Vol.5, Ch.3, P.13
“…Ser Rolf… and all the rest,” murmured Carola, “where be they now?”
For a while had the young woman been bent with worry in the sunroom. Situated ahigh in the Roland guildhall, the wide windows of the place commanded a mural-like view over the Talliener free-burgh. Even so, Carola remained sat and sullen; any lust for leisure was long lost.
“Freshly breaking Isfälter soil, were I to guess,” Torry answered her from across the low table. Carola’s teacup, though full, he noticed, was no longer asteam. Indeed, the air in the room hung stern and stifled. It had been but a day or two since the Víly-Gorka alliance crossed over the western borders of Former Tallien. Doubtless by this time were they parted from the territory altogether, and now found themselves south in hostile lands.
Not long remained till their arrival at the feet of Déu Tsellin—and withal the great bloodying of its sacred slopes.
Torry turned to the side. “Come now, Ina,” he said half-sternly to his daughter. “Calm yourself with a sip, why not?”
Ina herself was also present, and just as ill at ease as Carola, if her nervous pacing served any sign. “Ah,” she said with a start, “r-right.” And knowing naught better to do, the daughter did as told and sat down to have her tepid tea.
Torry watched the cup quiver in his daughter’s fingers. “My poor Ina. Nerve-racking, I know,” he said softly, “but I’m afraid fretting’ll serve only to fray them further.”
Ina let out a long sigh. “…Yes. You’re all too right, Father. Here was I, pacing about as would a soldier to war, though I wage none save against these worries,” she said, before hanging her head greyly. “…How unsightly of me.”
Unsightly for wasting her steps when all the alliance were spending theirs to buy a better future. Such was Ina’s meaning, her reverence for them and their coming sacrifices. Knowing as much, her father could only sit silent. But in his ears, he could almost hear it.
“Yet you do wage it, Ina. You and yours are ever with us, if even in spirit.”
The rich and resounding voice of Rolf, certain to offer Ina those very words were he there in that very room. And wholeheartedly, at that. Torry himself dared not doubt it. He was a merchant, after all, a magnate for whom self-interest was inextinguishable as it was so easily scried in others. That explained how he had become so keen on Rolf, the most curious case of a cove: rare was his heart, being so young and yet so selfless.
What world might the rebel usher in? Torry oft wondered about it. But above all, he wished to see for himself how might so rotted a world be remade. Hence why he had lent so many a helping hand to the effort, and was fain to offer a great many more. Hence, why it was of the utmost necessity that this battle be won.
In truth, many problems yet persisted in this little peek of paradise, as it were. Goods and commerce coursed freely between the now-conjoined Nafílim and former Londosian spheres, to be sure. But “goods and commerce” were merely just that: business. What burnt in the two races’ hearts for one another, contrarily, was yet clouded and fraught with friction.
All the more reason, then, to win through at Déu Tsellin. Such a triumph would surely cast away the choking clouds. Men and Nafílim, together felling the finest and most fearsome goliaths of Londosius—a juncture of incalculable consequence, were it to come to pass. And from there would all the world know the wonders to be woven from the union of Man and Nafílim. And withal, the forming of a new bridge between their embattled hearts.
But even absent that aspect, a victory at Déu Tsellin was no less paramount. And for what other reason than survival. Lose, and the inroads made thus far would fall all apart. Tallien, too, stood to suffer immensely. Doubtless would it be made again to bear the banner of Londosius, and in the same stroke, to welcome back another lord who would think only to sap dry its citizenry once more.
What then? What would become of the Concern? And all the souls its operations supported? Inly, Torry shuddered at the thought. His unease, however, failed to surface to any degree. A master merchant he was; if business were all that hung in the balance, then he could keep a face as fast as stone.
“Frieda…” Ina uttered next. “Oh, dear, dear Frieda. Will she be well, too, I wonder?”
Friend and force-of-good for all in that room, the freelance Frieda, too, was marching on the mountain. A matter of course, having been so successful a liaison with the Cutcrowns. Still, the thought of their dear friend wending to war comforted none of the three.
“Worry not, Ina,” Carola tried to soothe her, “for very strong she is, and very shrewd. She will be well.”
Torry could not help but grin at the exchange. For indeed, it made him very glad to see his two daughters—Carola being one in all but blood—getting along so well.
“Carola’s correct there, Ina,” he said, warm and firm in his fatherliness. “But if ever she falters, there’s Dennis to save her. Dashedly swift of wit he is, and wide of sight, to boot. Yes; a jolly dependable bloke I’ve long known him to be—one Frieda will only be glad to have by her side.”
Solaced by those words, the young women nodded.
Old friends, fast allies—all marching into the maw of the beast. A beast they will lay low. A battle whence they will return, safe and sound.
This the three chanted in their hearts, to bear themselves against the winds of worry. And then, though impious, they prayed.
That the fates may be merciful upon their friends.
♰
Déu Tsellin stirred. Encampments speckled its many slopes. War whispered in the air.
Anear the Dēlūbrum at its summit sprawled the bivouac of the 1st Order. Knights there, the finest in all of Londosius, mended their myriad armour, oiled their silver blades, broke bread, took counsels, and altogether made ready as they might. But in the outskirts of that controlled chaos, there stood a lone figure. Set against soughing skies, her rills of rose gold hair rippled in the wind, her arms knotted themselves in thought, and her eyes searched an uncertain horizon.
And before long, there came from behind the measured steps of a man.
“Mademoiselle,” he called to her unobtrusively. “The enemy has crossed into Isfält, as the scouts say. At this rate, I shan’t expect any delay till the great tussle.”
“Very well,” Estelle answered the man, her stare still fast upon the far yonder.
Francis Behrmann the man was. Nigh-on sixty in his years, his was a straight and slender figure, and with a crown of snowy locks combed slickly back, Francis seemed just as much a manservant as he did an esteemed officer of the Order. And as it happens, that was very much the case: this Knight Under-Mareschal to the 1st had, in truth, once served as butler to the House of Tiselius.
Two decades past saw him first stepping foot on their estate. By that time, Francis was already a knight of high renown, perched as he was at the very pinnacle of his chivalric career. It might be thought strange, then, for so outstanding a soul to be saddled with duties so servile. Surely an instructor of the sword or a captain of the houseguards would have better suited him. But the count and lord of House Tiselius had thought otherwise, for a child most particular had been produced: little Estelle, a sprout of a lady—and a deep aspirant to knighthood besides.
Wishing therefore to groom his daughter for greatness, the count had thought to give unto Estelle her very own knight, one to be by her side, to serve her every need, and to impart to her all the wisdom of his many winters. Yet a knight such as Francis is not so cheaply bought. Thus was he made not a mere manservant, but welcomed with utmost warmth as the butler of the manor, with princely pay and privilege to match.
But being a knight, naught in especial was expected of Francis’ butlery. Yet, being also a man of vast capacity, Francis rolled up his cuffs and took to his menial duties as would a fiery-eyed apprentice at the workshop. Instructing Estelle, too, proved no pain. In fact, theirs seemed the perfect pairing: Francis, talented even in the teaching of his erstwhile fortes of sword and strategy; and Estelle, a star of a student and a child extraordinaire.
And so the rest was history. The young lady grew meteorically and entered the Order to begin her storied career, and with whom but Francis in tow. Indeed, the old knight traded the white glove back for the gauntlet, that he might support ever onwards his mademoiselle.
“And if perchance it has yet to occur to you, Mademoiselle, ’tis where but west that you now look,” he said to her with his usual gentlemanly sauciness, “when ’tis rather north whence wends the subject of your sweet and wistful thoughts.”
“Oh, quiet,” Estelle bit back.
“Mademoiselle”—even to this moment was Francis wont to call Estelle as such. Old habits die hard for the former butler, despite his impeccability, but at the very least, he had yet the wherewithal to address her more appropriately in places less private. His bold tongue, too, followed this rule. A baffling arrangement, one might say. After all, Estelle was his superior, whether in public or private. Yet in sign of long years shared, she endured his audacity notwithstanding.
“Well then, Mademoiselle. Were it the westering sun you fancied, I fear ’tis hours yet till twilight,” Francis badgered on. “Otherwise, I do wonder whatever else could hold you in such a pensive spell.”
Estelle huffed and turned a keen stare to her under-mareschal. “Did you not hear me, Francis?” she returned. An edge was in her voice. And by the altogether unsheathed bladedness of her mien, the heart of his mademoiselle was revealed to Francis at last.
To which he could but hoarsely sigh. “Yet adrift at sea, are we?” he observed, shaking his head. “Dear, oh dear. So set a ship in its course you seemed, when it came to broadsiding the Mareschal Valenius. And now, look at you.”
Estelle stood there, sulking now like a child cornered and scolded. It was quite unlike her, to have no answer at the ready.
“Never mind that you’re hardly one to reprimand another in matters of romance,” Francis prodded on. “Why, if aught, I think it high time you settled down yourself, Mademoiselle. Winter comes terribly swift to a woman.”
“Enough, Francis,” Estelle said at length. “I’ll not hear more of this.”
But Francis, as though sensing the tenuousness in her tone, merely continued. “My dear Mademoiselle. In all your wit and wisdom ought you perceive the peril of your situation,” he said. “Take a Londosian lady of your years, and surely would she be found wedded—and more oft than not, with child. Yet, here you are, dooming yourself to dwindle unto a woman wilting in her chambers, to be kept company by but cups of wine when all the ballhalls of the world await her with bated breath.” Francis, disregarding the steam now rising from Estelle’s head, turned a thoughtful squint to the great empty. “Mademoiselle. We have a word for such women, back in my boyhood home,” he said. “And that is ‘dried goods’.”
“Why must you insist upon this flogging, Francis!?” Estelle finally erupted. “Mercy! If only for a moment!”
Her prior tenuousness had turned now to a tantrum. Francis looked back to Estelle, and if his winters-worn eyes had not failed him, he would confess to finding tears starting in the corners of his mademoiselle’s eyes.
Shaking again a disheartened head, “As you wish, Mademoiselle,” he relented, before steering to a more agreeable topic, if it could be called such. “Well then, what of this war? I trust His Grace has bestowed us his bidding?”
“He has,” a swollen Estelle answered tersely. “We are to standby anear the summit.”
Francis raised his rimy brows. “Standby?”
His surprise was not without reason. Three enemies, three assaults; and just as many defenders at hand. A common mind would firstly think to meet the enemy evenly: three against three. But the Marquis Balbreau’s was a mind with a different bend, it seemed, and by his authority as supreme commander in this operation, had ordered the 1st to sit in readiness upon the summit.
This, however likely it might have seemed, was not some slight against the Order. No; this was a checkmate in the making.
Francis yielded a nod. “Striking,” he remarked. “The lord of Isfält lives up to his praises, I see.”
“Indeed,” Estelle agreed flatly.
No trickle has ever quenched a fire. Martial manuals stocked in every study could agree no more emphatically, that if an enemy is to be crushed, a heaving hammerstrike would best serve. Had the marquis stuck to the books, however, he would have earned but a belittling bend upon Estelle’s lips. Yet acting contrary to conventional wisdom was surely the sillier course here, and by the marquis’ strategy, one might have marked him more a cowardly clown than a commander.
But nay, slight not a clown, for cunning is his game, and many pockets hang hid in his costume. Verily, perilous though it might have seemed, the marquis’ plan was well-penned, for he had in him a subtle familiarity with the mountain. No doubt was such knowledge gained from years of lording over this land, but absent even this, there remained much merit to the marquis’ designs.
For the offenders, though three-faced, were each to be funnelled into the vales and crannies of Déu Tsellin, and clawing their way up to the summit as they would surely do, their movements would be all at once constrained, isolated, and pitifully predictable. And that theirs was a tenuous alliance at best certainly helped their case little. Indeed, with Men and Nafílim marching independently of one another, it altogether betrays reason to expect any sort of coordination between them.
The same could not be said for the defenders. A force of theirs standing ready at the summit could strike down straightway at any slope. Freedom and flexibility—fangs most effective in a fight such as this, and the marquis would be remiss to keep them muzzled. Besides, the case of an enemy host piercing and prevailing the summit would likely see them moving thence to stab any of the remaining defenders from behind, and that was a thought most evil in the marquis’ mind. Thus had he settled upon this subtle strategy of his, for it seemed to him the soundest answer as may be mustered.
“A noble with a brain—that much I measure of him, from the few words we shared,” Estelle noted. “A rare breed, indeed, in these days.”
Words aired to great risk, not least upon a mountain so manned with ardents and devouts. Francis, for his part, counted himself not amongst them, as it would seem.
“Well-bred or no, he has bidden us,” he said consentingly. “Let us, then, abide with all patience till comes our part in his play.”
To that, Estelle nodded, and turning heel, looked at last to the north.
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