Vol.5, Ch.4, P.1
Afore the spurs of the first slopes we stood—an alliance of thousands, awaiting the time to attack. It was the hour before dawn. Spearpoints spanned in a jagged sea; swords hung poised in playing ripples; and the braves that bore them dared break not the knife-edge silence. Heavy was the unease in the air, for too smooth a sailing had it been so far. From border to mountainbase, our march had met not a single enemy. It was as though an unspoken agreement had been struck between us; as though our foe, too, had found no place more fitting for this bloodshed we would soon share.
Their reasoning, as far as I could tell, was twofold. Firstly, where better to fell a Nafílim army than upon sacred soil? The answer was clear, and veritably writ in the Scriptures to be followed. But second and most salient of both was that Déu Tsellin was as daunting a fastness as could be asked for. Certainly, low in height it was and boundless in breadth; and with expanses of slowly inclining fields up to the foothills, admittedly was it feasible for an army to march upon the mountain. But that was where the easiness stopped, as down from the peak ran vales and dells like many veins, constraining our approach to a scant selection. The west was wholly lost to us, to begin with, gashed through by a gaping gorge as it was. That left for us a mere three paths, none of which were any gentler for it.
Indeed, we at the north were cut off completely from our east- and southern allies, who themselves had no tamer a terrain to contend with. No; they, too, were separated from one another, save for a single dip in the slopes that served a passage in-between. But even that was unforgiving, for not without withdrawing down first to the foot of the mountain could it be crossed. Our Reùlingen and Cutcrown friends, therefore, could not succour each other without sacrificing their advance. True, it was scarce an overarching alliance that bound together our enterprise of Man and Nafílim, such that this tandem attack encompassed all the scope of our cooperation. But even were we any more cohered, it solaced none that nigh on all further coordination was damned by the mountain itself.
Our enemies, meanwhile, were spoiled for advantage. From their perch upon the peak could they survey the battle as it boiled, and furthermore dispatch soldiers to any front as they pleased. Yes; worms waging war against flocks of hungry birds—such was our evil situation. Despite all our planning, our preparation, our pains undertaken. Despite this miracle of a movement… at the last could we scratch together not even a sliver of advantage.
Still, this was as best a hand as could be given us. All we could do now was to play it to the very end, be it a bitter one or no.
“…”
Into the mists I peered. I, along with countless other eyes, with none knowing which of our enemies prowled beyond the pale. The 1st, the 2nd, the Salvators—with Crown and Quire both set against us, it seemed we were all of us marching into the very maw of Man. And in truth, that was quite the case. But march we must, for a war against Londosius was a war against Yoná’s lambs; in wounding one could we wound the other. And such a stroke was not to be stayed.
Worms, daring the old two-birds-with-one-stone. A fabulous feat, I’ll admit. But a feat of a throw that must needs find its mark nonetheless, and at all costs—lest we worms be pecked clean from this earth, like all that came before us… and all ever to follow.
Along with that thought, the brume slowly thickened. Smokey wisps of white wet to the touch, coursing over grounds of greyness and gravel… So poor proved our visibility that all forms and figures beyond ten paces vanished wholly into the vapours.
“I feel as a crane caught in a cloud,” said Lise, who had drawn close as the fog increased. We’d all known well what weather awaited us here, but naught had prepared us for the living moment itself. Indeed, we could but gasp as we were engulfed by the blankets of white.
“You and I both,” I said to Lise. “It’s thickest here at the north, so they say.”
Yearly did pilgrims of Yoná partake in this “experience” of ours, with these northern slopes being the favourite route amongst them. Though perhaps they could be forgiven their fervour; doubtless so intent and constant a fog as this must seem to them some vestige of the divine.
“…A myst of a mist,” murmured Lise. “I see now how the holy mountain made its name.”
By the look upon her, the jarl-daughter was no less impressed than any such pilgrim, were they yet on this mountain. But in truth, this “myst” that so mesmerised her was aught but mystical.
“Two rivers run anear, hemming in the mountain from east and west,” I noted.
“That I remember from the maps,” said Lise. “But what of it?”
“Their waters are warmer than the morrow air, you see,” I explained. “A difference enough to emit this maze of fog afore us.”
More the workings of the mundane than a miracle, to be sure. Nay, Yoná’s hand was not to be found here—nor was it ever, I would guess.
“What? For true?” Lise said with wonder. “Mists, rising from rivers—a myst in itself.”
“Indeed. Though the discovery is hardly recent,” I began to recall. “A geographer figured it out long ago. Scarce anyone lent an ear, albeit. But the pieces fit well enough, I think.”
What didn’t fit, however, was the fate of that very geographer. As it happened, he’d died untimely, put under the earth before anyone thought to piece together the “how” or “why” of it. Some “foul play” might rise first to the mind, but long being a case as cold as his coffin, that may remain a question forever yet.
Whichever the way of it, a lover of reason though I may be, I did not necessarily hate all things held hallowed or haunted. I had shared a passionate prattle with Walter before, after all, and on what but the wonders of dragons. No; it’s not so strange to behold beauty or mystery, and then think it first a sign of some higher power. In fact, I feel there to be a romance to it all, myths and mysteries. To revolt from them out of cold reason is itself unreasonable.
But more unreasonable still, I must warn, is to spin mysteries already solved into a demonstration of the divine—and as well, an insanity to push it as propaganda.
“We’d best brace ourselves, at any rate,” I said on. “This mist seems in no helpful mood, be it miracle or mundane.”
“For true,” said Lise quietly. “A stroke too astray here… may strike friend sooner than foe.”
She spoke the chilling truth. We would be as fools amongst fools to defeat ourselves in our sightlessness. But just the same, defeat is all that awaits us were we to joust too gingerly. Altogether was this to be a fickle fight, one decided by not the mightier mettle, but the subtlest mind.
“Friends and foes,” I mused aloud. “Let us hope ours yonder defeat theirs. Though they’ll not have mists as mischievous to contend with, gladly enough.”
“Yes…” said Lise, “…may fair winds find them.”
…”Friends” I called them, the Reùlingen and the Cutcrowns. Were it my way, we would all be as brothers of a banner—Man and Nafílim, allies in the most official of capacities. But a ragtag gathering of allies-at-arms’-reach was our meagre reality. Friends fighting together for each their own benefit—what banner can such a flock fly? A flimsy one, at best, I’ll not doubt. But there’s nothing for it. We had our fight ahead of us, and so long as they were willing to wage it with us, our “friends” were “friend” enough to me.
“…’Tis nigh,” Lise said sternly. The mists above us had just now illuminated. Dawn was pressing in; dim white and grey gushed golden all around us. The sun had given its signal—it was time now to attack.
“So it is,” I said tersely to mask this mounting unease of mine. And with that, a great rustle erupted from our ranks as thousands upon thousands of feet began marching deeper into the mist.
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