Vol.5, Ch.4, P.4
The mere sight of him had evidently miffed some of our sorcerers, that they now directly threw themselves to it and began giving the bloke all the tender care and attention they thought him to deserve. A show of judgement, quick and juicy, what? And if you know aught about me, you’d know that I’m never one to pass up a good show, quick and juicy notwithstanding. And so, with the thirst of a desert dog happening upon an oasis, I lapped up the scene: flaming spears and spires all pouncing now upon the poor, tall chap. A goner he was, no question. Well, he’d be going out in a blaze of glory, at least, and I don’t suppose that’s a comfort anyone would complain about.
Only, I squinted again.
Because rather than turn tail and leg it for the hills, this deuce of a bloke bally swung his blade. And not just once, though I couldn’t tell you to any exactness how many times it was; I’d lost count, you understand. Or rather, I couldn’t see to even count. The blade was a dashed blur and all that. But the beastly bit was, the flaming spears themselves were all gone. Vanished, I tell you! Or put more precisely: snuffed out!
By the Deiva. What? Preposterous.
And so I stood there, absolutely stunned. But whilst pressing the old Håkansson bean to come to, I witnessed with utmost horror the blighter making a mad dash right at us vanguardsmen. Us—me included! And “mad dash” is meetest term, because before anyone could so much as gasp at the situation, there he was: square in our midst. And then another rummy thing occurred: he bally passed us on by. Like a gust with not a care in the world!
Well, collecting my wits, I followed him with my eyes, only to find him setting upon our sorcerers further up the slopes. Dash it; that’d been his bally aim all along! And good heavens was he making good on it! Blade a-swinging, sorcerers a-dying—like a wolf he was, having too jolly a time in the chicken coop!
Our infantry didn’t stand idle, of course, but they didn’t stand much of a chance, either. They’d rushed over to the sorcerers’ defence, only to get scissored up themselves, you see, one after another. For their part, the sorcerers doused the deuce with as many magicks as they could muster, but it was no good: all their fires fizzled out to no effect.
And then, the thought struck me. That black-mantled blighter: egad, he was a Man, I tell you! A red-blooded kinsman! Well, truth be told, I’d heard the rumours before about such a bloke. A “bedder with devils”; a “butcher of magicks”. But it’d all seemed a bunch of balderdash to the ears, frankly put. You know how it is. Superstition amongst soldiers and whatnot. I mean to say, who’s to believe that magicks are a thing to be cut? Certainly not me. The reason being, they’re clearly not. Why, you could proclaim to “scrubbing the sky” or “wiping the bathwater”, and you’d seem less of a loony to me than someone “unmaking magicks”. Absolutely.
But in betrayal to all such good sense, that was precisely what I was goggling at: magicks being unmade! How now, what’s the deuced trick? Something to do with that sword of his, perhaps? But that’s jolly just as outrageous, what! I mean, I don’t suppose it need be repeated here, but spells like the Sċīmæsċ are fired to the speed of full-nocked arrows, you know. And yet, here we are: presented with a bloke snuffing out not just one such “arrow”, but whole volleys of them! Out of the air! With his dashed sword! Good gosh, man! Stop the lunacy, if you know what I mean!
Only, he didn’t. In fact, he began to scream.
“Fire! Now!”
Why the deuce did he scream that? But more importantly: to whom? It couldn’t have been to his mates beyond all this mist? Because that’s as rummy as rum gets, I tell you. In spite of my doubts, however, that was exactly the way of it: not a moment later, a shower of ice and fire flew from the enemy’s direction and began pouring down on us as though hell’d been holding it in for far too long.
And it was a bloodbath. The very reverse of the start of the battle, in fact. There was scant time to put up any palings, you understand, what with our sorcerers being busy with the blighter and all. And so there we were, caught in a great scramble to cover ourselves. For my part, I’d been cowering under my shield, the very act of which had got my bean abuzz with a thought. That blighter—he himself hadn’t a single plank on him, had he? How was he managing this, having called in the bombardment? Or was he managing not at all? And from the very get-go had thought to pull off—er, what do they call it? A “desperado”, was it? Self-sacrifice and all that? Well, peering from under my shield, I soon found out.
He was.
Without shield. Without paling.
The enemy magicks, it seemed, were all avoiding him like a mouldy sock. Or, was it the other way ’round? Yes… yes, I think that’s it. That was bally it: the blighter himself was eluding the magicks! Dancing, lurching; the whole number! Good heavens. “Rummy” is the word for this. Dashed rummy. And that’s merely half the story. For you see, wheresoever he stood or went, about the blighter would always fall dead any of my Salvator chums that dared draw near. That’s right: this gorilla of a man was both dancing and fighting! Swinging the blade one instant, and then flitting away in the next! A bloodlusting ballerino, what! I’m bound to say, he must’ve quaffed a deuce of a pick-me-up before all this, because I can’t fathom how any bean without a boost could juggle so many balls at once, if you catch me.
Well, suffice it to say: by this point, whatever his plan had been, it was working out rather swimmingly for the weasel, at rack and manger and all that. Indeed, between trying to fend him off and praying not to get poured upon by basketfuls of magicks from above, we Salvators had it hot and sticky. And in reality, it was but a blink ago when we were all lined up and giving the enemy some well-meaning warmth. I tell you, when the tables turn, they do it with a vengeance.
Things being now so dashed thick, legging it, of course, was all I could think to do—if the legs themselves would care to respond, that is. But alas. This seemed it for sorry, old André. With hell raining down and its legions soon to gain us, I confess, I could but sink into a daze, the sort to visit upon the self following the onset of a paralysing pip. And in that daze, I hesitate to say, I think I began to hallucinate. For you see, being now fixed upon that blasted bringer of our doom, I noticed a rummy thing trailing every stroke of that blade of his: a blackness, like pepper being all flung about by a tantruming babe at supper. Or is soot more the word? Yes, that might be it. Soot.
But I didn’t dwell on it for long. Instead, I was morbidly mesmerised by the spectacle of it all. Ribbons of black playing against mists of white—if stone marble were made liquid, I’m sure that’d be the appearance of it. Spot-on. And amidst it all was the blighter himself: softly poised for a moment, and then wielding death in another, and ever and always with wisps of soot in tow. And then at whiles, he would stop for an instant and give our soldiers a stern look, who in turn would shrink back like children put upon by a menacing aunt—or choirboys caught in the lair of the Deuce. Indeed, Śāṭān himself seemed in the flesh on this day, here to defy the Deiva and all Her laws.
Rummily, however, it all appeared almost poetic in a way. Beautiful, even. Wait, what? Beautiful? Nay, nay, a seduction of the Deuce, that! Oh, André, you beanless sop! That’s a Nafíl-loving gloak we’re talking about, don’t you know!
At any rate, there was no point loitering about here. Any longer and I might humidify the hose, if you get me. And so, slapping the feeling back into my jittering legs, I somehow began to hoof it—beetle it, even. And I say, never had I sprinted so spiritedly in all my life.
Ah, yes. My life. More than thrice-worsted it was. Oh, indeed, today counted squarely amongst my most miserable; the very miserable-est of them all, if I’m honest. A bally pox seemed upon it, I tell you. Getting bagged and sent off to the Salvators; being put up with a field company; receiving the ill news of coming battle—how naïve I was back then. But nay, today was it. A day to go in the black books, as they say. Absolutely.
And awaking amidst my strategic withdrawal, I next found myself legging it all alone. There I was, with not another bally soul ’round. Just blinding mist, rolling vales, and a taste of misfortune lingering upon my tongue. Rummy. How long had it been? At the very least, it was quite clear that my beetling-off had brought me well beyond the bounds of the battle. Bah—dash it. The farther away I am from that stickiness, the better. And with that thought, and abandoning all others withal, I kept at it.
“Wh-whoa!”
Till, of course, I couldn’t.
Slipping on mist-slickened stones, I pratfell unto my pillowy arse and began a long way down. A long, tumbling, twirling way down a gravel-skinned slope. Down, down, down to the very bottom of a vale. And amidst the bone-battering momentum, the only constant image in my mind was that deuce of a blighter, staring back with those soot-black eyes of his.
♰
My own eyes I opened up. Opened, to discover myself lying at the lowermost of a misty combe… and an absolutely terrible throbbing all over the Håkansson body. My armour was dented, bruises sobbed under them, and my face was all nicks and scabs. I might’ve broken a rib or three—or a skeleton, for that matter. But I didn’t care. No; in fact, I was jubilant.
Because, you see, I’d survived.
Survived!
By the Deiva, I was alive!
The ledgers! They’d sorted themselves out, I say! They really had! And scooped me right out of that soup of a battle! Right-ho! I knew they’d come through! I knew it!
There could not’ve been better news. Naught else deserved a warmer thanks. That rubbish luck of mine, collecting by latrine after bally latrine—all to produce this most wondrous of miracles.
That settles it. André Håkansson is a man reformed from this day forth. That’s right: I’ll give up the loafer’s life and make something of myself. Honest work and that sort of thing. The old man’ll swallow himself just to hear it. Oh, I bet he would. But he’ll have to forgive me for shirking the battlefield. That’s where I stand my ground. Not that I had the strength left to move from it. Which brings me to the moment.
…How precisely might I get myself out of here? It was all fine and well to experience something of a personal renaissance, but if no help were on the way, well then, dash it.
And with that thought, I reared the lemon and had a look ’round.
Vale. Combe. Trough.
Whatever you call it, that was all there was to see. Rocks, wheresoever the eye wandered. And of course, all of it packed under a pall of heavy fog.
“…”
Well, I’m dashed. I laid there, wondering if any more of that fruity luck remained in the cup, or whether its last drops had spilt amidst the excitement. And then, a fear began to grow in me. A fear that it was, in fact, the latter.
“…Oh, bother…”
Nay, nay. It will be all right. Of course, it’ll be. The day’s hardly over. Plenty of time for more ledger-balancing. Right?
…Right?
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