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Vol.5, Ch.4, P.16

“Egh. Why me…?” Felix grumbled again. Through the rearguard of the 2nd’s legion the adjutant trundled, bearing upon his back an unconscious Anette—armour and all. “Blasted luck, this…”

It had happened all out of the blue. There he was, standing anear his under-mareschal, doing as he had always done: enduring her harsh demeanour whilst providing what advice and avail he could in the heat of battle. And then: a flash, burning and blinding. In an instant, the palings of their sorcerers had been breached, and when Felix next opened his eyes and uncovered his head, he found Anette there upon the ground, prostrate and impaired. The realisation set in soberingly: that from far out of sight had Walter the vile shot down the superior of the 2nd.

Felix frowned ruesomely, pressing lip to teeth. Never had he thought Walter so capable. Much storied the hero was, certainly, both in brutality of magicks and mercilessness of mind. But the distance to his mark was naught to be imagined. From the rearguard of one host to the centre of another? Much less through so solid a paling? Impossible. Yet that was precisely the point prodding Felix: he had mismeasured Walter’s might. He and Anette both. And the result: this foulness.

Still, there was a silver lining. An under-mareschal Anette was, and to none other than the 2nd Order itself. Thus, though taken at unawares, she had not fallen without a fight, as it were. In the instant before the shattering blow, Anette had bolstered her own body with as full a paling as she could muster, and withal twisted aside to avoid a direct hit. And so it was that she had endured Walter’s mighty Sċīmæsċ, and by the look of her wounds, would live yet to tell the tale.

That had teased no small sigh of relief from Felix. But what had transpired next stole that relief all away. Deft and disciplined, the surrounding knights had swiftly scrambled next to whisk their superior to the surgiens. But before her faculties could fully fade, Anette herself had refused the help—and ordered that Felix instead do the deed.

A puzzling insistence. Perhaps in her delirium, she had thought an authority like Felix would best serve. Or was it simply that she loathed to leave her limp body in the hands of some rank-and-file soldier? Whichever the way of it, Felix found himself “stuck in the mud”, as he oft put it, dragging now his feet as he bore his superior away.

At that moment, after much grumbling and trudging, he was approached by a panting knight-officer. “Adjutant, sir!” he shouted. “The mareschal makes for the fray! He’s bidden us defer to your orders!”

“…Decided to deal with that vermin-hero himself, has he?” Felix reflected greyly. “I believe that now makes me acting commander.”

“Sir! So ’twould appear!”

“Ugh…”

Felix felt it then: an irksome, gripping twist in his stomach. He did not detest his office. No, indeed, he did not; in fact, he had jumped for joy when the acceptance missive had arrived, and could not have been any prouder of a man than when he had donned the adjutant’s surcoat for the very first time. But little had he known of what life would be like in the 2nd. Battle after battle it was, from one burning, bloody theatre to the next. Before long, his precious surcoat had become more mud-cake than decorum.

But overshadowing Felix’s distaste for ordeals was his abhorrence for obligation. He hated being in charge. To be saddled with decisions of consequence; to balance the lives of many upon his palm—it was all a pounding headache to him. One might question why he had sought so war-steeped an office at all, let alone one of such import. To that, the man himself had no answer on offer. But put plain, contradiction was simply in his character.

Nevertheless reaping what he had sown, it was out of the pan and into the pyre for Felix. Upon this day, atop Déu, Tsellin, was the doom of Londosius to be decided. Small wonder why his stomach wailed—much more so than was usual of it.

“Anyroad, our van ought be in shambles by now,” Felix groaned. “Remind me of the mareschal’s orders. Bring forth the centre, was it? And rally all the rest at the rear?”

“Y-yes, precisely that, sir,” answered the officer.

Felix audibly sighed. “…Very well. I’ll take command. But summon swift the surgiens to me before you go; our Under-Mareschal here would eat me alive, should she awake unmended.”

“Sir!”

Saluting, the officer scurried away, leaving Felix to look sidelong and loose yet another sigh. There was now much to do. Too much. The brigadiers, the lieutenants, the field captains—all must be assembled and advised. The rank-and-file, too, must be reformed, and amidst what but the heat of battle… And that is to say naught of the enemy. Given their gains and galvanisation, the Reùlingen strength must needs be reevaluated. And not without sending word to the bishop could this go about. A fastidious spider Balbreau was; if any news were to slip through his web, Felix would be the next fly upon it.

Yes; much ado, indeed, this was. But being so great a battle, it was naught to be helped, and Felix knew as much: that such were the times, when Nafílim could freely assault the sites holiest to Londosius.

“Why me…?”

But that was small solace to the man, it would seem. “Why me”—ever was this a byword of his. Given his office, the answer ought have been crystal clear to him. Yet he found the question clambering out of his throat nonetheless.

“Adjutant!” came another call. And just when Anette was becoming more and more a boulder upon his back, Felix was beset by another panting knight-officer, who then enquired: “Sir, our mareschal! How might we avail him!?”

“By sitting tight and doing our part. What else might you suppose?” Felix answered, quick but calm. “Our van flags, but they ought have numbers enough yet. Leave the mareschal to them, I say.”

“B-but, sir!” the officer objected. Like all the others of the 2nd, he knew how mighty his mareschal was. But having today witnessed the wycke of the hero-wiċċa, the knight could not help but have his faith shaken. Something had to be done to succour Stefan. The urgency was plain upon his face. But in this officer’s heart did he wish, as well, to be of some profitable use to his master.

Felix, however, could only shake his head. Knightly pride burnt bright in all the 2nd; a peculiarity made full-apparent to the adjutant right from the first day of his office. Such fire blazed again afore him now, yet, being seemingly of a different breed, Felix remained unmoved. For this he believed: that upon the battlefield, the fiercest fire is firstly snuffed.

“You fret for naught,” he admonished the officer. “The foe is strong, true—but our mareschal is even more so.”

No lie of Felix’s that was. Along with all the others, he had seen Walter’s strength for himself—felt it, even, and Anette’s whelming weight was evincement enough of it. The “hero” to all the Nafílim, indeed; any doubt Felix once had for that wiċċa was by now long withered.

Nevertheless, the impression paled to his measure of the 2nd’s mareschal. No; not by Walter’s hands would Stefan fall. Heroes they both were held, sure, but the knight of the two was of a mettle most dread, that to Felix, Walter’s spells seemed mere child’s play by comparison.

Thus was explained the adjutant’s composure. He had but to rally and reorganise the 2nd’s men, set firm in the supposition that in moments’ time, their mareschal would emerge triumphant. And that was precisely the solace Felix desired.

“Indeed, we shall see that spellweaver slain soon enough. And the instant we do, we’re to push forth and repel the enemy with all speed,” Felix insisted. “But till such time comes, we must prepare. Such is why our men recuperate now to the rear, no? Trust to your mareschal’s designs, man! When before has he ever failed you?”

The officer nodded, as though enlightened. “N-never, of course!” he conceded. “Yes… Understood, sir!”

The Sir Stefan shall savour yet another merit to his name—and his blade, the death-blood of that wicked wiċċa. For Felix, there could be no other end.

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