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Vol.5, Ch.4, P.8

 

“Our van holds, sweat and blood! We must avail them! And turn the tide!”

“Then to the turning, we go! Make way! Make way!”

Shouting strong, Guido and Gunthar both bolt to the vyings at the vanguard. Braves dauntless and distinguished they are, that each may lead a Staffel of his own, were he willing. But by my side do they choose to stay, for oft as they say, only their spears and shields be swift and sure enough to save such a skin as mine.

“Haaht!”

And, of course, there is Erika: maiden of the blade, daughter to our jarl, and a companion to myself. Since a great many summers past have we shared in each other’s society—since long before my name was sung to the skies, in fact. A childhood friend she is of sorts, cherished and trusted, fair and steadfast.

And last of all, there is myself, standing, by some strange fate, at the centre of so solid and so glad a circle. But for these friendships so offered to this wayward fellow, and indeed for all who choose to believe in this bumbling fool, I must assay here and now with all my soul.

For I am Walter, hero to all folk of the fair winds.

“Sċeaþatān!” I incant, and loose again another lashing of levin upon our foes. Things at present are pale in our favour; the knights’ swords and spears set against us in a mighty surge, but by my spells, I would have them lessened at the soonest. Thus do I raise my staff, to affright our foes and dull their silver sting.

“Palings, palings! Walter’s upon us! Ware yourselves!”

Yet our knight-enemies are whetted, too, in their wit. My levin volleys, hitherto smiting them full-sore, now but claw away at their palings in vain. But I trouble little about it. In fact, this serves well. From the outset was the Sċeaþatān incanted not to cull the enemy, but instead to buy for my fellow braves a much needed breath.

“Retrieve the wounded!” Erika cries. “Centre-guard, harden ranks and advance! Steady, steady!”

As jarl-daughter and decorated brave, Erika’s is a commander’s voice of our host, one echoing now with my purposes; heeding her words, our frontline braves, once so upon the brink of collapse, begin next to collect and bolster themselves.

“Wuuooaah!”

“Rryaahh!”

And swift to succour them are Guido and Gunthar, brandishing their spears and bloodying the vanguard knights. So vehement and vaulting are their valours that I see it at last: a confusion in the foe-formations. But only for the merest of moments it lasts, as at once, the knights of the 2nd, too, begin stirring themselves back to order, refilling the fray with fresh ranks of silver soldiers.

How fast these knights, and how efficient. And their leaders, too; how capable and how keen of command. Together like brisk waters they flow, fair and fearsome both to behold. But I do not stand idle to be taken by the sight. No; I instead raise my staff once more.

“Hrīmhorn!”

Out with the net, in with the harpoon; gathering thin mists, I mould together a swarm of stone-hard hail. Mere seconds it is now till vigour returns full to the enemy. Before it does, I shoot into a disarrayed section my icy salvo.

“Gwaaakh!?”

Screams erupt, following the sharp whistles of ten and more missiles. The firing I have made focused and fatal; like a dagger stabbing again into a present wound, the icy stones hammer the hurrying Men and notch inwards their armours, setting off, too, a tumult of lamenting metals. Those struck crumple now to the ground, broken of flesh and bone beneath. And there, for the first time, we braves witness a faltering within the 2nd’s ranks.

“Strike! Now, now!” commands Erika. Our vanguards answer, flooding themselves into the newborn breach. Blades and blows burgeon; braves strike and Men struggle. The hole that was gouged now gapes ever wider.

“Gāstċēn!” I incant again, hurling forth a flock of flaming spheres conjured meanwhile. Precision is my forte; even with friends and enemies enmeshed as they are now could I shoot and strike to an exactness. In proof, my succouring fires land and flash, miring the Mennish ranks in heat and panick, and with not a brave burnt by the brunt.

“A chance hard-sown…! Now, to reap it! Everyone!” Erika commands again. Answering with soaring cries, our host hie themselves to the deed, piercing deep into the Mennish masses. This is it: the tide is turning. Swing after swing, step by steady step, we Reùlingen reap away at the knights of Londosius.

“Blast it! Where’s that wiċċa!? Have him hewn already!”

“There he is! Walter! Yonder at the rear!”

Mennish mouths bellow my name. Alas, I catch soon the sight of silver-tipped shafts shimmering in the air, their many scores intent upon my head, neck, and heart. But I budge not a bit. No; not even a paling I care to conjure. All my magicks, all my óðilr I must devote to offence. Such is the foe we face: the formidable 2nd Order, to be triumphed only by bold abandon.

Guido and Gunthar both understand this all too well. Making good on their vows, they next appear right afore me. The shower of arrows crashes; the air whips and chirps; the two’s shoulders shudder as together they shelter me in the shadow of their shields, saving me in the nick of time. And when the assault is spent, they turn to me.

“Walter, wounds?” they shout above the battle.

“None, thanks to you!” I answer. With headlong haste have they rushed back to this rearguard, and after what but forcing fierce a failure from the enemy frontline. Fearworthy, for true, their speed and enterprise, and full-glad am I to have them in our ranks. One might think them desperate only to do their duty, but that I doubt. For ever are their actions founded, too, in our fellowship, and grateful more than ever for the fact, I again lift my staff. To the enemy’s fore I train it, and then to their right wing. And once more, yonder up the slopes to their bristling centre-guard. Meanwhile, about me does air swirl and swelter with burning óðilr as I make ready for my next magick.

That assault of arrows prior… not without some command was it made, no. The 2nd are the very incarnations of competence and cohesion, but therein lies also their flaw: that to their chiefs and commanders are they leashed staunch. And so I search, fain to return the favour upon the commander so keen upon my unmaking.

And soon enough, I find it: a sword raised high above the sea of silver, as if signing for all the 2nd to see.

“Sċīmæsċ!” I cry, before being outsounded swift by a blast from my staff. Fleet over the warring ranks flies the blazing spear—nay, the pike of pyre-flames. Fuelled full with óðilr, my spell speeds unto the 2nd’s centre, and there, it strikes. An explosion flashes and roars—along with a most particular sound.

One of a paling shivering to pieces.

“Gyeaagh!?”

There: a woman’s screech above many. The surrounding knights bristle asudden. From afar I watch them panick—my magick has found its mark.

“Madame!? Madame!”

“The Under-Mareschal’s fallen! Draw back! Draw back!”

The “under-mareschal”? Very good. By the pallour new in their complexion, any could tell what a wound it is our foes now suffer. The time is ripe, then; the tide teems now in our favour. And so with spirits inspired…

…we stop.

Swords cease; spears waver. And there, we braves spot him: a singular Man amidst the 2nd. For him, the knights make way. For him, they have reverence. And for him, we have fear.

“Calm!” he cries, clear and whole for all to hear. “Centre ranks, to the fore. All others, fall back. My command I leave now to your Chief Adjutant. Heed him, and get yourselves back to order.”

I hear next a gulp anear. Yes; without mistake, a nervous gulp amidst a battlefield bellowing and boiling. Only, it is not bellowing. And it is not aboil. No.

It is silent.

A combined throng of thousands upon thousands, of friend and foe alike—all seized in an unsettling stillness. And the Man to whom our every eye now looks? Serene he is, and yet grim as certain death.

“Lo, men! Not yet do we flag, in flesh or spirit,” he speaks on. “No, indeed. But you would believe otherwise, for the foe has withered your wits! Nay, abandon the bait; be not as fish on the hook, but as falcons on the hunt. Take this to heart! My captains, in especial!”

Poised in uncertainty, we braves dare not move. Down the mountain sounds and settles the Man’s stern speech. And lifting aloft his silversword, “Now—go!” he commands. And like waters bursting through a sluice, the knights surge to action, obliging the Man’s words in currents of military enterprise. Asudden stirs the slopes of battle again, and amidst the great motion, the Man watches on, turning slow his gaze my way. And soon enough, separated by a great distance though we are, our eyes meet.

“Walter,” says Erika, “the tide—back it comes!”

A remark adrip with dread. Erika knows the Man. As do I.

But a moment, and he is gone, vanishing behind the brim and haste of knights. Cautious he is, I think. Cautious that I might endeavour upon him as I have upon the under-mareschal. Yet I can scry where next his feet now take him: to me. That he might meet me, and then unmake me. Yes; chief and commander though he be, he has released his reins and consigned himself to this deathsome, solitary duty. This I know, and have known since the instant his eyes found mine.

Eyes as stern as steel. Eyes as resolute as rain. The eyes of Stefan Cronheim, Knight Mareschal of the 2nd Order, who now this way comes.

 

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