Vol.5, Ch.4, P.15
“Dear, oh dear,” groaned Dennis. “The jests ne’er stop, innit?”
“No one’s laughin’, Dennis…” Frieda muttered.
Up the slopes they peered, Dennis, Frieda, and all the Cutcrowns. Yonder were the Salvators in bitter retreat, but above them, from anear the misty summit, there now trickled down a glinting shadow that gave pause to all the Arteaners: another force, fresh and foesome.
To Dennis, that he and his would be served one more mêlée was not to be helped. In fact, he had prevised the very development right from the outset. But that lessened little what a thorn to the thigh things were soon to become. No, indeed; the enemy on the whole comprised three: the 1st Order, the 2nd, and the Salvators. It was the last of these that the Cutcrowns had faced, but only a scant share of them; the larger being conspicuously absent. Thus had they merely tussled with the least numerous of the enemy, and who else was to greet them now but the ace long kept up the Londosian sleeve, hitherto made to standby upon the summit for this precise occasion.
Could it be 1st? The 2nd? Or the full wrath of the Salvators? As he watched, a dread began to writhe in Dennis. These new opponents; with such speed, such initiative, did they descend the slopes. After routing Sven and the Salvators here, he had led his Cutcrowns to climb after them, but as Dennis now discovered, no sooner had he and his marched ten paces than must they stop in their tracks to brace for another battle. How ill; how ominous. And oh, how distant. How terribly, terribly distant the summit now seemed.
He glanced midway up the mountainside. Still yet were the Salvators amidst their withdrawal, but already was the second enemy in full motion. Likely they had moved the very moment the first foes had committed to a retreat. Swift of judgement, indeed, these new ones were, and of soldiery besides; the very portrait of competent command and cohesion, by Dennis’ reckoning. And it was not long before he found out why.
Up the mountain the noontide wind blew. And there, at the vanguard of these new enemies, they billowed: knightly standards, phalanx after phalanx of them, silken and stunningly crimson. And familiar to any Londosian eye were the devices woven thereon: that of the 1st Order, mightiest in all the realm.
Now did the Cutcrowns know their doom.
“…Right enough,” Dennis conceded with a gulp. “There ought be plenty o’ fight left in us, thanks to the ambush. But as they says, we might’ve a-bit more than we could chew…”
Frieda took and shook the master mercenary’s shoulder. “Come on, Dennis,” she said earnestly. “This is a battlefield, don’t forget; shiver in our boots ’ere, an’ we’ll only die on our knees.”
“Aye, right thou bist again,” Dennis half-chuckled. “Too right, maybe…”
What greater shame than to sooner cower afore the beauty of a sword than the stroke of its blade? Indeed, fiercest of Londosius’ lions the 1st may be, not yet had they lunged, much less flashed their fangs. No; too soon it was for victory and defeat to be decided. For no war was ever won by fame and flourish alone.
The master mercenary sighed and cracked his neck. “Well, to ’ell an’ brimstone with us, then,” he said, his erstwhile easiness returning anew. Then, springing ahead of the Cutcrown vanguard, Dennis smoothly loosed his sword from its scabbard and trained it true to the knights ahead. And with electricity in his eyes and fire on his tongue, he turned to his compatriots and cried, “Lo! ye malingerers, lo! Summat whiffy this way waddles! Aye! The very taint o’ Londosius! ’Ere to lord their reekin’ loins o’er us yet again!”
Like a peal of thunder his voice vociferated, echoing clear up and down the face of Déu Tsellin. A stunning sound to some ears, surely, for Dennis was ever a smooth and insouciant man, and not the tremendous stirrer of souls he now so seemed.
“But will we let ’em!? No! Will we quiver an’ will we cower!? No, no! We will stand! We will strive! We will triumph!” he thundered on. “For a long road we’ve a-walked! A long winter we’ve a-waited! All for this day! A day watch’d o’er by those a-took from us too-dear! Friend, family, and beloved all!”
What was once an uncertain rustle amongst the Cutcrowns now bubbled to a battle-eager boil. Shields drummed, blades rattled; very swift were their spirits stoked, for such was the ability of Dennis, their long-serving leader and mover of crestfallen men: wise he was, and a weaver of words, and withal a possessor of charisma most particular—
—the sort to steel discarded sons against their own motherland.
“So look alive, me mud-lickers! The reckonin’s a-come!” Dennis cried on. “Now we wreak our wrath! Here we make our mark! For all the pain an’ all the prices exacted from us unjust!”
And like one thunder calling another, the Cutcrowns answered their leader with a leaping bellow. The holy mountain trembled, its stones crawled; the weight of woe at war, sinking deeply into the shoulders of Déu Tsellin. And in clamorous concert with the cacophony was now their feet, rumbling and rushing asudden in a stampede of steel to assault the 1st.
From up the slopes, the knights remained steady in their steps, and their standards fluttered no less valiantly. But their mareschal, who beheld intently the spirit of the Cutcrowns as she marched amidst the centre ranks, felt then in her heart a surprise none too faint.
“Yet fain for the flame, these moths,” Estelle let leak from her lips. In number and morale both did these insurgents seem ample still to her eyes. Verily, though more “motley” than “military”, to underestimate them here would be to stamp the foot unto a snare. For of mercenaries the Cutcrowns were composed to a majority; professionals who brandished desperate blades to but bedight their daily board. And of them, what is more, were many a veteran of the trade, with no few having lived by sword and coin for longer than the knights have known of war.
This lot, so wretched and ragtag, and yet so wrathful and resolute, were now lurching themselves unto the 1st. Up the slopes they clambered, crying uncouth and blood-curdling cries, as though in defiance of Londosius and the very fear smouldering in their hearts.
“Let us see, then, how they shall bear our blaze.”
With that, Estelle drew her silverblade and trained it ahead, and crying clear, commanded her knights further forth. Not some subtle dance this was to be, no, but a fierce and frontal fray. Such did the mareschal decide upon, and so it came to be: that with a mighty crash of silver and steel under the soaring sun, the 1st Order and the Cutcrowns began their bloody battle.
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“Something’s afoot…” so uttered aloud a knightly lieutenant.
A while had elapsed since the first blades had clashed, and all had seemed standard fare as far as kindred battles go. However, though so straight and true had they charged into the 1st at the outset, there was soon espied in the Cutcrowns’ movements something rather… strange.
Only the merest of strangenesses, mind; so mere as to be perceived by none but the hawk-eyes of the 1st, and even then, by only their lieutenants on up. Were these knights any lesser a Londosian force, surely would the matter have been wholly missed.
As it happened, the Cutcrowns in their offence were ever so slightly shifting to their left. Nay, it was not the case of the centre vanguard moving to avail the left wing, but rather, that with every stamp of their feet and every swing of their arms, the freedom fighters were all of them tending sidewise. And like tar upon an uneven table did this ooze on, slow but intent.
Frieda, for her part, heeded this ploy, but in her heart deemed it rather dubious. Oh, to be sure. Hence, after fending off a fierce attack from the 1st, the freelance reared up against Dennis, her back to his, and asked him closely, “There some meanin’ to this?”
The answer came swift.
“None!”
Frieda gaped and paused. “…What?”
Most cunning the Cutcrowns had been, to have sprung upon the Salvators a snare so sore. And for that, even the 1st could but practise prudence in approaching the rabble. But to Dennis the mastermind, “cunning” was an acclaim too undeserved.
Certainly in the past had he his fair share of leading great expeditions and operations, and against such threats as behemót brimming in number or mighty in brunt, no less. But ask him of battlefield experience, of leading host against host, and thin laughter would be all the answer he could muster. Nay; though a moment’s mastermind Dennis might have been, even he had his limits, and to concoct another miracle so conveniently was clearly beyond him.
Still, the 1st’s misconstruance remained, and that in itself was an advantage to exploit. Move an extraneous mite here or there; ply spontaneity under guise of purpose—in so doing can a foe’s mind be flooded with futile thoughts. And here, the wile seemed to work: the 1st, in having to keep an eye peeled for some surprise, could but fight with blunted fervour.
“Tickle ’em leftwards”—such had been Dennis’ secret order at the start. With snouts most beseeming the finest of Londosius’ lions, surely would the 1st sniff out this faintest of feints. And that they certainly had. And to Dennis, that well-sufficed. For in distracting this most dire of opponents, the Cutcrowns were rewarded with precious time—time to await some sign or change from any of the other fronts; aught at all that might force the fearsome 1st to fall back.
A desperate ploy, most certainly. None knew this nor hinged as many hopes upon it than Dennis. But such hopes, he next found, were destined to be dashed. For fighting in this fray was the hero-dame of Londosius herself, and exactly as the stories told, her shrewdness matched her strength.
“An idle trick! Be not fooled!” Estelle advised her knights. “Press forward! Press! Crush them under-heel!”
A cry of a command, crystalline to hear as the mareschal herself was comely to behold. Yes; like a siren’s song it sounded—one to send the Cutcrowns to their doom.
At once, the knights of the 1st lunged, free from the yoke of passivity. And Dennis, along with his compatriots, could but curse their luck, clench their teeth, and bear the brutal tide breaking now upon them.
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