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Vol.5, Ch.4, P.13

 

I saw them then. A flicker in the mind: two Nafílim, husband and wife, warm of home and heart. Ever were they so. To each other, to all others—to myself. How they’d smiled when I’d first appeared at the empty house beside theirs. How considerate they’d been in showing me the ways of their folk, in giving me as glad a welcome in Hensen as any soul could wish for. Even as about me had lurked so many unwelcome stares. Even when so little reward awaited their neighbourly warmth.

And Emma especially. Emma with her unwilting smile. To this moment did she trust to her husband’s safe return. Perhaps she was preparing his very favourites, even, that he might come through the door one day soon, nose enticed by familiar smells and eyes to be dazzled by delights bedighting the table. Yes; this must be the way of it. It shall. For I’ll be damned if darkening that door of hers is not to be Frank… but myself, there to give her the grim news and watch her mirth wither like a flower in winter.

And so, to Frank I flew.

“Rraaahh!!”

“Ghahh!?”

And there, slew the Salvator spear-hand that had so wounded him. But no sooner had I done the deed than did Alfred unfurl his next spell.

“Flocseaxa!”

Already was the incantation complete. Already was my vision filled with flying daggers of ice. Their tips twinkled keen in the mist, each trained square upon either Frank or myself. My eyes darted—and knew then the number to be brought against us.

Thirty!

I clenched my teeth—“Hgh…!”—and set my sapped sinews to it again. “Ghhreaahh!!” my roaring returned. Sheltering Frank in my shadow, I brandished the black blade with all desperation. Not one dagger was to wound him. Not one. Not whilst I yet drew breath.

The Flocseaxa; this, too, had Felicia once woven against me. Alfred, therefore, was showing now his mêlée-magick at last. Only, his was of skill and quantity to far surpass my sister’s. Indeed, I doubted Felicia to have ever handled a blade of war in her life. This sorcerer, however, seemed disciplined in the cutting crafts, for as the daggers of his Flocseaxa flew unto me, they did so from angles to horrify the heart of any swordsman.

“Insolence!! Insolence!!”

“Huooo—oahh!!”

Beside my bellows coursed curses from Alfred’s mouth. His icy façade had finally melted and was now so seething that his former manner seemed like some fleeting deception. Nevertheless, I gave my all against his dagger-flock.

—Ksshkh! Kssakh!

One by one, wolfsteel sundered sharp ice; a black dam enduring a stream of striking white. Unto frost the daggers fragmented, and into the mists they vanished. But not yet was the assault done. Not yet could I rest, if even for an instant—not with Frank bleeding behind me.

“Ngheaa—ahh!!”

“Hwuoo—ohh!!

Onward we vied, spell and sword. The daggers screeched as they darted; the wolfsteel wuthered as it swung. Ten strikes, twenty—in the ears, ice shrieked like shattering glass. But as the third to last dagger was undone, an evil sensation beset me.

“Khnghh…!” I groaned—in its flight had a dagger grazed my arm. But the odyl imbued therein bit further into my flesh, that now was the graze grown to a spewing gash. Yet in spite of it, “…Ggrraa—ah!!” I roared on, swinging the soot-steel no less wildly, till at last, the remnant daggers were gone, and to the ground fell the tip of my blade. “Hhah… hah… hakh…!”

There I stood, gasping.

Gasping—but not yet spent! Not wholly! No; hungrily gulping lungfuls of air, I then lunged upon Alfred, bearing the black blade in tow. And nearing him, I heaved it up and unto his head. But when I beheld him close, I saw his lips to be long in motion.

“Fiþerġiefu!”

From under the soot-steel’s shadow, my mark vanished. It seemed Alfred, too, had yet some fight left in him as he next appeared in escape from the grasp of gravity, vaulting away within the winds. And then, back to the ground he gracefully fell. Only, the look on his face was aught but. Wroth it was; a frowning redness amongst all the grey of the battlefield.

“Foul effrontery…!” hissed Alfred. “You… you dare save him!?”

To that, I made no answer. Instead, I stepped backwards—back to the side of my neighbour.

“Him!” Alfred fumed on. “A Nafíl! Afore my eyes!?”

“…Afore Yoná’s naked own, if I could,” I answered at last, further teasing out of Alfred’s brows a cliff-face of furrows. Were it mine to guess, this Alfred fellow much misliked any hand that lets live a Nafíl, much less detested the very idea. But surely must he have known what sort of Man I was from the outset; that in me did the Nafílim find a fast alliant. Was it in seeing the feat unfurl in the flesh that had so stoked his ire, then? Of me saving Frank from his fury?

“A son of Man…! A son…!” he seethed. “And a fool besides…! For you had only to abandon one brave to see me slain! Me!”

Alfred was perhaps right in that. I had in my cards an opportunity whilst safeguarding Frank; whilst Alfred was focused upon puppeteering his spell. But had I dispensed with my neighbour and instead brought upon Alfred the felling stroke, then certainly would the lordling have been lying dead at this moment—along with Frank behind me. Yet, not once had the idea occurred till Alfred brought it to lip. No; why, were it to happen again, happily would I have Frank again in my shadow, and fend off once more the deathly flurry of ice.

“Not just a brave. A friend,” I answered my foe sternly. “And I am not one to abandon my friends, Alfred.”

At this, lordling’s eyes lifted wide. “‘Friend’…!” he gasped. “Fr… friend…!? You dare…!?”

To Alfred a fit of quaking then came. His shoulders shivered; his teeth rattled—indignance was swallowing him deep… so much so that there seemed more to it than met my eye. But before aught could be further guessed, a roar arose from the frays west of us. Voices of victory it sounded like—and if my ears hadn’t fooled me: voices from the glad bellies of our braves. Hilts and hafts beat rhythmically against shields; songs sailed in the air. Lise had done it: she and all the rest had routed their share of the Salvators.

To the mists the surrounding Men searched. Their faces paled; their mouths gaped. Some set themselves to it: a retreat up the slopes. And amidst the dismay, a Salvator appeared at Alfred’s side, panting with panick.

“Milord!” he cried. “The centre columns’ve collapsed! Our left wing, too, lies awaste!”

Alfred turned an unblinking gaze. “…And?”

“A-and,” stammered the messenger, “w-we’re to retreat! Retreat and rally at the summit! The Lord Sven himself has given heed!”

“Very well,” relented Alfred, before training his eyes back to me. And there, to my surprise, I found gone from his face all trace of his moiling enmity. Indeed, the lordling had managed to rein in his rage, it seemed, and within what but a mere moment. “You have slighted me sore, Rolf-rebel,” he declared, calm yet cutting. “And so I say to you… hark! You shall die on this day. Upon this mountain, by these hands—for true.”

At him, I narrowed my eyes. “And hark you this: I won’t.”

“…That, we shall see,” said Alfred. “The Dēlūbrum. At the summit. I await you there.”

The Salvators were, by now, all bustling back up the mountain, abandoning blade and battle. And as if in sign of this development, the mists themselves began rolling back in, having been so thrashed and throttled by mighty magicks. And turning away, Alfred himself disappeared into the mirk along with all his men. Yet I doubted little that our paths would soon cross again.

Our braves broke out in bellowing cheer. All the gladder they sounded, for things had been going deathly grim for them.

“H… Herr Rolf…” said Frank amidst the commotion.

“Let it alone, Frank. You’re wounded,” I answered, turning to him. “Come, we must see you to the lǣċas.”

Taking him by the shoulder, I began leading my neighbour away. As for his wound, though it was red and sobering to see, it did not appear too deep or perilous. Good—it seemed the fates had spared him.

“Forgive me…” he said hoarsely. “Were I not war-hasty, we… you could’ve…”

I shook my head. “Nay, Frank. What’s done is done,” I returned. “Besides, you heard him. We’ve got another chance yet, right there at the summit. But enough; fretting’ll worsen your wound, and I’ll have your wife to answer to if ever it came to that.”

Frank conceded with a nod. As per the prior exchange, the Salvators here had chosen to rally at the summit. And soon to join them: this “Sven”. I’d been apprised of such a name… and the storied swordcraft that went with it.

How fey the summit now seemed. First Alfred the sorcerer, and now Sven the sword-devout… What other fearsome foe might await us there, I wonder?

“Herr Rolf…” murmured Frank, discovering his hand smeared with the redness that ran from my gashed shoulder. “…I am… I am sorry.”

As was I, that every battle should see me bruised or ablood. Especially now, being so soon from the outset.

Through the buoyant braves we walked. And ever as we did, the pain in my own wound smouldered on—and with it, the memory of Alfred’s ire-filled face.

 

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