Vol.5, Ch.4, P.14
Some moments ago.
Over a table sprawling with papers, board pieces, and full-splayed maps, there loomed a brooding Balbreau. Alone he was as war rumbled low through his Dēlūbrum. But to the bishop, marquis, and commander all-in-one, it well-sounded a clamorous cage, echoing against the countless pillars about him. In the next moment, however, measured steps of silver sabatons punctuated the space. The lord looked up and soon found in his presence the fair figure of Estelle Tiselius—he had summoned her, and duly did she answer.
“Apologies, Mareschal,” he said gravely to her. “I assure you, to give reports so incessantly is no policy of mine. But swift unfolds the fray, you understand.”
Having assumed general command over three whole forces to defend his mountain, and being besides a man much about the importance of intelligence, Balbreau would rather have his captains badgered but abreast than battling blind and dumb.
And contrary to the enemy, so comprising hosts separate and independent as they were, his three defenders could be redistributed as he pleased, an advantage he was keen to exploit. But therein laid the rub: being the brains of this battle, he had many balls to juggle. Already had he bade the 1st standby anear the summit, to be the ace up his sleeve. To him, the “where”, “when”, and “how” of its playing could well-decide the doom of this day. And to help with that decision, he had also thought to seek the counsel of the 1st’s mareschal herself.
“A matter of course,” said Estelle with a salute. “What news, then, Your Grace?”
“My Salvators currently clash with the enemy alliance to the north,” answered Balbreau. “And as per the latest reports, the odds seem… less than palatable.”
A certain tenseness tinged his tone as he eyed some pieces stood upon a map. Unfavourably were they arrayed; too much so for his tastes. The 1st’s mareschal herself, however, made no change to her mien upon receiving the news. Perhaps it was no surprise to her; after all, Rolf himself was there at the northern slopes, and she knew well of his mettle. Indeed, even with the magicks of their sorcerer majority so deployed there, it would seem the Salvators were less bite than bark against the rebel and his alliance.
“What of the young lord?” Estelle next asked.
“Alfred? Why, he strives strong,” Balbreau said. “Tidings flow favourably from his side of the front, gladly enough.”
At this point in time, not yet had Alfred been forced unto retreat. No; that he and Rolf were measuring spell and steel to this moment was itself a development yet unknown to both marquis and mareschal.
“And know we yet how fare our alliance foes?” Estelle asked on.
“Yes. The present finds their strength dwindled little,” Balbreau answered with no warmth. “Needless to say, the heads of their captains, their commanders, and the sicarius, too, sit yet sound upon the shoulders.”
Estelle yielded but a blink. “Unfortunate,” came her sole remark. This did not please the bishop. A silence between them followed, and with it, a subtle but fast-locking squint from Balbreau. The mareschal’s lack of lament, or any emotion at all, was as a riddle to the man, and he would have it scried at the soonest. And whilst studying Estelle’s stoicity down to the pore, he parted his lips once more.
“…And as for the east,” broke he the silence, “there had my secondary Salvators set upon the insurgents. The favour had firstly been ours, but a flanking ambush has forced a retreat. My men move now back to the summit.”
Now was this quite the unexpected turn to Estelle. It was one thing to endeavour an ambush in enemy territory, but another entirely to succeed in it. Truly was there some battle-worth to these “insurgents”, a sentiment now newly sparked in the mareschal, and that is high praise, indeed.
“And lastly the south, whereupon the 2nd has engaged the takers of Artean,” Balbreau continued. “Bitterly goes the battle, I hear; the Mareschal Cronheim himself locks horns with the hero of Reù as we speak.”
Estelle looked thoughtfully away. “I see…” she uttered. Now was the picture clear: the north was flagging, the east had failed, and the south was uncertain. Little wonder that the marquis had been so bent over his strategy table.
“Well, my fair Mareschal?” Balbreau pressed her opinion. As the queen-piece in this grimmest of games, her mind was to be made clear at this most critical point. But for the bishop, it was just as urgent to test the mareschal’s heart. “Your knights esteemed stand at the ready. For them, the board waits with bated breath.”
“Salving the sorest wound may serve most soundly,” Estelle prefaced, before turning stern eyes back to Balbreau. “The east, Your Grace. That is where I propose to move.”
A brow twitched. “And not the north?” the marquis pressed her again. “Where the tide turns ill, as foresaid?”
“Yet you have said, too, that the east is now all but abandoned, have you not?” countered Estelle. “Nay, Grace; we would do well to bar such a breach.”
To that, Balbreau mustered no answer, but instead sharpened his stare upon Estelle. And then, against the light of the lamps, his eyes glinted, as though having glimpsed at last her heart of hearts.
“Correct me as you may, Mareschal,” he began, “but were my wits any more wanting, I would say that you dread to cross swords with the sicarius.”
Estelle remained fast as steel. “Naught of the sort, Your Grace,” she answered. “The main brunt of your men yet make battle, do they not? The mist hangs most full where they fight; to impose upon them now would be to confound further their chain of command. Indeed, we need not deal so self-going a blow.”
“…That much is certain,” the marquis conceded flatly, “but be that as it may, rumour has followed you close to this battlefield, my fair Mareschal. A ‘sympathiser for the sicarius,’ the whisperers make of you.”
“If those ‘whisperers’ think to unseat me, then a sword would better serve than mere rumour,” came Estelle’s riposte of a reply. “Nay, Your Grace. ’Tis unwell to heed hollow words. For ’tis bought with your dear time… and the blood of your men, dearest of all.”
Balbreau loosed a strained breath. “You sting the ears, Mareschal. But very well. Your counsel instead I shall heed,” he relented at last, breaking his stare. “Go now, then, and show the insurgents that only Death answers defiance.”
Estelle’s was a fair point. This was scarce the time to squabble, much less linger in mind games. In any case, the marquis, too, had thought it more prudent to deploy the 1st eastwards. After all, the insurgents had proven themselves insidious enough upon the slopes; what other snares might they lay, were they allowed to set foot on the summit? Nay; at the soonest must they be stopped.
Estelle saluted again. “As you will, Grace,” she obliged. However, before turning heel, “A final matter,” she said, “pray employ not the Vetimentum, my Lord.”
“…”
Balbreau stood silent. He had tried to scry the mareschal, but now found himself scried in turn. Indeed, bent and brooding he had seemed to Estelle, being now forced to unleash the 1st in all their ferocity—but not bent and brooding enough. No; there was no haste to him, no horror. For the fair mareschal knew of what other card that slept in the marquis’ deck.
The card of Yoná.
Of the godly might that slumbered within this mountain.
Of grace that could extinguish for good these too-nefarious Nafílim.
“All the better, indeed, were this battle to be won without it,” was Balbreau’s measured reply. “But that, Mareschal, depends entirely upon you.”
“Duly noted,” said Estelle.
“Now, go,” urged Balbreau. “Long live Londosius. May Yoná be with you.”
“And She you, my Lord.”
A parting exchange, as standard as it was sapped of all emotion. Balbreau watched as Estelle turned and took her leave, and before long, her echoing steps faded into the distant frays.
───────── ♰ ─────────
Comment (0)