Vol.4, Ch.5, P.3
Once more was I made to drive in haste, with all my mind bent upon Balasthea. Past noon it was as Ström’s share of the plains gave way to shaded foothills; doubtless an ideal cloak for the 3rd’s cohort when they had made their own crossing here in secret. Galloping with me were Sig and Lise, the latter of whom had taken in tow her retinue of Edelkrieger. Few they were, but as well the fastest and finest under her command. In our following, far yonder behind, were the main host marching in great numbers, but all the slower for it.
Yet ever as I rode on, some anxiety nagged and gnawed away at my bosom. Were Balasthea to fall, so, too, would we in time—a defeat as irreversible as an angry tide. That much I knew. That much was heavy on my heart.
Still, such only half-explained this unrest in me. For why I did not know, but incessantly did it whisper in my ear, bidding me make all haste, like whips licking and lashing away at my back, spurring me to some shrouded purpose. And only scarce could I resist it. No second could be spared, nor tarry taken—I must needs be at Balasthea at the very soonest.
Pressing my steed on, I then turned my thoughts to our thinning fortunes, and there felt the fault of it all bearing upon my shoulders.
For I was outwitted.
And how I hated the fact. How I hated my eyes for having seen so shallowly or searched too far. Were it not for Frieda’s plea, the infiltration of the Tallien estate, Carola’s revelation, all of it… then like as not, never would I have scried the enemy’s schemes till our doom was writ deep in stone. Schemes, all based upon what ought be an impossibility: Londosius’ wanton sacrifice of an entire land of its own, even after having lost another, and to historic shame, at that.
The enemy’s echelons had not all been in lockstep, evidently. And it was by this very disunity that the dissenters had chosen the devil’s path. An absurd development, to be sure; perverse, even, for by my knowledge, no precedent of such was remembered in the annals of Londosian warfare. Yet that ill-served an excuse. Indeed, it was folly to expect perfect solidarity to begin with, even from a people as pious and imperious as the Londosians. The existence of wild cards within that populace, their risking to play against Londosian rules—this I should have borne in mind right from the beginning. Yet I hadn’t. And for it were we on the cusp of collapse.
Balasthea stood now to be attacked; perhaps it was so to this very moment. Or perhaps already were it walls taken. An evil thought, that. To imagine that near at hand for us was a fate of famishment, of once-proud thousands left to suffocate in an enclave of their own making…
All because I had faltered. I, Rolf, new war-chief to the Vílungen, to whom command of an entire Gewölbe was commended. Yes; this was a far cry from my time as a lone fighter, indeed. A single misstep now meant not just a flesh wound, but woes visited upon thousands… and many, many graves to dig.
And what would be chiselled unto their headstones? What would their mourners wail into the night?
Yes. I can see it. I can hear it.
Here lies the fool who so trusted to—
“Rolf! Oi, Rolf!” barked a voice, as though to drag me out of the mires of remorse. Looking aside, I found Sig hasting upon his horse, glaring at me grim and angered. “You best pull that ‘ead right out o’ your arse!” he shouted at me, his sharp teeth showing full. “This ain’t no time to mull an’ mope, ya milksop!”
I could give no answer, but instead stared wide at him as I received his rebuke, feeling it like a foot stamping and kicking at my very heart. The pain of it hurt all too real. Yet in truth, it was as soft a blow as I could’ve asked for. Were we afoot, surely would Sig’ve beset me, clutching at my collar and beating some good sense back into me.
Sig had his own fears to fight, I’m sure. Little Arno, ever a companion to the wild swordsman, came immediately to mind. Indeed, dearly did Sig wish as any other brave to protect Hensen and all the souls therein. Thus, like mine, his brows ought’ve been bent with trouble, his mind no less stuck in the mud, as it were. Yet they weren’t, for he knew full well the futility of regret.
And what a truth it was that this man knew. Reflection be all fine and well. Mistakes are themselves a lesson, after all, to be learnt once and never again, wits willing. But mistaking regret for reflection was the trap here. He was right: I must stop drowning. For what would come of it? From brooding over it so? From bemoaning what is passed? And hating myself with every thought?
Right. That I ought’ve won this matter or that, that all problems ought be in my power to solve—what a fool I was to even fancy the idea. No… I had failed. That was the bare truth. And both truth and failure I must accept, and thence step onwards and do what must needs be done.
…And forget not one more truth:
That none of this was coincidence.
That all pieces had their place, their own time to enter play.
That scrying the enemy’s devices, if even at the nick of time, was itself a fruit of my labours.
Frieda had sought my succour because she had believed in me. And not one to baulk the begging of help, I had obliged her, crossing deep into enemy territory to fulfil her wish. And in so doing, I had saved and met again Carola, who, trusting to me even after I revealed to her my treachery, had enlightened me to the enemy’s own.
Yes. Such was no mere coincidence, no fool’s deference to the fates. In forging new bonds and nurturing the trust of others did I earn this miraculous moment, though it may seem evil to live. This soot-steeped path I walk—it was given meaning at last, and with it, a clue to avert this otherwise unavoidable doom. Ever must I keep this in heart.
And all the same, ever must I fight might and main, to earn my every step upon this path, to safeguard against its severance. Haste must be made, the fort secured, our foes defeated… and the innocents therein saved.
For a great long while, I hammered away at these thoughts, coming off the anvil feeling reforged. And by then, an hour or so had passed. Looking forth, I began to see again a vista most familiar: the walls of Arbel to our left, highroads leading north, and…
“Rolf! Ahead!” shouted Lise, pointing accordingly.
Sig, spotting the same, bellowed in bewilderment. “…The bloody mullock is that!?” he cried.
A greyness loomed. Distant and rising, it soon revealed itself to be distinct from the clouds that curled in the horizon; just as an odious smell wafted into our noses, we saw and knew it then.
Balasthea was burning.
From our far view, the walls seemed untouched, yet the crown of the oaken keep shimmered red under plumes black and ashen. To the ordinary eye, it might’ve seemed a sign of our undoing. But to mine, it was a beacon of hope—not yet had Balasthea fallen to Londosian hands, for loath they ought be to set aflame that which they so coveted. No, it seemed to me, rather, a fault of the fight yet breaking fierce: a magick misaimed or a desperate design of the defenders. Whichever the way of it, the fires were blazing to our benefit, for as our number neared the scene, we perceived the knights in disarray.
“Well!? Have we a plan!?” Lise pressed me.
“We charge!” I answered immediately. “Charge and break through! The enemy’s in shambles! The gates, ill-secured! We strike while the iron’s hot! No holding back!”
“Hah! No ‘oldin’ back, aye!?” Sig sang. A smile was on his face. “Finally: some fun!”
“Innocents inside… and little time to save them…” said Lise, in deep but speedy thought. But breaking out of them, her eyes blazed clear. “…Fine, then! A full charge for us!”
Resolute, we urged our sweating steeds onwards, and at length, penetrated the fort outskirts and charged straight into the knights in all their confusion.
───────── ∵ ─────────
Comment (0)