Vol.5, Ch.4, P.10
The sword-devout whistled and smirked. “Passing superb—for an ember and his lady coal,” he half-cooed. “All that coin-hunting’s honed you insurgents handsomely, hasn’t it?”
To this moment did the battle roar about them. Salvators and Cutcrowns, clashing in storms of spears and swords. The zealots themselves, though a secondary force sent to defend this front, were aught but “secondary”. No, they were battle-hardened; soldiers of genuine main and mettle. And yet, here were the Cutcrowns, resisting with equal character. Truly a sight to behold, for though of a mercenary majority and hence hardly a host in any official capacity, these seasoned warriors were as gainful and organised as could be—doubtless a fruit of Dennis’ labours and leadership.
“Why, at this rate, things trend a bit dicey, I daresay,” Sven conceded. “Bravo, indeed.”
That was no lie; Sven spoke his heart. And as if to prove it, the many clashes about them crescendoed asudden. Blades surged, bodies succumbed—a moment, and the scales were further tipped against the Salvators. But in the next—
“Dyee—aaht!”
—a distant cry, and thereafter, a crushing and shivering of shield and bone. Out of the masses could be spotted a hulking figure: that of a female’s, charging forth, warhammer in hand. A single swing of it, and away was blown a multitude of Cutcrowns.
“Well, well,” said Sven with smooth surprise. “Looks like we’re neither short of go-getters ourselves.”
Rare praise reserved for none other than Malena, lowly soldier to the Salvators. Discerning swift the danger of her, the surrounding Cutcrowns threw themselves upon this new foe, blades full-bared.
But Malena, too, served them an answer no less swift. “Zyeht! Dyah!” she cried, as with nimbleness belying her bulk, she loosed a one-two swing, sending the Cutcrowns careering left and right. Horror harried those that watched her warhammer at work. Frieda, too, frowned with alarm—but then, a strangeness. Whilst paying half of her attention to Sven, the freelance’s eyes met with Malena’s from faraway.
“…what?”
A mere instant this lasted, yet it was enough for Frieda to doubt her senses. For striking her was a sorrow found deep in Malena’s gaze, quivering and curled up like a babe in the woods. Could such eyes truly be those of an enemy’s…?
“Tickle not the beast, you bobchins! Back! Back!” came Dennis’ shout, shaking Frieda out of her thoughts. Quickly, the Cutcrowns obliged and yielded ground, and with them, the whole of the frontlines began receding down the slopes.
This was ill. Hitherto had they been pushing forth with marked momentum, but presented now with another peril by the name of “Malena”, it was not to be helped. Precious was each Cutcrown upon the field, after all, being a force of few relative to the Salvator’s droves. And in witnessing their weakness, Frieda’s stomach turned bitterly.
“Oh, come now. Where’s the fun in… that!” At that last word of his, Sven bolted forth with blade flashing. Dennis defended at once, but with things as they were, he had no choice: turning aside Sven’s blade, the master mercenary, too, retreated back. Then, as though to echo the fierceness of Sven and Malena, the rest of the Salvators surged forth in a renewed offence. And like their leader, the Cutcrowns could but defend. Slowly but steadily, they surrendered the slopes to their Salvator opponents.
On and on, the battle dragged. On and on, the duo crossed blades with Sven. Dennis himself, saddled with doling out orders and dealing with the sword-devout, had long since spent his stamina, that now was his swordcraft beginning to dull.
The chance was hardly lost to Sven. “Check!” he shouted, sending silver slicing towards Dennis’ neck. A strike perfectly timed—one now thwarted by a stroke equally opportune. Sparks flashed; silver and steel parted. At the nick of time had Frieda cut in, allowing Dennis’ head to stay yet upon its shoulders. “Uwofh…!” Sven huffed, jolting back. “The covess proves just as keen!”
Dennis stared wide. “Blo… bloody ’ell, Frieda!”
“W-what!?”
“Me neck owes’ee one!”
Dennis beamed brightly, despite his brush with death. Frieda, on the other hand, looked none too pleased.
“That’s nothin’ to smile ’bout!” she grumbled.
“Ev’ry reason to smile, me love!” laughed Dennis. “To watch fledgeling take flight—there bain’t no better joy than that! Thou’lt see theeself someday! Someday, I say!”
Dennis laughed further, his face bubbling with cheer beneath layers of beady sweat. Since long summers past had he and Frieda been bosom, a time that saw the latter’s mettle save the former’s skin on occasion. But with the wheeling of the years and the subsequent rise of Frieda’s fame, it was perhaps inevitable that they had drifted somewhat apart—and for Dennis to regret being of no avail in both the Albeck and Tallien incidents.
Indeed, lackadaisy though he might seem, to no end had that matter racked the man’s conscience. Thus had he thought to make up for it in this very battle; that now, now, would he have her back.
And yet, here he was, saved again by his dear friend. More curious still, Dennis felt not the slightest shame for it.
“This calls for a celebration,” he said on. “Quick! Someone! Sack! Sack an’ cups!”
“Quit babblin’, will ya! If slime-lips ’ere ain’t dead soon, we’re sunk!” Frieda shouted pantingly back. Her trembling blade pointed at Sven, who, even after enduring so long a duel, betrayed not a drop of sweat upon his brow. Yes; Frieda’s fears were full-warranted. Unquestionably skilled of sword she and Dennis were, and together, they were a force to be reckoned with. Sven, however, was proving himself even more so—all by himself.
“Sorry to say, Frieda, but the waters be bubblin’ up already, methinks,” said Dennis. “A wee boat against the angry seas, we be. An’ soon enough: feed for the fiends below!”
“Have you gone mad!?” Frieda gasped. “Get your marbles ’gether!”
Dennis winced a little. He misliked a scolding as much as the next soul, but the bare truth had to be aired: that verily were they in trouble.
“Dear, dear Dennis,” Sven mocked him, “pining for the pearly gates already?”
“I’m ’fraid the gates’ll ’ave to wait, me dear Sven,” answered Dennis. “Ten, twenty visits to these sacred slopes ’asn’t slaked the spirit, see. Not for this ’alf-pious pilgrim!”
A pilgrim half-pious, but a planner twice-prudent—such was Dennis. Under guise of cloak and whisker had he pretended a pilgrim upon these slopes, and for many a time prior, at that, all to spy out the terrain for himself. This, however, wholly escaped a head-cocking Sven, afore whom Dennis now raised his sword high and unleashed his voice strong.
“Out, out! Now!” he thundered, and there: from ambuscades of rocky outcrops that bestrode the misty battlefield, there sprang asudden two stampedes of Cutcrowns. Fiercely they flanked their Salvator foes, fresh of vigour and fain for battle, for long had they waited for this moment.
“Woah?!” Sven yelped, gaping at the development. Invaders setting an ambush upon his home ground? Never had he thought a thing possible. Indeed, the ploy proved a profit: in splitting his forces beforehand and feigning weakness had Dennis lured the Salvators into his three-fanged snare. Yet it was nonetheless a close-run thing, for drawing the Cutcrowns back had ended up being more a necessity than a sleight. Still, to so deftly exploit a disadvantage was very much like Dennis the deceitful fox.
“Colour me surprised,” said Sven, wide-eyed. “You locusts are more legion than I imagined.”
Dennis grinned. “Always were popular with the critters.”
“Were ya, now?” remarked Frieda. Evidently, not even the freelance had been privy to the ruse, a fact now earning her furrowed brows and pouted lips.
“Sven! What now!?” asked another Salvator, pale and panicked. Though Sven was strongest amongst the zealots here, he was hardly a commander. It was thus clear that even the captains at the rearguard had their hands full—too much so to even issue orders against this exigency.
“We turn tail and take our morning tea. How about that?” was his answer.
The enquiring Salvator groaned. “Fine! Tea it is!” he relented. “But blimey, have those two dead already, will you!?”
And of the “two”: Dennis especially. In truth, the Cutcrown leader had handed the reins over to his second-in-command. Even then, that had thinned little what threat he presented to the Salvators, if his ambush was aught to go by. Nay; still was Dennis the choicest head to be felled, a deed the Salvators would like done at the soonest.
But Sven merely shook his own head. “Tall task, lad,” he objected. “I’ve got the upper hand, to be sure, but these badgers are as stubborn as they come.”
The Salvator frowned further. “But, blast it, Sven—”
“You know badgers and their brains,” countered Sven. “These ones—they’ll draw it out till we’re stamped flat by all their friends.”
A hard admission. Defeating Sven was out of the question, no doubt, but buying time till he and his were all overrun by the redoubled Cutcrowns? Not a difficult feat for Dennis and Frieda. No, indeed; Sven acknowledged this fully, for never was he a man so besotted by his own strength as to be blinded from the truth.
“Swallow the medicine, my man. We’re outwitted. Best cut our losses and rally up top,” he insisted on. “Besides, they number more than was imagined. Dig in our heels now, and we dig our own graves.”
With that, Sven gave Dennis and Frieda one last look—and turning, he walked away. Leisurely he went, but the two stayed their blades nonetheless. To pounce upon him even then would have proven unwise.
But as he wearily watched the sword-devout disappear up the slopes along with all the other Salvators, Dennis could not help but ponder: were there any upon this day, this battlefield, that might topple so indomitable a titan?
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