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Vol.5, Ch.4, P.3

From the Writings of Lord André,
Fourth Son to the Baron-house of Håkansson

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Ah, life. A great, big bother, what? Full of ups and downs, highs and bally lows. All to be expected, sure. Though this being a fair and reasonable world and all that rubbish, the ledgers have a rummy way of balancing themselves out by the end of the day. Or so they say, at the least.

Takes me back, it does. Back to when the old man bally bade me take up with the Salvator chaps. Something about spending a year or ten with real men, as he put it, and for once squeezing some juice out of the dried pulp that is my sheltered life. By Yoná, that might well squeeze all the juice out of me, if someone’s not careful. Indeed, right when the blow landed, I well-heard my grave being digged out in the shrubbery. “But that’s the blasted military, you know,” I protested to the bearded egg. “Deep up your alley it may be, but it’s certainly not up mine, no, no. Not to any deuced depth, it isn’t.”

But, alas. Here I was, thinking I’d have it jolly easy from here on. Living off the allowance and spending my days sipping up the sun, if you get me, what with that brother of mine having taken it upon himself to man the family reins, as it were. Alas, indeed. The most ghastly of alases. Ghastly.

Well, you do get me, don’t you? Those Salvators; they’re bally flooded up to the frills in sorcerers savant, you ought remember. And all the rest, well, they’re only overjoyed for the joust, in a manner of speaking, and could swashbuckle in their sleep, if they had a mind for it. What I mean to say is, how might a loafer like me sort with a bloodlusting lot like them? Well, that’s the dashed thing, isn’t it? I bally can’t. Oh, for sure, being a blue-blooded chap, I’d got chiselled into me some skill with the old swishy-swash over the summers. But as Yoná Herself would attest, it’s only on a good, juicy day that I can inspire little more than a yawn out of a sparring opponent. But to pit me against a whole army? Well, good heavens! Absolutely!

No helping it anyhow, I suppose. But there’s a lint of comfort in all this, I think. The ledgers, my friend, the ledgers. If a bally hell is to be made out of my life, then I might as well stick it out. Sit back and warm my toes by the infernos, if you catch me, and bide with all patience the day when the old man comes begging the Deuce himself to have me back. That’ll balance the sheets proper, what? Right-ho. Though that prospect scarce soothed the bruise of being biffed out of the manor by the old hoof. I say, the very worst day of my life that was. Rock-bottom and all that rot.

Look on the bright side, André you old fish, said the pea up in the pate, it’s seldom you’ll see any action, at any rate. Find a nice hill to nap behind, why not? And dream up something fancy to report back with at day’s end. Easy, what?

But, alas. The alases keep on alas’ing. For just when I thought that’d well be the way of it, that “rock-bottom” bally broke through, it did, leaving me to plunge down an abyss I now aptly name “the worst, worst day of my life”. To put it plain, I had the thickest misfortune of being assigned to a field company. “Field”, mind you, being the beastly bit. That’s right: I wasn’t going to see action—it was going to see me. Oh, the horror! When I took that news to the chin, I understood my lot right then and there: to be made a flesh shield for all the bally Salvator sorcerers to giggle behind. The fates jest, I tell you. They do!

But there’s nothing for it. I’d have to pray from now on. Pray for as peaceful and calm a military career as a man could enjoy. Pray that the Orders do their dashed duty and keep our borders unbroken. Indeed, it’ll be fine. All’s to be well. The most deserving choirboy I’d never been, I’ll admit, but nor a bad one, I’d like to think. Yoná would know. Yoná will answer. She’s ever watching, after all, isn’t She? Right-ho, then. That’s settled.

No, it’s not. “Battle’s a-coming,” the Salvators said. “The enemy’s on the move,” they said. This was it. My life’s on the noose now. I can’t see left or right. Not anymore—everything’s grown dark.

I say, I felt my very soul seep out of my pores when the news had sprung itself upon me. Something about the Nafílim getting too juicy of late, and now having the bally gall to march on a mountain. But not just any mountain, no. The holiest of mountains, no less—and the very same whereupon I was presently posted.

Dash it. Dash it all. You see, this is why I detest the deuces so very much. They have the absolute thickest sense of timing, if you get me. No awareness, no warning; no courtesy and all that!

Well, I right about had my fill of the rot by that point. And I mean, for how much longer must this life of mine be made to roast over this hellfire? Indeed, it’d all been downhill ever since I’d got flung from the old manor. I say, something very rummy was going on with those dashed ledgers I spoke of. In fact, things were getting on so thickly that I began to almost dread the cataclysm that would ensue when the books finally yawn back to life and begin the old balancing-out again.

But then, a ripe idea occurred: maybe—just maybe—that amidst the earth-shattering rectification of it all, the ledgers might hiccup and toss my way some soupy merit. An accidental but valiant adventure in the coming battle; you know, me rescuing a squad without knowing it, that jolly sort of thing. Imagine that: André the hero, what? Hoh! Rather! Makes me red at the cheeks just to ponder it! Nay, nay, absolutely not! That can’t be the way of it! I know bally well what I am and a hero is certainly not me! Why, a bloke like myself would be blown to bits the instant he steps foot in battle—or even worse if he did so with any enthusiasm. Nay, let the strong fight the battles, I say, and leave me to outlive them. Please, and thank you very kindly.

As luck would have it, however, that did not seem so rummy a supposition. And by that, I mean that these Salvator chaps of mine were strong, and ripely so, at that. Never in a thousand years would they lose to the Nafílim. Right-ho! Why, they’d have the deuces all dead before afternoon tea, I don’t doubt. Myself? Well, I’d be watching warmly from afar, you needn’t worry. For that, I decided, would be my sole contribution to this dashed affair: to remotely survey and evaluate the tactical effectiveness of our men, and naught else beyond that. “To every part, an actor”, as they say; it certainly wouldn’t do to steer off the script, you know.

The course was charted, then. I’d cheer on my Salvator brothers and have tea and cake ready for them all once they’re done mincing up the enemy with their magicks. A cock-on deal, if I say so myself. And serenaded by that thought, I spent the days leading-up-to in a blissful trance. My Salvator chums, meanwhile, bustled all the more as the Nafílim neared. Even some knights from the Orders had come ’round to lend a helping hand. Fruity fellows, what? But with them now in the picture, I admit, it all began to feel rather bloated in a rummy sort of way, like hosting an intimate binge and then finding all of Londosius itself waiting to come in.

But perhaps that could be worked to our advantage, I began to think. “Oh, ah. Some other time, then. Cheerio!” the Nafílim might say upon showing up. “You what?” we would respond, and watch with dangling jaws the enemy prancing right back the way they came, tails between their legs and all. A jolly turn of events that’d be, what? Not the precise way it’d play out, but you get the idea. Absolutely.

But, of course not. The enemy was come, our scouts said, right up to the mountain’s toes, and they weren’t keen to turn back, from the look of things. Good heavens. Which brings me to the present stage of this cock-and-bull: the day of the battle itself.

“Gear up, André! We’re off to the slopes!”

By the Deiva.

No turning back now, I suppose. Might as well show the deuces a bit of Håkansson hospitality, what? Fight to the last breath and all that rot. Oh, whom am I kidding, of course not. I, André, am a man of dignity; not a dog to die in some ditch on this day, no, no. I mean, who might fancy giving up the ghost like that?

But as my chaps said loud and clear, it was off to the slopes. Fine, then. I’ll watch them weave their magickal wonders, and we’ll all be back in the barracks in no time. Case closed.

Not an unreasonable hope, I’m sure you’d agree. I mean, at risk of repeating myself, these Salvator blokes are the absolute tip of the top; the creamiest cream of the croppy-crop, as it were. You could survey all the fighting forces of Londosius and find not one nearly as foaming with sorcerers as the Salvator’s. For they are something of a rarity, sorcerers, spellweavers, and all their jolly ilk; more so if it’s a skilled and proper one you’re looking for.

No, indeed, I can scarce imagine ours yielding even a toe to these Nafílim blighters. Now, if only they could get it over with pronto, and without so much as a single, dashed squint drawn my way. Because that’s the important bit, mind you. Bruises, grazes, and all that sticky rot—no, no, not for me. I’m rather too shy for that sort of thing. If at all possible, I should like to tuck myself in tonight absolutely spick-and-span, if you get me. Is that too much to ask? Of course not.

Right-ho. Enough chitchat. It’s the thick of things from here on. And so there I was, quivering at the ankles upon the long and sagging slopes amidst all the other Salvator eggs. The enemy hadn’t arrived yet, as far as we could tell. Though I admit, there wasn’t “far” to tell at all. Déu Tsellin’s a deuce of a mountain, sure, offering a fruity prospect wherever one stands, but with all this bally mist frolicking about, I’m bound to say I felt like a tick lost upon the back of a years-unshaven sheep, if you know what I mean.

Oh, well. That’s the north for you. The pilgrims love it for that very reason, and looking at the place now, I must say I had to forgive them. But I was hardly in the mood for that soupy sort of thing. It’s all dreary, I tell you. Drippingly so. Couldn’t have expected much more from a battlefield, I suppose.

And speak of the deuce, there they were: the Nafílim, nosing around in the distance. It’s misty, of course, but there’s no mistaking it. And sure enough, the closer they came, the more it began to clamour. Swords slapping each other and all that. And before we knew it, the battle was begun at last.

“Sċīmæsċ!”

Now things were getting juicy. With a twirl of their silver sticks, the sorcerers all ’round let rip an absolute mashing of magicks. Spears of fire flew deep into the mists, and in both great numbers and a great hurry, at that. I tell you, as much as I begrudged being yoked to the military, the sight of sorcerers at work never failed to titillate the senses. Why, I almost pitied the ones on the receiving end of this ruction.

And I say “almost”, because as soon as the awe dripped off my face, I noticed my sorcerer chums all looking rather jaundiced. I turned to where everyone was frowning at and made out what I gathered to be a whole wall of protective palings humming beyond the mist. Well, bugger, as they say. Absolute bugger.

But not another second later, and some magicked gust very rudely blew from the enemy side, pushing away all the immediate mist. And there, I emitted both a gulp and a yelp; the sort of sound one makes when a fly flits down one’s throat, only for a frog to leap in after it with all gusto. Because with the mists rather cleared up, our eyes were presented with the meal unveiled in all its ghastly glory: hundreds, thousands of Nafílim spanning down the slopes like locusts out for a picnic. Not that their numbers were news to me, being briefed beforehand, but now having met the real thing, I couldn’t help but blench at the horror of it all.

Right-ho, then. Let’s leave it up to the sorcerers. This was the bally sort of thing they lived for, after all. Cutting down droves from a distance and all that beastly business. Very good. Victory’s but a moment away.

Then, as if they’d read my mind and wished to give me an early Yuletide present, my sorcerer chappies unleashed another round of fiery cushion-pinning. And another one. And then another one after that. It was much akin to what I’d heard bowmen were wont to do; that is, with Rank A firing, stepping back, Rank B coming forth and firing, stepping back, and so on and so forth. And by Yoná, what a spectacle it was. Musicians making music with explosions and whatnot. I must say, I was dreadfully glad to be on this side of the affair. Rather!

But then, I squinted.

Everything was hazy with the mists and smoke now starting to restore, but appearing plainly from the chaos next was the rummiest thing I’d seen all day: a black-mantled giant of a man, bearing in hand a blade just as black.

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