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Vol.4, Ch.4, P.8

 

The blue of dawn was yet bleary and bruise-dark. As Rolf and Sigmund were racing to the border plains, so, too, upon another place was a whole enterprise of hooves and sabatons beating its way down the dewy grasses. Men were on the move. And damp and chill as it was, the morrowing air did but inspire their spirits, for expectation was kindled in them all.

There, through the last dells and foothills of west Tallien they marched: a cohort and more of hundreds of knights, together like a glacier groaning across the green land, glistening with silver swords, spears, steeds, and standards of battle. The time was very early morning; faint stars above stared in silence as the knight Erik Lindell led this detachment of the 3rd Order. Northwestwards they went, crossing sheltered country in secret after having put behind them the battle at the borders, their every mind and arm now bent upon Balasthea Stronghold.

Their erstwhile mareschal, the brave and unbending Matthias Juholt, was party to this plan, his role it was to remain at the plains, there to wring and wrench the Nafílim host every which way, to hide from the devils all indication that such a ruse was ever playing out under their noses. And ever the unfailing strategist, Matthias’ triumph was certain, that even with inferior numbers would he and his knight-legion emerge victorious…

…or so was told to many of the marchers here. Yes, it was all a lie. A simple, unspotted lie, one that the lieutenants and their rank-and-file doubted not in the least.

On the other hand, their leaders—the brigadiers and others of like eminence—were full-complicit in the plot. Yes; they knew what would befall their famed mareschal. But they did not trouble about it. As far as they were concerned, their leader had now a different name and a different face.

Erik cantered amidst his men, tall and confident. Though long an expert in political manoeuvring, of late was he even more so, if these hundreds of new sympathisers were not evidence enough. Only, “hundreds” hardly sated Erik’s ambition. No; it was to Central where his eyes were turned, a seat amongst the magisters that he craved. There did he wish to ply his gift to garner greater power, to gain greater heights. Indeed, to Erik, the summit of his ambition yet loomed high above the clouds.

The next foothold upon his climb was what else but another seat: to wit, the very highest of the 3rd’s, one he full-expected to be vacant by operation’s end. Yes; Matthias was to perish, along with his under-mareschal and the rest of the 3rd’s personages not found here. Theirs would be a great dying, vain and unvaunted, for the stain of defeat would defile their memory for evermore.

With that part of the plan virtually done with, what was left now to Erik, a lauded leader of the 1st, was to win the walls of Balasthea and receive from his sympathisers here their unanimous nomination for mareschalhood, and usurp from Matthias his seat of fifteen years. Such was Erik’s vision, a garden of his own design, tilled, tended, toiled over with all care and cunning. In fact, by now its confines had long been creeping outwards, with roots already slithering through the soils of Central itself.

“A matter, if I may, Sir Erik,” a voice called to him, just audible above the rumbling march. It was Hannes, a knight of the 3rd and a man in his younger twenties, riding beside the seasoned Owlcrane lieutenant. He and Erik went back a long way, for up till two winters past had Hannes himself been a sword of the 1st. And he was hardly alone: Erik maintained a whole roster of like ties as a spider keeps its cobweb, a weave now winding from one reach of the realm to the next.

“What is it, my dear Hannes?” Erik responded.

The junior knight drew his horse closer and whispered, “…The survivors of the border battle—what would we have of them, were they to… ‘talk’?”

Matthias’ demise was certain. But not all his subordinates would share in his fate. No, just as certainly would some awake the next morrow, only to begin their way back home in shame and defeat. And that was precisely what troubled Hannes: if any amongst them had been privy to Matthias’ tactic—insofar as the flanking of the Nafílim with a cohort hid in the hills—surely would they put two and two together and set the truant Erik in cuffs afore the tribunals, there to be tried for cowardice or treasonous deceit.

“Not to worry,” Erik answered firmly. “A battlefield is never without noise, Hannes. Blind and nuisible noise. Amidst the chaos to come will the higher ups covet for clarity, and we have but to give it to them—one of our own making, if needs be.”

And to those high and eminent ears, it should not sound strange in the least that Matthias—ever one to attend all contingencies—would commence in secret a parallel operation to pierce the enemy at unawares, that capturing Balasthea with one hand and winning the border battle with the other had been the mareschal’s mind all along. He would be dead by then, of course, but that can be explained away as an error in measuring the full might of the Nafílim—this, and other like excuses did Erik keep up his sleeve, and in rich supply, at that.

Yes; wordcraft was on his side. To claim and convince, to insist and satisfy—it was all child’s play to Erik. After all, he had leaders galore that would vouch for him, and had made especially certain to foolproof both their testimonies and his. And should that ill-suffice, sure to back him up were his abettors in Central.

For instance, it was admittedly rather preposterous that Matthias should make so plain a mistake. But by tugging a few cuffs, offering a few coins, and altogether pruning and prettying this other “battlefield” to his liking, as it were, Erik could give even preposterousness a perfect patina of truth.

“Not to worry”, indeed. Dealing in the dark, groping for advantage; such manoeuvring was most natural to Erik, and he employed it wherever he could, whether on the gameboard or the battlefield. War and politics—it was all the same to him. Matthias, meanwhile, merely had the misfortune of being Erik’s unsuspecting opponent. A military man for nigh on all his life, battle was all his brains could bear. Thus when Erik’s axe of politics came to chop, the great tree could but stand dumbly by as the blade bit into his bark.

“Very good, then,” Hannes nodded, assured by Erik’s words, before very quietly saying, “Sir Matthias—bless him—he has indeed served the Order for long enough. ’Tis high time he hung the mantle, I think, one I suspect will be shawling your shoulders very soon, Mareschal Lindell.”

Erik smiled wryly. “Would it not have warmed his for fifteen whole years,” he sighed in remark.

Maverick and radical, the Owlcrane lieutenant detested the institutions in all their senility. That their decay had spread through Londosius was most evident to him from the sight of Tallien alone. The realm starved for change. But in feeding it, its thirst for the Deiva’s graces need not change along with it; no, not at all. This was ever Erik’s mind, his intent, being a man of faith, and thus ever did it impel him, spurring him to action where all others would stand stupid.

Hannes and the other sympathisers, for their part, loved Yoná and Londosius no less. Oh, indeed, neither their fervour nor their reverence were vain in any way. Only, they, too, had tired of the wizened ways, the ingratiation of the greybeards, the thorny barbs of authority bleeding the realm dry. But could they be blamed? After all, oft is it the youth who revolt against the words and wills of the elders. Youth—who now composed the majority of Erik’s supporters.

Religion, spirituality, shepherds and their flocks… would that they all passed their days in peaceful prayer. But ever to stagnance comes a stir. A weariness, a want—a will for transformation, that so sparks extremism in the radical handful, bringing them together and binding them into brotherhoods. Zealots in livid congregation; a vista as old as time, one painted all too frequently in the chronicles of Man.

“The winds of change, Hannes,” Erik chanted. “The winds of change.”

“Will they blow through the battlefields, is the question,” mused Hannes.

“Oh, that they will,” Erik answered.

Winds—and wildfire, for certain. Of late have the battlefields been particularly ablaze, a quickening not seen since the security of Mt Godrika. But where that event was an advantage to Londosius, this one was an evil: galvanised by the Víly clan’s victories at Ström, now were the many other nests of Nafílim throughout the lands madly astir.

The winds of change, then, loomed not on the horizon. No; already were they passing through, leaving in their wake battlefields forever transformed, if not in smouldering desolation. Such scenes, such change, were crystal clear to many eyes, and not least to Erik’s own.

“Already do our foes savour such breezes themselves, after all… much to our bane,” he said on. “Take the east, for instance—Artean. The whole of that county stands to fall once does its Fiefguard. Albeit I doubt the 2nd will sink along with it, thankfully enough.”

“A fall wrought by the hatchet-hand of Walter, I presume?” asked Hannes, airing the name with no warmth. “The hero-wiċċa to the Reùlingen… He stirs, and we tremble.”

Erik snorted, sharing in Hannes’ coldness. “A dunling—deemed a ‘hero’,” he noted mockingly. Yet inly did he heed the haunted plight of Artean and the aforenamed power that stood to steal it away. And that is to speak naught of Tallien itself—the very stones and grasses beneath their feet, certain to fly a different flag before the next dawn. But that in particular was rather fine to Erik. Convenient, even. After all, upon each of the mareschals’ seats was presently sat a hero beyond reckoning. A most exclusive echelon, to be sure, and only by “force” could Erik ever dream to join it.

A province for a heroic post—not a bad trade, he thought. He even hoped that the Nafílim would not be too merciful, to unmake enough knights that by day’s end, the whole of the 3rd would be half-dead altogether. For absent such a massacre, too comfortable would remain the decrepit codgers in their courts, their committees, their cabinets, and all their safe couches of bureaucracy. Show them the fragility of Londosius’ pillars, why not, and therefore the appeal of Erik Lindell’s many solutions. They ought even thank him, he humoured, for here he was, leading hundreds of knights away from senseless death and unto certain victory.

“Which reminds me: we’ve reports of a change come upon Balasthea of late, milord,” said Hannes. “A staging post was made of it. Many goods now go through its gates, armaments and commodities both—with not few to be found stacked in its croft, I should reckon.”

“So I have heard,” answered Erik. “And withal, Hannes: dunling hovels and hamlets abound within Balasthea’s sight. With these surplus ‘crofts’ at our convenience, we will not starve for many a winter yet.”

And for Rolf and his soon-to-be-forlorn host of houndlings: the utter contrary. For come the capture and occupation of Balasthea, they would be as sprouts to wither without wind, water, and warmth.

“Winter?” Hannes chuckled. “Nay, I wager a month’s stay ought be plenty long to see the foundering of our foes, milord. Victory’s close—and its smell, closer. We’ve but to take the place and keep it with all jealousy; an easy feat with walls so steadfast.”

“Keeping it with all jealousy” was a matter of course. But in Erik’s ears, Hannes had touched upon another encouraging truth: that Balasthea was a bull of a fort. In spite of its former infamy as a deathground, its walls had weathered many a Nafílim assault, and with ragtag defenders, no less. Were it he and these knights at its helm, then, why, only the most dogged of sieges could challenge it, which was certainly not to be dared by a starving enemy.

And in thinking of them, of Rolf and his rabble, Erik nearly laughed. “Starving enemies”, indeed, ones who would take their meals from raided mangers, plunder for succour and supplies, and rape for base release. After all, the fool foes think themselves above requisition, like as not. Or perhaps the choice was long dead to them, lest they inflame the folk of Ström and Tallien to revolt. Whichever the way, their collective fate was sealed. And those amongst them to realise the same would soon resort to the very “sins” that Men stood accused of by Rolf. And by that point, their wills will have been full-withered, and with them, all strength left for battle.

Sapping their supplies, caging them in an enclave of their own making, and slowly breaking their spirits—to Erik, this well-seemed the checkmate of all checkmates. “Indeed. The hounds think Tallien-land a treat. So much the better; let them relish it a while and savour the sweet poison therein,” he said, cold of all care for the coming annexation of yet another land of Londosius. His was no military mind. A defeat here and there, hundreds if not thousands of countrymen lost, pride and precedent forever stained… these all he could suffer without a flinch if it furthered his political career in kind. Why, ridding the realm of Rolf and his rabid braves seemed almost a bonus to Erik, a delectable dessert to which he had been anticipating ever since the events at—

“Erbelde,” he brought up asudden. “How fresh be that battle in that memory of yours, Hannes?”

His confidant blinked. “The Erbelde? Well, quite, I should say. What of it?”

“Oh, a passing thought, that is all,” Erik said. “Three years, it has been… Three whole years.”

Hannes could but give a puzzled look as his senior turned ahead with distant eyes.

Three years.

Of nursing the wound upon his dignity, of rueing and writhing in the dark. For at the bridge and banks of the Erbelde had Erik seen it: the target of all his detestment, Rolf Buckmann—performing feats of much merit.

Not by Central was such distinguished service recognised. But theirs were eyes watching from within their cloisters; Erik’s were first-hand witnesses. Rolf’s crossing of the doomed bridge, his destruction of the tributary dam, his brazen return from the depths of enemy territory… Indeed, Erik had beheld it all. And, oh, how he hated that he had. For in beholding did he recognise—nay, had to recognise…

…that without Rolf, the Battle of Erbelde would have ended in disastrous defeat.

What humiliation.

What foetid and wicked humiliation.

A beloved lamb of Yoná, saved by the black creature amongst Her herd. To Erik, the mark of disgrace was as a taint in him, a tumour turning in his belly. How he wished to be rid of it, to stab his hands into his own body, to gouge out his every organ, and at last wrench free the filth from his flesh.

Since that damnable day, Erik had been honing his blade; a blade unlike Rolf’s, which was tempered by practice and technique. No; such blades can only kill that which stands afore them. This, Erik understood very, very well. And so had he fashioned his to be a blade of a different sort.

And in the last three years had he been brandishing it in secret, cutting new political paths and carving his good regard into the hearts of personages and institutes alike. And now with war enlivened anew, chance and opportunity were abound, and not wont to leave any of them unseized, Erik was at last swinging his sword in its full splendour.

“…”

Only, there was yet one mark his blade could not reach: the next hero-dame of the new age, Emilie Valenius. How he regretted failing to persuade her to his side, for he had a keen interest in her, as would any man for a woman as much a marvel as she. Yes, the lovesome maiden of the levinblade, brightening the Erbelde with brilliant flashes of lightning; even to this moment was the memory fresh in his heart—achingly so.

“…Fine enough,” Erik murmured. “There shall be time aplenty for fancies… after I wrest all the power that is my due.”

“Milord?” asked Hannes.

“Hm? Nay, never mind me,” answered Erik passingly.

“Speaking of Tallien, I confess: I rather pity the viscount there,” said Hannes. “What would become of him, I wonder? Once all the dust settles on the plains?”

“Why, a mighty foundation for the new age, is what,” said Erik. “And when it comes, we ought pay him our respects—with bouquets and all.”

To be sure, Erik was come on this campaign under pretence of succouring the Viscount Bartt, to whom he was much indebted. For his part, the lord was very glad for Erik’s gift of chivalry. Only, this bond, this trust, too, had been but a seed of Erik’s sowing.

“I shall miss him, Bartt,” he said. “For he was a dear friend. Of good faith… and good service.”

And upon Erik’s lips, there then grew a sorrowless smile.

 

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