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Vol.5, Ch.5, P.1

“The north—breached,” grumbled the marquis of Isfält. He leant darkly over the table. The papers, the pieces, the plans and policies so sprawled upon it—all seemed now much a fool’s mess in his furrowed eyes. And for why but the wretched report still ringing in his ears: routed his Salvators were. First, the detachment to the east; and now, the chief host to the north, his own son Alfred withal.

What woe. The father pondered the queen-piece standing over the north-maps. Indeed, he had not toppled it yet; Alfred drew still a healthy breath, after all, and was recuperating presently in the safety of the Dēlūbrum. And word was, the master sorcerer was even straining at the leash to lunge back into battle.

Yet, Balbreau could not stay the sigh leaving now his lips. His son, alive but defeated in combat? The father had full-known the north to be flagging against the enemy alliance, certainly. Still, onto hope he had held. Hope that his son, in all his sorcerous supremacy, could turn the tide.

“Alas. The curs fight as lions,” Balbreau lowly snarled.

To the east had his secondary Salvators retreated from the Cutcrowns, a situation now addressed with the swift dispatch of the 1st. The south, meanwhile, saw still the 2nd in contest with the Reùlingen. And lastly was the better half of his Salvators freshly forced to flee afore the faces of the Víly-Gorka horde north.

Yes, indeed: altogether, the losses thus far were borne solely upon Salvator backs. And to their commander-bishop, that was a taste most bitter upon the tongue. But any sweetness to solace it seemed yet all too distant, for at this moment, his northern foes were marching towards the summit—and hence, this very Dēlūbrum.

The flood must be foiled. For it were preparations already underway. The Salvators would rally, regroup, and reckon again with the enemy upon this level peak. But given the day’s affairs, even so determined a defence seemed doubtful to Balbreau. Yes, there were the knights, of course: should either of the Orders win their respective front and return to reinforce the Salvators, it would prove a righteous recipe for victory, indeed. The thought, however, unburdened little the bishop’s brows. Too soon and too uncertain things were, to assume that such would come to pass.

“Ready the Sacrāmentum forthwith,” Balbreau commanded aloud, “and set it in our sword-devout’s hands. Bind it to his fingers, if you must; I will brook his disobedience no longer.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The man to give that answer was one Lord Jón Lydman, close attendant to the marquis. Gravely, he considered the Sacrāmentum currently in the Dēlūbrum’s stores. At last, Jón thought. At last shall it shine.

“Shine”, indeed, for this particular Sacrāmentum was, in truth, a sword in form, one possessed of miraculous power. And were the weapon to be wielded by one such as Sven the sword-devout, doubtless would it be more miraculous and more powerful still.

One might ponder its absence in the ongoing battles. After all, with the sicarius Rolf having confounded so mainful a foe as Alfred, even the marquis was forced to confront the ruesome reality: that the strength of the ungraced was not to be gainsaid. No, not his, and—if the reports were to be believed—neither that of his friends within the alliance.

Why, then, had measures against such a lethal lot been left to idle in storage? The answer was quite simple: Yoná’s might and majesty incarnate were nary things to be called upon without consequence. Were Sven to brandish his appointed Sacrāmentum, therefore, surely would he exact from the enemy a deathsome price; but in turn would it sap his strength sore so as to leave him unfit for much further battle.

Of such a tax was much of the world untold. How could it be otherwise? The Sacrāmenta were wonders divine, relics to represent the perfection of the spirituality. That ever could there be cracks to that façade was a thought never suffered to seep into the public mind. But by Sven’s disposition, it would appear that a rill of that secret had trickled into his. And so is explained his erstwhile reluctance to take up the relic, and withal his will to wage this war with skill and sinew alone.

But dark and dire had this day become, that not any longer could such vainglory be allowed to bar Londosian victory. Every second saw the enemy slithering closer to the summit; in answer, Sven and those of like strength must be stirred to greater action—and sacrifice.

“The Vetimentum, as well,” Balbreau added. “Its hour is come.”

At once, Jón broke a cold sweat. “…Yoná save us,” he uttered.

This was it. No longer could the card be kept up the sleeve. As both a son of Yoná and steward of this sacred mountain, the marquis was determined now to play his most painful hand.

“The catalysts are all collected, I trust?” his question echoed.

“Yes, Your Grace,” answered Jón. “They brim to the very bars.”

A temple complex the Dēlūbrum was, and yet in spite, spanning deep beneath the feet of lord and attendant both was a dungeon of many gaols. The dissimilitude was wholly lost to the Salvators. In fact, being holy men waging holy war, they held it imperative rather than profane, to so maintain a dungeon underneath Déu Tsellin. After all, where else to house their Nafílim slaves?

Regularly, these Men kept a stock of little more than ten heads at a time. For this day, however, had that stock been increased tenfold. Yes; precisely to Jón’s words, more than a hundred Nafílim slaves now packed the lightless prisons. And for why but as preparation—“catalysts” for the contingency that was the Vetimentum.

There is little strange about this arrangement. Living sacrifices, kept for the conjuration of “miracles”—a common sight in both story and, in this world, practice. Yet it must be emphasised here that as a Sacrāmentum feeds upon but its wielder, a Vetimentum requires a meal of masses.

To the marquis, this was a plight most displeasing. Needless to say, it was not the willing loss of Nafílim droves that panged him. No; for them, he had not the meagrest of mercies. Rather, it was the very usage of the Vetimentum that so vexed him. Why, were it possible, he would like to prevail on this day without so much as a single thought paid to it.

But soon would its might be made for all to see. And verily is the Vetimentum a thing to behold. Ignited, it would wash away all within the Dēlūbrum and its environs in a colossal, cascading conflagration. Boiled down, it is a battle magick of monstrous scale; a pyre with which to extinguish any enemy to fall upon the fane in force. What is more, the Vetimentum is possessed of a most extraordinary directionality: its flames immolate only those “blessed” at birth with odyl. Yes, indeed: the Vetimentum is a magick made purely to expunge the Nafílim.

So tremendous a spell rightly requires a tremendous reserve of odyl. And withal must it be invoked within the confines of the aedis—a chamber situated within the second level of the Dēlūbrum basilica. Therein had been inscribed a large, magicked sigil, within which should five score sacrifices be corralled and culled dead, the odyl so emancipated from their lifeless flesh would serve as fuel to rouse the Vetimentum. Of course, by all accounts was it possible to make sacrifices of Men instead, but never had any Salvator dared humour such heresy. No; for them, a butchery of Nafílim was most mete.

“With great pain shall this victory be bought…” Balbreau groaned, “…but buy it I must.”

The marquis then clenched his teeth. One more matter yet pricked his conscience. Losing a hundred lives was a great loss, by any measure; even being those of Nafílim, a Londosian mind might lament the loss of so much slave-labour or what coin could have been had from their auctioning. Balbreau’s troubles, however, laid not in practicalities, but appearances.

To implore of Yoná so empyrean a display of Her primacy is to beg upon the knees and grovel at Her feet, that She might lift an annoyed finger in deliverance. Of course, one might argue that there is little wrong about this. It is most expectable for sheep to rely upon their shepherd, after all. But the matter at hand concerned the Vetimentum: a miracle to bend forever the arc of history and sow debate amongst critics and chroniclers for centuries to come. And that, to Balbreau, being a prelate to the Yonaistic spirituality, was not to be considered lightly. For though it was no fault of his that foes have marched on this holy mountain, to be chased into such a corner by them, and to have his hand so forced as to grope for the Vetimentum, would besmirch his image in the Quire’s eyes.

But the reasoning ill-stopped there. As it happened, the Vetimentum was held to be a one-time tool. Indeed, though certain to set off without fail as per the magick theories backing its utilisation, never before had the forbidden ritual been invoked—and after today, never again. To now play so desperate a card, and thus leave the mountain bereft of it for any future defence, therefore, would likely serve a posthumous pox upon the marquis’ name. And so it was that he had hesitated till this moment. For reasons of appearance—of politics.

But now were the scales pried from his eyes. Naught else could be done. After all, better to lose face than forfeit this most precious of fanes, and withal the sacred ground upon which it stood. No; Balbreau was not one to shrink himself into so small a man and offer to the enemy so bountiful a boon as incompetence. Thus, with a gaze as grim as judging Death, he looked back up to his attendant.

“Hie you to the gaols,” he sternly commanded. “Corral the catalysts, stock the aedis—and task the sorcerers to the sigil.”

“Right away, my liege!” Jón obliged, and turning quick, quitted the scene.

Balbreau bent and brooded over his effects again, eyeing the north-map. He then envisioned them: Nafílim, slithering up the northern slopes like the vermin serpents they were. Yet they need not be crushed by military might alone. Barring their way would do just fine, all to buy time till the Vetimentum was invoked. Yes; his Champions Salvator were yet more than numerous enough for so simple a chore. And suppose the enemy did breach the Dēlūbrum. What then? Oh, nay; too little time would be left them for the securement of the aedis. And that is supposing further that any amongst them were privy to its purpose and location. Indeed, the Vetimentum and its designs were a close-kept secret of the Quire, known outside only to the scantest few. The time when the Nafílim would know of it would be the moment of their violent immolation within its flames.

Man’s triumph was nigh-certain, then. But though Balbreau did not doubt it, he neither took comfort in it.

For this victorious vintage was of a bitterness to burn his bosom.

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