Vol.5, Ch.4, P.5
Déu Tsellin—the southern slopes. There, at much the same time as Rolf and the alliance to the north, the Reùlingen had caught sight of their adversary. Amidst their march up the mountain’s shoulders, the braves eyed them: masses of Men trickling down the higher slopes in a sea of silver. And with the fog a fair fainter here than at the north, the Reùlingen host soon learnt exactly with whom they were to reckon.
“A long stick we’ve drawn? Or…?” wondered aloud a brave, as he and all those about him beheld ahead, billowing bright in the brume, the battle standards of the 2nd Order.
This was a good turn. That is, as good a turn as the fickle fates could have bequeathed the braves, for at the absolute least, it would not be their doom to dance with the deathsome 1st. In this was solace found, and within another reason withal.
Between the knights of the 2nd and the zealots of the Salvators, there spanned—of no negligible measure—a chasm of capability. Indeed, not in vainglory were these knights named the next mightiest in all the realm. Enquire at any watering hole and the answer would remain much the same: that to the Salvators were the 2nd soundly superior. But ask the same of those to face them on this fateful day, and a different and more doubtful thought would be aired.
For but few were those with firm under their belts even a single battle against as sorcerer-bristling a force as the Salvators. How might magicks so myriad be met; how to manoeuvre against them; how to silence them—for a warrior of arms and armour, contending with a tempest or a teeming tide might seem a riddle more easily unravelled. And by that reasoning, it could be calculated that of the three foes to be fought upon this mountain, the 2nd were the least evil to vie with.
So explained the brave’s utterance. Perhaps he and his truly had drawn a “long stick”—the longest of any on this day, even. But let it be said that it was not in any of their hearts to make light of their enemy. No; pride is poison, and this they understood well.
Yet, as the first blades clashed and the first blood was drawn, something was sensed amiss. Fearing weakness, the Reùlingen laboured on, dwelling little upon it. But not even half of a half-hour later, and their mistake was soon plain to see.
For the braves had made light of their foe.
And the price paid was far more than could be stomached.
“Rruoooah!”
“Gagh…!”
Silver sliced and stabbed. Steel listed and languished. The mighty roared like a swelling sea; the miserable wailed beneath its waves.
“Close ranks! Together! Together!” screamed a Reùlingen Staffelhaupt. “Overextend and you may be slain! Close ranks!!” But like so many vociferations before his, the Staffelhaupt’s warnings were reduced to a whisper against the waterfall that were the 2nd’s warcries as they bore upon the braves with violence to match. Down fell one Reùling. And another. And yet another. Flesh was severed, vitals pierced. Blood spewed in a storm, stirred by gusts of silver and odyl.
Disciplined the 2nd were, and all the deadlier for it. Professionals of the slaughter, they had all of them filled their days with theory and practice, with sweat and assay, with rigours and regimens to unman the most prideful. Yet, cruelty of arms was hardly their cornerstone. No; rather, it was coordination. Cold, quick, and cunning, the knights reaped away at the Reùlingen ranks, faltering never in their formations and neither in their forward advance. Like wolves they seemed; wolves of war, mauling their marks many-against-one, and hewing the herd with efficiency to affright.
“Draw them in! In, in, in!” ran orders through the Reùlingen, and there, they attempted to entice and topple their foe’s fortress-like formations. But the bait lay unbitten; staying staunch and steady on all sides, the knights continued their course, killing and culling as they went. “Hold the line! Hold! Or we break!” so bellowed the braves. Doubtful now seemed their situation; doubtful, and desperate withal.
Never before was it so. Weakness was a swift-dying spark in the Reùlingen spirit. Strongly and ever strongly again had they striven, that come what may, fire or fray, theirs was a fury never to fail. For they were a folk mighty of mettle, breeding braves worthy of fear upon the battlefield. The taking of Artean itself was a bright token of this, though to the public eye might it have seemed a mere footnote to the fall of Tallien and Ström before it. But heed instead the unclouded eye of history, and such could not be further from the truth. With a jealous grip did Londosius hold its lands, and so to have wrested one free from its fingers was a feat for the ages. Indeed did the Reùlingen stand equal to both Clans Víly and Gorka—tall and without shame.
But alas. In the throes of this battle, there whispered in Reùlingen ears a truth as simple as it was hard-swallowed.
That their knight-nemeses, too, were strong.
“Halt! Halt!” thundered high a commanding cry. “Raise again the palings! Arrows approach! Bolt and bodkin!”
The sun dithered dark. Arrow-shafts shot overhead; a shroud sharp, shrill, and shadowy. But like a surge breaking against bluffs, they failed afore the battlements of palings—ones erected swift by the 2nd’s sorcerers.
The Nafílim volley was thus foiled; at the nick of time had come that quick command of Anette’s, Dame Under-Mareschal to the 2nd. But a safe call though it was, she had loathed much to give it. Lightning was more her brand of battle, to crash upon the foe and fell them with speed and spite; and so to show restraint here was a hard wringing upon her heart. And as though to wring it even further, it had been by the quill of Felix the adjutant that this operation was penned. But it was not to be helped. Being a dame of soaring esteem, Anette knew better than to let her excesses decide the day.
At any rate, in her did the Mareschal Cronheim find a worthy commander of his knights; all that was left to Anette was to answer his trust and help lead the 2nd to victory.
“Palings too-swift…!” grumbled the Reùlingen. “The volley’s no avail! Swords and spears, braves! We charge again!”
And charge they did, maintaining as teeming a morale as they could. Despite their spirited assault, however, ever would the Reùlingen offence founder afore the earth-fast knights. For now and again would they gouge open a hole in the enemy formation, only to find it filled back up with all dispatch. Such was the capability of the 2nd: to swiftly circulate soldiers on demand; to employ their surgiens to full effect; to be as self-sustaining a fighting force as ever could be mustered.
Organisational perfection—the 2nd’s uncontested claim to fame. With such a weapon in their wielding did they now grate and grind their Nafílim foes to a pulp. Indeed, a boulder of an army they were, singular and monolithic, in which was betrayed not one crack or cranny. Small wonder, then, as to why the Londosian fronts yonder east had held for as long as they had: so enduring a defence, so unstained a success, would have remained for ever a dream without the valour of the 2nd.
“Sċeaþatān.”
But there: an incantation to cast all in doubt. Almost a whisper it sounded, and yet by some wonder did it resound unmarred through the warring ranks. Though none pondered it, for in the next instant, they struck: pillars of lightning, exploding down upon the unsuspecting knights.
“Hwuaakh!?”
Earth shuddered; air shattered; Men flailed and fell, shivered of their strength. A simple spell though it was, this instance of the Sċeaþatān seemed sooner the screaming might of Mother Nature made manifest.
“There! There he is!” the knights shouted. “That blasted wiċċa!”
Staining their confidence now was the colour of caution. Alas and at last had he appeared upon the fray: the most fearsome of all their Nafílim foes. Slender, scholarly, unassuming—indeed, the descriptions matched metely enough.
And as well, his storied mettle.
“Our turn now,” the wiċċa proclaimed, to which the companions beside him—Erika, Guido, and Gunthar—nodded resolutely. Trust shone in their eyes, like fires unfading. The time to turn the tide was come. And vowing to see it done, Walter looked next upon the knights, grim and adamant in his gaze.
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