A hand extended is a hand to be accepted—there live those who see absoluteness in this. They who make of mirth and love a barrier rather than a bridge, to keep the paupers in their place, to remind the meek that it is amongst muck and misery that they must live. They who think it strange that any should eschew their charitable truth. For them, I harbour no mirth nor love.

Loath though I was to relive the debate, it seemed Sheila had yet to see my point. Perhaps the fault was mine. Perhaps I had been too pleasant with her.

Fine, then. I was rather fain to flaunt a bit of bad manners, anyway. All thanks to Sig, no less. The way he dispensed with dignity, the way he put to word whatsoever came to mind—why not have a hint of that for myself? No nobleman was I, after all. Not any longer. If a rebel I’ve made of myself, then why not act the part?

“Sheila,” I said, pointing at her the black blade.

“Yes, dearest swain?”

“Go to hell, you pontificating tyke.”

 

 

Stillness hung.

“…Ah me,” Sheila said at length, as a shadow most unusual of her gloamed in her eyes. Not the choicest of words, “tyke”, but going by her response, it served well enough. “Magicks you may unmake, but you will find none at your mercy here, my insolent swain,” the surgien stated. “No, it be knightly blades you shall reckon with—all ten of them, keen and hungry to have you headless. You know your numbers well enough, yes? Ten besetting one—evil odds, I am sure you will agree.”

There did Sheila’s spring-shine smile turn to a sickly sneer. And a jeering joy was now on her face—and in her heart besides, if I had to reckon.

“Mine own mettle, too, you ought know well,” she continued. “And as ever it is wont to do, one truth reveals another: hone and harden it as you may, but the hour your sword fails you is ever in approach. And oh, my fey swain, the hour is grown late, indeed.”

“I spit on your truth,” returned I. “Bark and blare as you may, Sheila, but I’ll not bend the knee. Not to you, not to Londosius—not ever again.”

A giggle.

“…Is that so? Alas.”

As though on cue, the knights sharpened their knife-edge stares upon me—the battle was begun. And to further herald it, Sheila lifted aloft her silverstaff and raised her voice.

“Benedictiō!”

From the knights’ very bodies now brimmed odyl, bright like a breath of sun, only to subside and leave their every sinew smithed and whetted anew.

A succouring magick that was, one of a great many. Strengthening one’s thews, accelerating one’s speed, bolstering one’s tenacity—ask, and a succouring spell shall have it done. As did the Benedictiō, a master class of a magick bequeathing all the foresaid boons. But intensified by her talent and stores of odyl, in this surgien’s hands was the magick ascended unto a miracle—bestowed upon not one, but ten souls at once.

Sheila Larsen: a thaumaturge capable of mustering a mighty army through a single magick alone. And in vouch for this, her knights all exploded to action.

“Sryah!” they screamed together, brandishing blades from on high. Their four vanguards converged from four sides—rushing to the rightmost of them, I loosed a lateral slash to lock with his vertical cut.

—Shhrranng!

Our shrill blades bit and brushed as I swivelled about my opponent, switching our spots. Taken unawares, the knight careered and crashed into the other three vanguards amidst their advance.

“Uwoh!?” they yelped, fumbling together into a tangled mound of armour; four foes disabled in a single moment—but only for the moment. I glanced to the other six. Keen, indeed, was their coordination: four backed away to maintain the circle, whilst two were already covering the incapacitated. Forthwith I flew unto the nearest of that duo and beset him with a sweep of the soot-steel.

“Owgh…!?” he cried. Giving care to his crumpled comrades was no mistake, but in that sliver of a second, when he had yet to turn an eye back to me, I proved it one. The result: the first corpse of this battle, belly blown open and foundering now afront the four on the floor.

Tight-knit unity was their game. Albeit once a thread of theirs unravelled, so would the rest. These knights had trained for such a contingency, of course, to re-array themselves immediately should one of theirs fall. But no matter their speed and discipline, ever does the very act betray an opening, if even for an instant—as it did now.

Seizing it was key. Prick a hole in the defence, wrest the rightest moment, and drive in the nail—one of the first fundaments of martial strategy.

There: a knight stepping back from the chaos, buying time to pick his next move. Spotting this “pricked hole”, I set the hammer to work: the instant his breath fell and body loosened, I lunged and unleashed upon him a length of black steel.

Gored flesh gurgled—my blade had thrust clear through his throat. Belching blood, the knight went limp without a word. Two casualties, and yet only barely had the curtains lifted over this battle. The remnant eight all grimaced at the development, angry and anxious. Finding their feet at last, the first four joined the rest as they reformed their ranks.

“Again!” one barked. “Hem ‘im in!”

Not on my watch.

Kicking the corpse free from my weapon, I bolted to the nearest knight.

“Off with you!!” he vociferated, before delivering a lifting swipe of his sword. Bolstered by the Benedictiō, his blade was Death made manifest, shooting up like lightning from the marble floor—such was how it surely seemed to Sheila and her men.

Only, their eyes had cheated them.

—Sshhnng!

Once more: the meeting of metal blades, attacking every eardrum in the room. Wolfsteel slid against silver as I parried the opposing sword and sent it swinging far beyond the foresight of its wielder.

“Eagh…?!” he gasped, glimpsing the futility of his offence as mine began: the blacksword swerved back up from below, and there—zzshhrrh!—shot through silver and flesh.

Twisting in death, the third corpse collapsed. In its place fast approached another knight, his sword descending at speed—only to find its mark missing. There I stood, now outside the circle of knights, who, realising their folly, gnashed their teeth in annoyance. And behind them all was Sheila, eyes broad and brow perspiring. Yet in spite of herself, she maintained as serene a smile as ever.

“…Holding your own against mine emboldened men,” she uttered flatly, “I must say: well done, my swashbuckling swain.”

“Pity about your Benedictiō, Sheila. Small avail from so vaunted a spell,” I chided her. “But go on. Keep incanting—your breath’s not long for your lungs, at any rate.”

It was Sheila now who kept silent.

Strength, speed—amplify them all she pleases, the skill of her men remains untouched. Indeed, only through practice and perseverance can it improve. As they presently were, their bark was worse than their bite.

Theodor Östberg—now that was a bolstered foe worth fearing. No matter how much he magicked his speed and sinews, never had he allowed his skill to lag behind them. Hence explained his bringing me to the very brink.

Exemplary might’ve been the knights afore me, but no match of Theodor they were. No, not even by a long shot. Had I never crossed blades with the Zaharte vice-captain, perhaps this battle might’ve gone differently. Instead, here did I find myself ill-challenged.

Still, getting ahead of myself would only get me to the grave. “Small avail from so vaunted a spell”—such I’d said of Sheila’s Benedictiō, but make no mistake: it was yet a fearsome spell, that even as I was, a single blunder could very well have me hewn of head and heart in an instant. And so tempering myself, I stood ready and stared sharply at my foes.

“…You earn my surprise, little swain,” Sheila broke her silence. “All those suns, all those moons of madly swinging your sword… mayhaps they have served you some profit, after all.”

So, she’d known all along, had she? Of how doggedly I trained on the daily? Well, no matter. Knowing of it availed little if still she continued to miscalculate me.

“Only a ‘surprise’, Sheila?” I said back. “Bleaker seems your situation than mine. You’re come as an adviser, I reckon? To counsel these men on my weaknesses? Yet what sight see you now? Three of them—slain. I hope you’ve got a spotless explanation for their superiors in the 3rd.”

Sheila yielded a quiet chuckle… and a quiver upon her lips. Slowly but surely was her smile beginning to crumble.

“You know your numbers well enough, don’t you?” I spoke on. “Three dead in ten seconds. Eight remain. Tell me: how many seconds might they hold?”

Eight—Sheila included, and purposefully so. Met with my threat of a question, the knights quaked and scowled. Even the gitter-gatter of grating teeth was audible above their growling. Men of the illustrious 3rd, handpicked protectors of this palace and its prince—small wonder why these lions would be so snobbish. And as well, so easily provoked.

Not that provocation was a favoured tool of mine. But against such numbers, with my head like to fly at any moment, now was no time to be picky.

“Deiva Prosperet!”

Stinging the air asudden: another one of Sheila’s own “tools”. As her nigh-livid voice echoed, the knights yet again gleamed from the light of a succouring spell—this play had entered its second act, it would seem. If so, then I would have it be the last.

Determined, I loosed a long breath and clenched anew the blade of black.

 

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