Vol.5, Ch.5, P.11
“Hyaht!”
Might and main, I swung the svǫrtaskan, sending wolfsteel sundering into the Salvator vanguard. Swordbearers these were, sound of skill and desperate in the defence of their sorcerer brothers behind. Albeit to this moment had I yet to meet a single blade to steal my eye or earn my alarm.
But as befits these zealots, it was their ardour that more astounded. With sword in hand, they threw themselves upon us. With sword in hand, they stood their ground… or died gladly in the deed. Faith and honour—such would seem the fuels of their fervour, the light whereof was limned even upon their livid eyes. Would they were remedied of but half their madness, their “faith” that so branded another race as the original sin of their Scriptures, then what a warless world this would be.
But alas. Unclouded of eye and animus, these swordsmen made of themselves martyrs to that very faith, flooding the fray wave after wave. And as I glimpsed emotions indescribable in each their every eye, I felled them—one after the other.
“Gwahakh!?”
“Fall back! Fall back! The line’s broken! Back now!”
Till at length, after much fall of blade and blood, the swordsmen were all of them slain, to which the remnant Salvators turned tail and emptied these last slopes. We braves, yet wary, watched their frantic feet flee and follow a common path: up, up, up to the summit now so near, where stood stern a structure, colossal and magnificent amidst a mantle of fine, firelike fog.
The Dēlūbrum. Grand temple to the Deivic Quire; crown to the holy mountain Déu Tsellin—at long last were we soon upon the base of the enemy.
“Herr Rolf! Leave the mustering to us!”
“Aye, my thanks.”
Seeing off a subordinate of mine, I then scanned about as I caught my breath. Our braves now bustled, reorganising swiftly for the main clash to come. And from the look of things, our losses were none too grave, gladly enough, despite having endured two veritably uphill battles.
Indeed, this joust just now numbered our second; after their retreat from the first at the middle slopes, the Salvators had rallied together with their fellows from another front, and here upon the shoulders of the summit plateau, had formed into a defensive line. But in challenging our climb had they come to know one more defeat.
What remained was to march on the Dēlūbrum yonder afore us. Yet, no easy checkmate would this be. For in peering forth into the pale, I found arrayed about the foot of the temple a teeming mass of silvered knights.
“…That legion,” spoke another subordinate. “The 2nd they are?”
“So would it seem,” I answered, staring intently upon the knightly flags afar. Verily were they the 2nd Order, each and all set upon defending the Dēlūbrum. But a closer look through their ranks revealed that not from the outset were they so posted. No; already they had fought once today. I could see it in their gait—and in the blood that so bedighted their arms and armour.
“…”
My brows fell. My fists clenched. The implication was clear: that the 2nd were fresh from a victory elsewhere.
“Whence’ve they returned?” I asked aloud. “Has anyone seen? What say our scouts?”
“None and naught, I fear,” answered a brave nearby. “But, had the knights returned from the east, I must reckon at least one eye of ours to have espied such movement. That leaves…”
“…The side opposite our position,” I uttered. “I see. The south… the south…”
So it came to be that the Reùlingen had been routed—or laid all to ruin. What a terrible turn. I had much hoped to meet them again upon the summit, to at last fight together shoulder-to-shoulder. Alas that they should be sooner sundered from us.
…Nay. How blithe of me. Already had they accomplished much. Like as not, we the alliance perhaps owed our present momentum to the Reùlingen. For it was most certain that the Salvator line prior was unsuccoured by the 2nd, meaning that the knights had returned at the eleventh hour. Indeed… for as long as their lives held out, the Reùlingen had kept the 2nd leashed in, giving us time to break through the Salvator defences. Doubtless had dealing with the hero-knight Cronheim been as hell for them—a hell to harrow us otherwise at this very moment.
“…”
I stood there, sombre. And there in my heavy heart, I saw it again: the visage of Walter, my new companion… and withal those of his own compatriots’.
“Another matter, Herr,” the brave continued. “The 1st—they are nowhere to be seen.”
“…Busy down on the slopes, I imagine.”
The slopes east, to wit, where marched the Cutcrowns.
Grimly, I could not conceive that the 1st had been idle over these past summers. No… in fact, I remembered it then: the rue the Mareschal Tiselius had shown as she sat at my bedside, recounting the rigours of the day before on the Erbelde—and withal how her 1st had failed to make good on their name. A month-long stalemate, broken only by reinforcements from a frail and flagging 5th; a mark of shame, if ever there was one. And doubtless a burning impetus to hone her knights razor sharp from there on.
And with that thought, I myself began to rue that it was not we the alliance that had crossed paths with the 1st instead. I was not at all fain to fight the fair mareschal, certainly, but… the Cutcrowns; they were a mingling of mercenaries. Not an army. Not even in name. Were they, too, teetering towards destruction, therefore? Soon to bestrew the slopes? They must be, though I shuddered even to imagine.
“…Nay.”
Blast it. Blithe I had been before, and still I was. What shame. To put on airs; to mark myself so capable after these scant few victories. No, these maunderings must stop. For naught more dulls the blade than a bout of hubris.
Trust, then. I must needs trust to our fellow fighters. Trust that they could hold the east. For they had amongst them Frieda, had they not? And Dennis withal to whom she herself trusted. Yes, he seemed a man sterling enough; a soul strong and fast, from what I could measure of him back at Arbel.
Indeed, the 1st’s absence upon the summit alone was evidence to suffice. Frieda, Dennis, the Cutcrowns… they were all of them digging in their heels and holding down the 1st, that in turn may we the alliance challenge the other champions of the enemy. If such be the way of it, then all the more reason to trust to them. All the more reason to focus and fight.
And fights galore we had ahead of us. Fights with foes to fear. There was the sorcerer Alfred Isfält, waiting inside the temple to settle our score. And there was his father the Marquis Balbreau, in his own right a wreaker of magicks and mighty in rumour; with withal his retinue of guardsmen, sure to be sharp and fierce in their office. And of course, there was the Mareschal Cronheim. If the 2nd stood yet so fast and fain for the fray, then I questioned not that the hero-knight, too, was yet hale. And like as not, more champion cards again were hid up the Londosian sleeve.
We, too, must brace ourselves, therefore. For more than ever, it seemed this battle had yet to bare its fangs.
“Herr Rolf! We stand ready!” came a call at length.
“Right, then,” I uttered, steeling myself anew. This next offence—devised in advance with Lise and all the leadership, it was to be a rather simple one, now that the arduous climb was put well behind us. And turning to the alliance as they were lined and lively, I lifted aloft the blade of black and exclaimed the details in brief, “The plan! We capture the Dēlūbrum and take the day! To that end, you must follow the leads of your Staffelhäupter! Distract the enemy defences! Tease them thin! I and a handful shall storm the temple, and there secure it after taking the marquis’ head.”
This was it. The last scene to play upon the stage. The last bloodshed to abide upon this day.
“Now, to battle!”
♰
“Salvators…” snarled Anette, “…more chickens than champions they are.”
Felix jumped. “Madame! Not too loud, now…!” he lowly rasped, glancing about nervously.
There afore the Dēlūbrum’s basilica were they arrayed: the legion of the 2nd Order, staring down the Nafílim alliance yonder. And cincturing the knights were the Salvator remnants, yet to catch their breaths from fleeing the failed defensive line. A sore state of affairs for the zealots, to be sure, but that scant pacified the poison upon Anette’s bitter tongue.
“Oh, poppycock, Adjutant. Look ’round you,” she growled. “Now’s no time for whispers, but war; to defeat the devils with knightly deeds.”
So whetted were her words that any ear might have forgotten the under-mareschal to have been blasted out of her wits once before on this day. But here she was, stern and sprightly as ever, thanks to the skill of the 2nd’s surgiens. To Felix, however, Anette was huffing more hoarsely than usual; doubtless Walter’s surprise of a spell was as a scourge upon her conscience. But nay, never again. In this was Anette adamant, and for one good reason.
“Indeed, we have yet our mareschal with us—fresh from crushing underfoot that hero-vermin Walter,” she coldly cooed, comforted by a revenge full-wrought.
Verily had Stefan Cronheim himself been healed of wound and weariness. And with his storied mettle tasked anew to the interior defence of the Dēlūbrum, defeat was now all but inconceivable. To Anette—and all the knights of the 2nd, for that matter—this was a fact as fast as fate.
“Well, very true, yes,” Felix himself agreed. “None walk this mountain that might outmatch our mareschal—save the fair Tiselius.”
On this day had the adjutant’s own confidence been requited. During the combat between Stefan and Walter, not few of the 2nd’s knights had come forth further suing to succour their mareschal, only to be dismissed by Felix. Strong was the hero of Reù, true. But stronger still was the hero-knight. Such had been the adjutant’s reckoning, one made good upon by the gallantry of his superior at the last.
As for Felix, why, he had idled little. Indeed, after rallying together all the 2nd otherwise unassigned to the mareschal’s defence, the adjutant had then commanded a routing of the Reùlingen, and swiftly, at that—right upon sight of Walter’s fall, in fact. Quite the surprise performance from one so spiteful of even the merest drudgery. But such was Felix: a walking contradiction of character and capability.
“Nay, not so,” Anette began debating his point. “Dare I say, ours stands the mightier mareschal.”
Estelle, inferior to Stefan? An estimation passing bold, by Felix’s own. Still, he gave no disagreement. It was futile to even try. Anette veritably worshipped her mareschal, after all.
“For my part,” she spoke on, “I cannot shame him any further. I will not. No… not after so insufferable a sight as I’ve shown.”
And like a sore-stung stallion, Anette huffed again, steeling herself all the more. However, vixen and virago both though she was, those words of hers were no bluff; being an under-mareschal, hers was a prowess proven time and again. And with all eagerness did she now await those unto whom she would bring such prowess to bear.
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