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Vol.5, Ch.4, P.11

 

“Walter! There! From the right!”

A tiger vanishing into thickets; such is the Knight Stefan Cronheim. He is after me and only me. And unseen amidst his Men, he prowls, creeping ever closer.

But as Erika’s cry fades, he appears once more. From the knight-masses, to our right—I see him. He sees me.

Is it overlate? Nay… nay, not yet! There is distance still between us! Distance aplenty! If he’s to be dealt with, now’s the moment! Whilst I may yet shoot him down before he shears me to pieces!

No time to waste. A mareschal lauded the lands over, doubtless is his a dangerous brain in battle; the longer this clash is drawn, the further victory flees our fingers.

Forth raise I my staff. Aroar rumbles my óðilr. Mists swirl, magicks surge; levin, black and red, crackle and spasm as they swarm about my staff-head. The Slihthund—if aught can strike the mareschal dead over this distance, it was this spell Only, it is exactly from such a distance that I discover the knight-mareschal bellowing anew, as though to outsound the levin already so cackling in my ears.

“Dēcollāns Ruptūra!”

Back my mind races. Back to the war councils, the records, the rumours. Knight Stefan—a spellblade he is, master melder of blade and wind. By ensorcelling his sword, he may not only hone its edge to an impossibility, but stretch its reach to outrival the longest of pikes. Swings to cover ten strides left and right… a fright upon the battlefield, for true.

Or so I have heard. Seeing him now, doubt strikes me dumb. The incantation brings to his blade no change to be seen. And yet, he holds it poised. As if… as if…

…no!

“Down!” I scream, “down-down-down!!”

Cancelling my conjuration, I cast myself swift to the ground. I, along with all my fellow braves about me. And there we cower as Knight Stefan swings his silversword sidewise, slicing naught but empty air. Yet ever as he does, we sense above our heads the brim and ebb of óðilr, and with it, an evil chill slithering down our spines.

The strangeness passes. Cold sweat seeps from my brow as I look up and about.

“Wh… ha…!?”

Gasping there is Guido, whelmed and wordless. The rest of us share in his shock. Erika, Gunthar, myself—all who yet huddle upon the ground or stare from afar. But those anear that have failed to join us, the score of braves who yet stand afoot…

…we find now wholly halved from their hips.

The ground thuds. Blood gushes. The sound of hewn torsos, all tumbling down from their former perches.

“…ahh!?”

Our lungs shiver. Our faces pale. Each and all.

“E… Erika…” I utter.

“No, Walter…” Erika says, strong but trembling, “…no more crying.”

Sweat once cold now freezes upon my face. At last do I know full my foe. Knight Stefan Cronheim—hero-knight and far-hailed mareschal to Londosius’ second mightiest Order.

And as well, a wall of a Man casting over us his deathsome shadow.

 

∵

 

“None too soon!”

Down the slopes rushed my braves and I. Down, diagonal, and eastwards to our host’s left wing, of whose waning we had received report. Doubtless was it the work of Alfred Isfält, supreme amongst the Salvators’ many spellsmen. And sure enough, as we neared our destination, I perceived the mists thinning, only to soon clear and reveal a fray foul to behold.

There yonder thrashed throes of thorny thunder, biting and breaking upon the alliance braves in great numbers. And such was the magicked violence that the air gusted against our ears, and altogether blew away the mists with every hammer-boom. But in the next moment, those very mists began to gather in great haste unto but one man, who, sorcerer though he was, stood incanting at the hottest tip of the Salvator vanguard.

“Brimbil.”

With that word, the mists nigh-immediately wove themselves into a whip of water, and there, burst upon the braves in a sweeping lash. Like a fabled serpent it was, large lethal, and just as ravenous, for when the waters dissipated, a bloody gash was left in the Nafílim ranks.

A single soldier, a solitary sorcerer… holding all the battle here in his sway. What menacing might. Bitter at the mounting losses, I narrowed my eyes upon his distant figure. Long and golden of hair he was and porcelain of skin, and withal of such a face to fascinate many a damsel. That was him, no question: Alfred, lordling of Isfält.

“All of you, go!” I urged my own braves. “Succour the Staffeln!”

“Herr!”

Direly did this left wing of ours require reinforcements. Wasting no time, my braves, themselves of such a number as a hasty muster allowed, broke off to serve just that. I continued forth in the meanwhile, determined upon my own duty: to deal with this Alfred myself. A perilous foe he would prove, that was certain, but all the more reason to shoulder the risk alone.

“…”

There: in my approach, he perceived me. And turning both gaze and staff my way, he began another incantation.

“Hellehyrst.”

The air blasted. Heat howled; light flashed—a moment, and I was surrounded by walls of flame more towering and terrible than any I’d beheld before. Left, right—no escape was in sight. Were I any other man, all to await me would be a fiery death.

But I’m not. No; I am Rolf the ungraced.

And so, stopping my sprint, I poised the black blade and brandished it through the blaze. Bwohfh! barked the air as the flames faded like candles blown. And in place of the perished pyres were the surrounding Salvators, staring on with faces shocked and sallowed. One amongst them, however, appeared unperturbed.

“‘Rolf’, I take it,” called Alfred above the noisy fray. “The Man black of hair. The rebel black of blade.”

“Aye, you have it. And who might you be, O man-blond-of-hair?” I asked back.

“Why wonder what you know well?” he returned. “My name ought’ve travelled far enough—though it pours no poison down the ears as does yours.” With that, Alfred readied his silverstaff once more, shot unto me a sharp, icy stare, and incanted, “Gāstċēn.”

Straightway, the battlefield filled with a burning brightness. A sphere, flaring and fiery as the sun, now hung high above Alfred’s head. Larger than Felicia’s this was—much more so. And as I found out a second later: speedier and more spiteful besides. With a drum-beat bellow, the fireball blasted unto me, burgeoning and brightening ever more as it flooded my vision.

Still, I did not flinch. For my blade, too, ought’ve sharpened much since that familial feud moons ago. Squinting and standing my ground, I swept the soot-steel in a soaring arc, catching the hellfire before it could me, and at once, all the burning, all the brightness vanished from view—just like the walls that came before it.

“…Oh? This now proves twice the whispers,” Alfred conceded dispassionately.

“And the meagreness of your manners with it,” I returned. “Known or no, a proper man pronounces his name before he demands another’s.”

The lordling scoffed. “I am but the merest of soldiers, unlike you. My name pretends no worth,” answered he. “But very well. ‘Alfred’ I am. ‘Alfred Isfält’.” Seemingly surfeited with the pleasantries, Alfred again raised his silverstaff. I responded, pelting further down the slopes towards him. His invocation, however, outsped my haste.

“Hrīmhorn.”

Next to come was the same answer all sorcerers before him had thrown against this riddle of a blade: that of whelming the wielder with more missiles than he could manage. Alfred’s Hrīmhorn, formed from the very mists about us, totalled sixteen icicles—four more than Felicia’s. I had known surprise then, and I ought’ve known surprise now. Only, I could see each of them clearly. Yes; all sixteen, seized square in my vision.

Many-fold whistles shrieked through the air. I leapt and rolled to the side, eluding the first volley of eight as it punctured and ruptured the earth where my shadow once laid. The arrival of the remnant half was staggered, and skillfully, at that, for these I could not escape. No; without fear, I must cut them down. Hence I did: sighting the speedy icicles, I swung the soot-steel in a volley of my own. Crack, crash—like ruined glass, all the icicles splintered and dissipated.

“The sinner’s sword fights swift,” noted Alfred. “Admirable.”

As is the sorcerer’s spells, was perhaps an appropriate answer here. But the theatrics were dispensed with; spying out an opening, any at all, was the priority. And alas, there did surprise finally find me: in studying Alfred’s stance, I could discover upon him no opening. No; none at all. It was as though he himself had been schooled in swordcraft—as though he anticipated aught and all that I might attempt upon him.

Regardless, it was a staff he had in his hands, not a blade. Were I to close the distance, the upper hand should be mine. But not by any large margin, no; as with Felicia, Alfred, too, must have a few tricks up his sleeve. Caution was required; a reckless move, and I’d be rotting soon under the mists.

“…”

I weighed the matter intensely. Not more than a score of paces separated us now. But so long as no opening was presented, I was left but to stare and slowly toe my way closer. All whilst around me my braves battled on, supporting the rest of our left wing fighters and drawing away any Salvator with so much as a mind to interfere. That left me wholly free to face Alfred one-on-one. But just the same, no aid would come my way. Any success here was solely mine to make.

So be it. A risky move this would be, but with no other choice, I studied instead the rhythm of Alfred’s respiration. In, out, in out; and when he seemed at his most lax—

—there!

Like lightning, I lunged. But with such a distance still betwixt us, Alfred had time enough to answer. Regardless, I gave myself to it. Come what may, I had but to cut down his magick—and him after it. Timing was the only matter.

Yet, as Alfred poised his staff, and as I braced my blade for his turn in this game, I heard from his lips a rare incantation:

“Fiþerġiefu!”

 

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