Vol.5, Ch.5, P.10
Guido considered the idea carefully. Routed the Reùlingen were, most true, but not on account of a crushing defeat. No; it was the death of Walter, their keystone and bedrock both, that had so sapped their fighting spirit. With the hero, as well, had hundreds of others fallen—or perhaps a thousand and many more. Yet, unclouded eyes would deem the Reùlingen still of such a strength worthy of war. Indeed, were these braves to rally together and reinforce the Cutcrowns, something, something, may yet be done for this direst of days.
“They are driven aback, the Cutcrowns,” a Staffelhaupt reaffirmed. “Down nigh the foot of the mountain—down anear us.”
“‘Driven aback’, for true, but not yet in rout as we,” said Guido thoughtfully. “No… I daresay the Cutcrowns ride now another wind. A gust—to pull and keep the 1st far from the summit.”
And there was illumined the 2nd’s other designs, the “risk and rigour” to which Stefan had turned his back: there was yet the summit to defend. Prudent, then, that the 2nd had abandoned a deep pursuit to bolster instead the Dēlūbrum against the ascending alliance.
But as for Guido’s spoken words; the leashing of the 1st “from the summit”… Per tidings received, the Salvators, too, had yet the strength to fight. And were the 1st themselves to succour the summit defence, then the combined brunt of all three enemy forces would be naught for the alliance to prevail. No; in fact, they themselves would be crushed—Rolf, Lise, and all. Hence why the Cutcrowns had offered themselves to the butcher’s block. In distracting the fearsome 1st, it was their intent to buy time for the alliance; enough, it was hoped, to win through at the summit.
A last stand to stay the tides of defeat. Whose mind was it that had mustered the mettle for such a manoeuvre? Dennis’? Ah, yes. Dennis. Who else but that mastermind of a mercenary?
The mothers of Man may breed very valiant creatures, Guido inly conceded of him. Then, as though overflowing with the thought, he lipped aloud, “Man… valiant…”
“Come again, Herr?”
“Hm? Ah, no. Never mind.” Shaking his head, Guido turned back to Erika. “Well, Fräulein? What are we to do?” he asked. But as ever, the jarl-daughter maintained her silence and immovability both. “Fräulein?” Guido said again.
“…Do as you like…”
How fadingly aired that was. Verily, from Erika’s lips, that answer sounded much a sigh lost to the winds. Still, an answer at long last though it was, it hardly beseemed what her braves needed to hear.
Nevertheless, Guido worked the cogs of his conscience. This battle, this most fraught of frays—there was no need to assay it any further. No; with losses grave and spirits broken, indeed none would blame the braves were they to pack up and head back home. They were part of no alliance, after all; not by duty were they obliged to succour the others, much less the Men of the Cutcrowns.
But ever as he considered them, Guido could not help but envision those very Men there in the thick of things, digging their heels into the blood-soaked slopes and challenging the unchallengeable 1st. A desperate deed, hinging upon the pale hope of victory—such a thought filled Guido’s warrior-heart with self-doubt and humiliation.
Rightwise would it be? To leave them to their fates? he wondered. And make vain all their lives? Their valours?
Stefan Cronheim—what an unworldly foe that knight had been. And in considering him next, Guido could not conceive of any other sword that might outmatch that mareschal’s. Save, that is, for Rolf’s. Yes; were the Víly’s black rebel to reckon with Walter’s unmaker, then perhaps…
…perhaps there was a chance yet.
And if so, then by no means must the 1st be allowed back to the summit.
The hero-dame Estelle Tiselius and her far-hailed knights—they must be stalled, if even with meagre numbers.
If even at the greatest price.
“Ought we avail the east?” Guido pressed more sternly. “Pray, Fräulein. Your thoughts.”
“…I have none to give,” Erika muttered back.
Hers was a timbre broken of all will for battle, to which Guido let fall his eyes to a sorrowful close. Still, ever did his thoughts return to the Cutcrowns. If the reports were told aright, those Men were holding out much more than could ever have been hoped of them. And to Guido, that was rather a surprise. Even after thwarting the secondary Salvators, still had they the mustered main and mettle to match blades with the 1st.
Nevertheless, such endeavour was ill-destined, for more so than the 2nd were the 1st a foe of fatality. The Reùlingen in their thousands had lost to the 2nd; how long till the Cutcrowns suffered the same aface the 1st? Not long. No, not at all.
“Fräulein,” Guido urged. “Cause and conscience call us to action. Tarry here, and we consign the Cutcrowns to slaughter. And should it be so… then victory is sundered from us, for true. You would not so have us hobble home in shame? Or?”
“…I would,” uttered Erika. “Victory, defeat… what does it matter anymore…?”
How hollowing. Hitherto till the eve of this dark hour had Erika ever been a boisterous spirit, a jarl-daughter undauntable, a damsel desirous of victory in her every endeavour. But now, she feigned not even the faintest figment of that former fire.
“We must march to their aid. We must.”
And there, breaking the hard pall, was another new voice. Turning, Guido found standing a ways off a lone, female Nafíl.
“…Mediator,” he said, recognising her. “What mean you?”
Or more true to his heart: what is the meaning of this?
To be sure, the woman was an officer of mediation from the Víly-Gorka alliance, her duty it was to organise and relay intelligence between the disparate fronts—not, as she was so doing, to speak her mind amidst military meetings. And that is to say little of her character; from the outset, the woman had ever seemed to Guido a reticent and unassertive soul. And with hands uncallused and a gait most timid, she altogether appeared much out of place on the battlefield. Yet, here she was, insistent upon succour for the Cutcrowns and withal a return to this most forsaking of frays.
“Herr Guido speaks for true,” she said, staring intently upon Erika. “Without we the south to support them, the north, too, stands soon to collapse.”
“I would worry for the alliance as you, were they any blood brethren of mine,” Guido remarked, “but, with all due respect, mediat—”
“This matter is beyond my brethren alone,” the woman returned. “March now, or we make meaningless all the battle upon this mountain. And withal all the lives we have lost… and the memory of whom she loves.”
“Mediator…!” growled Guido. He looked harshly upon the woman; for her words were, indeed, very harsh for the heartbroken Erika to hear. Too harsh, one might even say, but the woman remained resolute; approaching, she then stood beside the broken jarl-daughter and gazed gravely down upon her.
“There’s no solace, to sit and sulk as you do,” she said with sternness. “Grow up. Stand tall. Or continue this tantrum and rue that you did for the rest of your life.”
“Mercy, mediator! You speak overmuch!” rebuked Guido.
“The dead are gone from us! Lost!” the woman cried. “But we that remain—we may yet grant them one last wish! One last farewell! But only…! Only by righting what has wronged their memory!”
To that, Guido nearly gaped, daring no further admonishment. For in the woman’s vaulting voice, he sensed a certain quiver. And through it, he knew at once all that he needed to know.
“…Honoured mediator. Plain it is to me that you, too, were torn from someone dear,” he said. “But, pray understand. Our Fräulein—her farewell was bidden but moments ago. Mere… mere moments ago.”
And from whom else but someone too dear and too special in her heart. Death and battle are but birds of a nest, it is too oft said. But for Erika, if only for this day, this hour, that was yet too sore a truth to accept.
“I do not beg you to reconcile your sorrows swift,” said the mediator. “No… none and naught can soothe a heart when it sobs so.”
Those latter words—from a certain soul upon a certain night had the woman received them. For once upon a time had Death stolen the warmth from her heart. And how frigid it felt to her, how cold a thing it could become, was naught the woman would ever forget. Still, she later learnt, must the feet walk on, and the eyes look ahead, and the heart beat ever and on.
For such is the duty of those who remain.
“But you mustn’t forget,” the woman said on, now looking all along the braves so gathered there. And in looking back, they perceived in her glaring eyes the colour of conviction. “No, never must you forget: that the hearts of the braves north, too, sob as sore as yours. Yet, still they fight. Still they roar. Each and all—including, I hear, one whom your beloved Walter has named a friend.” And in recalling this “friend”, she assured herself that he would never surrender in such circumstance. “Roar with them, I say. Risk this remaining gambit,” she continued. “And at the last, celebrate… and sob with them.”
Just as Erika had once believed in Walter, so did this woman believe in another. Indeed, hope yet burnt in that half-frozen heart of hers. And feeling her fire, Erika looked up at last, and there, locked eyes with the woman. And at that moment, she remembered her name.
Dita. Daughter to the jarl of Gorka.
“Now, rise,” urged Dita, “for not yet have the fair winds forsaken you.”
───────── ∵ ─────────
Comment (0)