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Vol.4, Ch.4, P.6

 

Dawn broke over the viscount’s manor. Bloodied halls echoed with confusion. Servants were scrambling about, and as some circled around and screamed at their master’s cold, clotted corpse, so did the winds outside stir, bearing in their brisk embrace a rumour of war at the western border.

The Nafílim were on the move. With the clans Víly and Gorka combined, theirs was a flooding and bristling number. The black sword of Rolf the rebel might have joined theirs in this moment, its war-chief wielder heading his own newly formed Gewölbe to cut down his former countrymen, but it was not to be. With bowed head had Rolf commended command of his braves to Volker before setting out to assassinate the lord of Tallien. The senior of the two war-chiefs himself had already been saddled with supreme command over the Nafílim forces, but honouring the rebel’s request nonetheless, he now guided the latter’s Gewölbe as though they were his own.

A mountainous weight it was that sat upon Volker’s shoulders. He had been busy administering the free-burgh of Arbel on the daily of late, all the while juggling his original office as war-chief. But with his flame of obligation ever bright, and his heart so loath to tarry whilst all the world was on the move, Volker had elected to lead his fighting folk, and was now mounted high upon his steed, marching mightily to the eastern mere of Former Ström, his sword, spear, and spirit burning with readiness.

Afore such fire, keen were his Gorkungen counterparts not to fall behind. True, these new allies loved battle as lions lusted for the hunt, but like Volker, they, too, had perceived the momentum of history on the stir. Thus did their number, honed and hardened warriors all, find their own spirits soaring like never before.

Rolf’s absence was nary a void the Nafílim could fill, make no mistake. But altogether were they teeming with such might and morale as could be mustered in their circumstance.

And due to reckon with this fearsome foe were Londosius’ knights: the elite 3rd Order as commanded by Sir Matthias Juholt, himself the martial bedrock to the realm, a great tree whose boughs could bear the blackest storm, whose roots could resist the cruellest quake.

Under his shade did the men and women of the 3rd endure much, for almost a full fortnight had they lived and slept upon these plains, that at their readiest might they face their Nafílim foes. Were their mareschal any less a leader, surely would weariness have been one more nemesis to reckon with on this day. But lo—no fatigue was to be found anywhere amongst them. Not upon their faces, not within the fists curled about their hilts and hafts. A miracle of management, as it were, owed wholly to the hand of Matthias. Indeed, his talents in military command traced themselves to his renowned knack for organisational leadership, and thanks to it, the 3rd’s bivouac—expensive, expansive, and extensive though it was—went without want of provisions, vigour, morale, or even a maintained order. Astounding, yes, but by Matthias’ extraordinary ability was it a most ordinary feat, executed time and again to perfection.

On this occasion, however, he had made a merry miscalculation: one by the name of Sir Erik Lindell.

Nigh on no cover was to be had on these plains. Here was it turf after turf of tall-grown grasses, spanning in one smooth expanse as though pressed by the full weight of the skies aloft. And so had both sides presumed stratagem to be off the table, that crashing together and fighting cheek-by-jowl was their shared fate. Yet one beholder had seen differently; though an open plain from horizon to horizon it may be, this battlefield was not wholly flat. Here and there did the earth softly undulate, forming folds perceptible only to eyes patient and piercing enough.

And whose eyes were they but Erik’s, who, whilst riding in survey upon the afternoon of the fifth day of camp, had spied out a gentle knoll that boasted the starkest difference in elevation upon this land—if “stark” is even the right word. Nevertheless, it held promise as a geographical cloak, in the shadow of which could squat in wait a cohort or two, to pounce at the Nafílim unawares.

What music it was to Matthias’ ears, this discovery. None of his own best and brightest—nay, not even Londosius’ bedrock himself could have perceived this secret so hid under their noses. A thing to be awed, Erik’s eye. Small wonder why the man was lieutenant to the 1st’s Owlcranes: his was the jeweller’s ken, and the battlefield a rough ever his to be appraised—and polished to his liking. Not that Matthias himself was without merit in this matter. It was he who had bidden the knights’ speedy arrival, that their number might make camp at the soonest and begin scanning the grassy spans well before their fiendish foes could come to muck it all up. Ever the perfectionist, Matthias, and as always, his subordinates were all the more solaced for it.

With Erik’s hint in hand, Matthias had seen to the revision of their plans, and in its course, recalled then a similar situation: Ström’s Fiefguard, drawn long and narrow out of Arbel’s gate, only to be flanked asudden from both sides by the invading Nafílim. Now, however, was it Londosius’ turn to lay the ambush.

The 3rd’s preparations had been completed with all speed, with a detachment of flankers formed with Erik’s close aid, who, being keenest in the lay of this land, had offered to join them himself for the surprise attack.

The tactic itself was quite simple. Once both forces clashed, the knightly legion were to feign weakness and pull back steadily, luring the Nafílim deeper into Tallien. And upon the moment the enemy stretched themselves thinnest, the flanking force would spring from the knoll in assault, itself a signal for the legion to turn heel and bear down upon the foe in full offence.

Simple, indeed. But oft does simplicity hide subtlety, and here was it no different. Perceiving where best to situate the initial clash, deciding the pace and formation with which to lure the enemy—such was the burden of tactical command, of dealing with niceties and uncertainties that could very well decide the day. Yet that was precisely Matthias’ forte: epiphany and inspiration were his seldom muses, true, but to compensate, he was a huntsman of a knight, never to miss his mark, never to err even when error seems inevitable.

And so, cast in the day’s first light, the knights stood in ranks and reams and arrays. Billowing high was their banner; soaring higher again was surety of their triumph. And there, the scouts’ reports rang true: on this dawn of the knights’ twelfth-and-a-half day upon this place, the Nafílim appeared over Ström’s waking horizon, creeping nigh like a slow, dark deluge.

At length, the rival hosts stood poised, staring each other down, their arms and armour forming two great glimmering lakes. The swords of the Order smirked in anticipation, ready to reap the fruits of all their preparation, of all their superiority.

This was it. Parley was dispensed with. And there, the lions of Londosius lunged.

 

∵

 

Warriors: roaring and wailing by the thousands. Throats: shrieking and shouting in deathly discord. Blades: laughing and slashing, singing and stabbing—a sea of silver and steel, spraying blood and belching dust. And hammering the air: blasts of odyl, banging hither and yon, flashing bright and breaking rank after rank.

An iron reek wrung the air, mingled with stenches of uphoven grass and charred flesh, all fermenting in the fierce sun of midmorrow. By now, the battle had been aboil for hours, and whilst unmaking his marks and commanding the Nafílim host without tire, Volker spared a moment to peer down the battlefield—only for his brows to bend deep with doubt.

“A feint…?” he murmured. “Or frailness, for true…?”

Indeed, to his keen eye, the lions of Londosius seemed to be languishing—too much so, in fact. The first fray had been fierce, but from there on, the line had crept forth in the alliance’s favour faster than any could have foreseen. As it happened, ever as the Nafílim smote and pierced the 3rd’s vanguard, so would the knights yield to their enemy’s momentum, giving ground and squandering their steps aface every subsequent push.

Volker suspected deceit. It certainly smelled like it. Some device, perhaps, to lure the Nafílim towards some pitfall. And upon plains as wide as these, that was an evil thought. Spread too capriciously, and any army would find themselves hard put to heed their commanders, much less maintain cohesion with their comrades. But more than aught, to be teased out to thread-like narrowness would tempt the snipping scissor, soon or late, a wound that could very well spell doom for the Nafílim. Volker could but groan with unease. By his ken, the plains hid nary a pocket for such a scissor. Yet, all told, this was a land of the enemy, and surely did they know its every niche and nook.

But there was nothing for it. Still uncertain, Volker frowned and thundered out his next order: “Press the line! Steady! Steady!”

Boldness was needed here. Defeat comes to those who cower at the mere stench of trickery. And thus did Volker juggle both courage and caution, spurring the braves further whilst keeping them corralled to the very best of his ability.

“Watch all corners!” cried a voice anear the frontlines. “Foulness may be afoot! Give them not the chance!”

There Lise was, leading the vanguard braves whilst mulling very much the same mystery as Volker’s. Thin were the enemy numbers, and not just in what her eyes immediately saw. Yet there was a lick of recklessness on the alliance’s part, for every effort against their Londosian foes awarded much fruit, and the braves seemed only too hungry for more. If ever there were some beckoning at play, this would seem the very scene of it, the very precipice to disaster. This, Lise thought as she squinted doubtfully at her foes.

“…The winds are ill at ease…” she whispered, “…why?”

But, on and on the battle went.

…And on and on, both Lise’s and Volker’s worries simmered without warrant.

No matter how much they expected it, no matter how keenly they searched, never did an ambushing force of any sort appear, much less a cunning of any kind. Instead, like a farmhand scything row after row of wheat, the Nafílim sheared away at their Londosian rivals, whose flagging number did little more than put up a whimpering resistance, only to fall back, time and again. Yet ever did Lise refuse to lower her alarm, even as she herself drave one drove after another to their demise.

A stone’s throw away from her bladework, meanwhile, stood the Mareschal Matthias Juholt himself. But ominously, his men saw upon his face a grimness not once revealed to them before: the great tree seemed there to be gaping at a blasting volcano, dreading the flood of fires that would soon reach his roots and consume him alive.

“What keeps them!? What!?” Matthias grumbled. “We are pressed, and still they tarry!”

His precious ambushers, who ought be hid behind the appointed knoll, had not struck. Indeed, one—nay, two turns of the hourglass ago should have seen their silver blades stabbing the Nafílim flank.

“Sir! Sir!” screamed the under-mareschal from anear. “Centuria Six has fallen! We are lost!”

The hour was come, then. With a roar, the fray rattled anew with a fey fire. Now were the knights not falling back…

 

…but fleeing.

 

And as they flew past him in misery and fear, Matthias beheld for himself the arrant ferocity that they had been fighting against since dawn: tempests and torrents of Nafílim, blades bristling, eyes blazing, a stampede in sudden approach.

“Agh!!” the mareschal growled, standing his ground and readying his sword. A grand gait, worthy of a heroic scene, certain to turn this tide of teeming enemies. But on this day was witnessed a timeless truth:

That the hero who alone faced an army never lived beyond the pages of a book.

 

∵

 

Matthias’ demise was one most like to be embellished to the brim by minstrel and dramatist alike, their songs and scenes lifting him to heaven on high. And in the texts would his steadfast figure surely be illuminated with wild flair: Matthias, son of Londosius, smiting the dunlings by the scores in a final blaze of glory.

And for why but that the truth of it lacked bitterly: his had been a most dissatisfying death, a fate more befitting a footsoldier than a hero.

There he laid, a corpse lost amidst the lifeless mounds of his own men; a hero’s life, cut short and crushed underfoot. Between all the entwining limbs could be spied his unstirring face, its golden hair caked solid with sanguine soil, its lightless eyes staring into the sky, its gashed and gaping mouth festering with flies and their maggots.

A senseless death in token to the coldness of war…

…and the vicious ambition of one other man.

 

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