Vol.5, Ch.4, P.9
“Woourruaaahh!!”
Evil.
The one thought, the one word to surface from so beastly a bellow. There, up and down slopes of dawn-seared mists, opposite of whither Rolf had rushed off in succour, it resounded, rattling steel and spirit alike.
Evil.
So be branded any who dare challenge the Champions Salvator. For to do so is sacrilege, a baring of fangs aface the Deiva Herself. Thus must this scourge, this bellowing “beast”, too, be an evil like all the wretched rest.
Evil!
That for which the Salvators feign no fear! Indeed, why must they otherwise? Is evil not mere vermin to be crushed under heel? Is defiance not destined for the stake? And profanity for the purifying pyres? To be set alight by the holy glory of Yoná? Yes, indeed, such is evil. Why fear what is soon to be extinguished?
But oh, evil.
Evil, that though such ought be the way of it, still did the Salvators stand in fear; still did their wills whimper and their hearts shiver acold. This was not to be suffered. Never was it to be accepted. By try as they might, the Salvators could only quiver on, for the violence unfurling afore them seemed an evil beyond any extermination.
An evil exhaling horror like a miasma. An evil injecting misery like a venom.
An evil by the name of “Sigmund”.
Up the stony slants he sped, hewing and howling as he went, and cutting such a course through the Salvators that from afar, he seemed more a mighty throng than a solitary soldier.
“Ggrruuaahh!!”
“Surround him! Surround that savage, damn it! Get him gone!”
Thunderous sounded there a captain of the Salvators—and distressed just the same. This was the leftward face of the northern front, and thus, as this captain’s luck would have it, where the Salvators’ strength was least sure. Small wonder there with the centre column boasting the lion’s share of the numbers, and withal the sorcerer supreme Alfred Isfält himself bolstering the far opposite end. But that ought have mattered little. These were the Champions Salvator, elite and lauded, proud and powerful. Surely would they slay these enemies of Yoná as easily as they ever had. Or so was believed going into this bloodbath.
And a bloodbath it was, truly, but not to the Salvators’ expectation. Backwards they stepped, back afore the fury of this “evil” and his fellow Nafílim fiends. Slowly but surely, ground was yielded. Upwards the fray frothed. Alas, pale had grown the zealots’ plight, but not for a lack of trying.
This sore setback saw its start at the battle’s very inception. It was soon after the first blows fell that the Salvators had loosed a rain of arrows and magicks, that the battle lines might be drawn all the more clearly in this occluding brume. But that plan had failed, foiled by palings too-speedy. And when the frontlines had been forced halfway up the mountain slopes, the mists had dispersed asudden by force of aeolian magicks; and with the Salvators then plain to see, the enemy had commenced the pounce.
And it had been at that moment that the Salvators knew wonder, for rushing foremost amongst the enemy charge was a Man. Oh, indeed: a Man. Of such souls had the Salvators taken heed, but that ill-soothed the surprise of meeting such a specimen in the flesh. His mien, his movement—they were unlike any other upon the earth. To him had scores upon scores of silverstaves trained, and just as many magicks conjured to snuff him out. But he had proven a flame enduring, speedily escaping the spells and leaping upon the Salvators like living lightning.
Not without risk is any battle won. That much is a matter of course. But what this Man endeavoured was an extreme of extremes. To the Salvators, he was an unmildened menace, a mad machine losing its screws by the moment.
And now, met with such a menace, the proud Salvators could but cower. “Hieeh!” yelped one of their number. This Man in their midst—how murder glimmered in his eyes; how murderously he gashed and gusted through their throngs. At this proximity did he now seem another thing entirely: a beast through and through, fang-baring and bloodlust-bristling.
Yet, Yoná is absolute. Her Blade is unbearable, Her Light ineluctable. For so pious a brotherhood as the Salvators, this was never to be doubted. No; not by a mere beast should Yoná’s might and majesty be unmade—a might and majesty that ought be steeling the Salvators at this moment.
Yet, instinct is irresistible. Its urges are all-consuming, its influence locks every limb. And so it was that when the stave-poised sorcerers saw the Man slicing his way nigh, for a moment of misery, they blenched altogether. And how could they not? Suppose they risked their magicks here and now. What would ensue, were they to miss? In many of their minds, they saw—nay, felt the answer: fangs, vicing down and eviscerating each and every one of their necks. Such was the “beastly menace”, indeed, of Sigmund, that by his blood-curdling presence alone could weaker men be brought to their knees.
The result was cuttingly clear: the once-proud magicks of the Salvators all but sputtered to small effect. And their swords and spears fared no better, the spirits of their wielders having withered long before any earnest clash had broken between the two hosts. Oh, what foul luck that the fog was forced back so. Had these Salvators remained mist-blinded to Sigmund’s menace, surely would they now retain the fortitude of mind to maintain the fight.
But alas, the mists here were slow to restore, and the open vehemence of Sigmund had not only increased, but was now driving deeper into the zealots’ ranks. In no time, their formations frayed. Some took flight; others frantically fought. But altogether, what dominance they once held was stolen right from under their noses.
“Khrreaahh!!”
“Urrahh!?”
One by one, the Salvators fell, the fury of Sigmund last upon their memories. And soon they saw that the Man was alone no longer: on his heels were the Nafílim, lapping up the slopes like a vengeful flood.
“Why!? Why, damn it all!” came a scream from the Salvators. Nay, it was not the usual curse upon the foe or the fates, but a simple, desperate question. For this battle seemed to them a scene of hell now surfaced, playing out under whose watch but their beloved Deiva’s.
∵
“Heh heh… a rotted jest, this…”
Dennis’ tongue was easy as ever. But the breaths breaking over it were aught but. Hoarsely he respired, his shoulders heaving with every effort. An eye of his squinted; blood trickled over it, rilling from the blade-wounded brow above.
“Heah… haah…”
And there was Frieda beside him, poised of sword, but equally and frightfully fatigued. Such is the fate of swordfighters as she: cross another of superior skill, and quick to expire would be the stamina. But this is not merely by some excess exertion of the sword. No; it was also of the senses. Against a masterful swordsman, death could come from any angle at any instant; to must answer them all, therefore, much less mind them moment-to-moment, is a most ravenous leech upon one’s strength, indeed.
But in reverse, as well, did this reasoning wheel. For it is in any expert’s repertoire to exhaust his opponent with ease. And much to their misfortune, both Dennis and Frieda now faced one such expert: Sven, sword-devout to the Salvators.
“Now the memory’s jogged,” he said, smiling as the battle rattled all about. “‘Dennis’, was it? Dennis of Artean; peddler of sellswords! The fire of your former days seems all but fizzled, my friend.”
“Heh… ‘Fire’?” mused Dennis, having caught some of his breath. “More the humble ember, friend… Coin came quick when I kept the head low…”
Under his words, the master mercenary plied his mind desperately. This Sven—he had to have a weakness somewhere, anywhere at all. But despite his efforts, Dennis came up short. Famed for their swordcraft both he and Frieda were, and yet, here was Sven, pressing them two-against-one, and betraying not a single hitch in his breath, at that. Strong as a bloody titan, was all Dennis could think of him. And that was the bare truth of it: even together, the two were no match against this one man.
“…Frieda,” said Dennis, “’ow ’olds’ee?”
The freelance panted and gulped. “Holdin’… well ’nough…”
A pitiful sight this might have seemed. But beneath their fatigue, the duo’s spirits had not diminished in the least. For his part, this was naught unusual to Dennis. Many a time past had he faced foes fearsome and fatal. Be it behemót of massive size or blind ambushes from all sides, Dennis by this point had defied his doom a hundred times and more. To walk the edge betwixt life and death, therefore, was as to him a walk through a flowery field.
There did, however, pass upon him a spark of surprise. Within Frieda’s eyes, he saw it: not yet had they lost their light. It seemed she, too, knew of insurmountable strength—namely, of another man of mettle; of another titan. And having had met him, she knew, as well, of hope: that not all meetings with enemies of might should end with misery. Hence not here did she quail. Not here did she yield.
Sven chuckled. “Our little mêlée’s lasted overlong,” he said. “I say: bravo, my friends. Bravo.”
“I aim to… pleas—!” There: Dennis’ words, cut short by an assault of Sven’s. From below the blade flashed. Dennis jolted, and just in time, deflected the offence. Wheeling his blade back, he risked a counterattack, only to find Sven quicker on the follow-up. Their swords shrieked. Flesh was sundered—or not? Nay, it was not blood, but sparks that flew! Steel and silver stung; odyl whipped and gusted! From the side, a third sword had intervened: that of Frieda’s.
And it was this that Sven had answered instead; softening instantly his hilt-grip, he had diverted his blade unto Frieda’s, and foiling it, leapt back from the fray. A wise move, as through where he once stood, there slashed now the vain but fatal flicker of Dennis’ sword.
An exchange, lasting for but a slice of a second. Three fighters, collecting themselves for the next clash. But therein could be espied a difference: whereas Dennis and Frieda braced themselves tensely and held strong to their hilts, Sven remained as mild as milk, his breaths soughing as smoothly as ever.
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