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Vol.5, Ch.4, P.17

 

“Hrīmhorn!”

With time precious-bought from Guido and Gunthar’s protection, I spin another spell, weaving wisps of mists into missiles of ice.

The fray rages, and our braves are bloodied by the second. I must milden our mounting losses all the sooner, and only by blasting the knights in turn may that come to pass. Hence have I assayed spell after spell, and my friends defended me in the meanwhile—an arrangement changing little even as our situation sours with every moment to pass. Nay; it is because we are overfraught that we stick to what we know and fight on so dogged and determined.

The air whistles sharp; ice shards shoot into the 2nd’s phalanxes. But with raised shields, the knights bear the barrage—the brunt of it, that is, as some missiles make it through to thrash and thin their inner numbers.

A small victory. Too small, mayhaps, for though the knights’ warring is waxing less, we are waning only more. The reason counts but one.

“Brace yourselves!” Erika screams. “It comes!”

And for true it does.

“Haat!”

Roaring, the Knight Stefan sweeps up his silversword… and withal the unseen edge in its wake. From low it lashes at us; crouching this time cannot avail. In the nick of time, we Reùlingen elude the formless blade with collective leaps back. But being more than two pikes in reach, the mareschal’s bladespell finds flesh regardless: those of us too anear him howl and hurl to the ground, being felled from their legs like trees from their trunks.

“Curses…!” Erika gasps, grating her teeth from beside me. The surest bane of us all it is, that bladespell. Of things unseen, my own Hildewiða spell is held to be almost so, but this abomination of the mareschal’s… it not only escapes the keenest sight, but cuts with a calibre a world apart.

Cruel and clean it rives all it reaches; far and wide it spans, well beyond the arc of its mother-blade. It is, for true, a spell to inspire despair. But more to our despairs still is that it should be brandished by none other than the Knight Stefan, a sword-devout most consummate, whose swift science cannot be reckoned with common skill.

And that is not the end of it: the unseen spell dispenses with all resistances. In twain it shears down shields, and affrighting enough, it flies past palings as does a breeze over grass. If all the weapons and spells hitherto conceived in this age are as gentle abiders of some law of war, then I doubt not this device of Knight Stefan’s would be amongst them a criminal most deviant.

And yet, even aface such woes must we win. This day, this hour, is where all hangs in the balance. This my folk and I fathom all too well; that were we to slay the Knight Stefan here, then the whole of this front would fall fast into our hands. But just the same, should we fail, then all hope would flee forever from our fingers.

“The knight-van’s dwindled!” Gunthar declares, stirring on our braves. “Press here, and we can soon assail the mareschal!”

For true, all this time was not spent in strife with the mareschal: our Reùlingen vanguards clash with the 2nd’s own to this moment. The concerted efforts have exacted much blood from the braves, but all the same, our foes, too, are by now much marred in strength.

Yes; even as hundreds and more hundreds still of ours lie red and lifeless, and even as my heart weeps for them and my knees fain buckle from the sheer horror, I—we cannot cower here.

Onwards must we wade; onwards through these swelling waters of war.

“Then we charge!” Erika cries. “One more push! One! But keep ever an eye on that sword!”

And back into the fray my friend bolts, blade in hand and braves in tow, like a tide to break upon the slow-crumbling knight-wall. This is a prime moment; the mareschal has just loosed his bladespell, and unable to sustain it long, he must await the wheeling of his óðilr as would a runner rest the lungs. Two minutes I measure of that span; two minutes for our forces to find him before his blade is ready again to find us.

Mayhaps his knights know of this, for though their numbers have thinned, their thews throng against us with ever-greater thunder, throwing themselves upon our ranks in a fevered bid to bolster their master. This leaves me with little time; so fluid are the fluxings of the fray that I must resort to fundaments to strike cleaner my mingled marks: to wit, spells of both lighter burden and swifter action.

Like so.

“Hildewiða!”

To mimick the enemy mareschal, I, too, let fly subtle blades of my own. His may be keener of edge, but mine can boast of number: shrieking, the barrage of bladed winds lunges wide and numerous unto the enemy line. But the knights’ answer proves quick and calculated, as with shields shored strong by óðilr, they raise a phalanx and foil my spell. Yet through the cracks do some gusts gush through, spilling unsuspecting blood.

“Rraaahh!” bellow both Guido and Gunthar as they fly to the fore and offend our foes. Hitherto have they protected me, for true, as things might well end if I myself were ended, but now could they abide such caution no longer. Less than two minutes remain, in which time naught is left us all but to bring the full Reùlingen brunts upon the mareschal and his defenders—lest we must reckon with his reaping spell once more.

Except…

“Seht!”

“Hwagh…!?”

…even met with chaos and close combat, ill-mildened is the mareschal’s advantage. Through the vanguard fray have some of our braves breached, bringing blades straight upon the Knight Stefan—only to now find themselves slain swift instead.

What strength. Though that was never in doubt. The mareschal is one of the sharpest swords of this age; even absent his spell, he remains a danger undulled.

“Mine!”

Stunning now my ear and sight: a knight rushing unto me with murder in his steps. It is not only our braves breaching the thick fray, it seems. But as I turn to my offender, I find him not five paces away from me—and his sword but a mere second from slicing my neck.

“Ach! Damn—”

No time! I can’t escape! A freeze spills down my spine; I flinch—but not at the sword swinging unto me. No; rather, at the ringing from its edge as it is struck hard away.

“Hyat!”

“Gwahh!”

Erika has come in rescue. Deflecting the offender’s falchion, she straightway strokes her own sword through the knight’s neck. Stem and spine severed, he pitches before expiring upon the stony slope.

“Walter! Are you hurt!?” Erika exclaims, turning to me.

“N-not at all!” I answer. “I owe you one!”

That was close-run. Too close-run. I ought now be the one spilling red across the cold grey were it not for Erika.

“The end’s in sight! Steel yourself!” she urges me. Like as not, she has gleaned the wind of weakness blowing in my bosom.

“Sorr—” I begin, but catching myself, “A-all right!”

Yes; no time to cower this is, no time to fall through the cracks. And so steel myself I do, before looking next to the fey and fiery frontlines.

Anear I am now to the action. Such is how deep the mareschal has cut into our ranks, how far he alone has pushed us back. A danger there is thus in meting magicks out in the open, and withal a risk of wounding our own warriors so enmeshed in the mêlée. But much-practised in magick manipulation I am; with care and control, I therefore fire forth my next spell.

“Sċeaþatán!”

At once, tendrils of brilliant levin throng through the foe-files. The air cackles, the knights wail—and our braves, untouched by the magick, break in joyous cry at their crumpling enemies. But the mirths last not long, for the fiercest foe himself is unharmed, having scried my mind to mete in this moment a magicked offence.

“Hut!”

“Ghah!?”

Eluding lithe the levin violence, the Knight Stefan strikes down brave after brave. I focus more magicks upon him to halt his hewing, but he proves unstoppable. His fury, his form—they are without weakness nor opening. Indeed, dim to the subtleties of the sword though I am, I can only measure the Knight Stefan’s to be the very pinnacle of true and principled swordcraft.

And at that moment, after twisting away from a lashing of levin, he looses into empty air a waist-height sweep.

“Back, back! Now!” Erika shouts. Time is up; once again to come is the sword of reckoning. Once again, we cower. And once again, we bleed.

How evil this is. So nigh are we now to our mareschal mark, a token of our two minutes of toil… only to be made once more to flee his fearsome sword. I concede it now: the Knight Stefan’s is the most astounding sword-arm I have hitherto faced.

“…”

…Nay. Mayhaps not so. There is one other. A Man whom I have met but days ago—a Man of unimaginable mettle.

I see him now. Yes; there in the mists of memory: my new friend Rolf. What swordsmanship, his. What speed, what skill—what spirit. Never before have I beheld so singular and so true a sword.

Is he not the mightier Man, then? Empty of óðilr though he is? For is he not heeded by the elder dragon? Graced with the regard of great Gweil’ǫrr?

…And have we not shared assurances of each other’s strength, Rolf and I?

Yes.

That is most right. For true.

There is naught to fear.

For he has said it himself.

That I, too, am strong.

That I, too, can move the world.

And not just Rolf. Erika, Guido, Gunthar… and all my friends; and all my folk; and even my foes: do they not each and all trust to my strength?

Stirred by the thought, I set my eyes to the battle and brim anew with burning resolution.

We are to win here.

Yes; win, live, and leave for home in mirth and song.

 
 

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Chapter 4 ─ End

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