Vol.5, Ch.5, P.12
Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.
Secret waters seeped and wept, punctuating the pitch-black of the Dēlūbrum’s dungeons.
But, lo: a team of torches, stabbing now the inky mirk. And withal an anxious shuffling of feet. Many, many feet. Ten score and more, echoing down the damp, stony corridors.
A procession of Nafílim this was. Young and old; hale and hobbling—all steered by Salvators a dozen and some. Whispers and whimpers soughed here and there. None of the Nafílim knew whither they were being led. All that was certain was the suffering to await them.
“Hoof it! Or I’ll hack ’em off, I will!”
A silver speartip flickered threateningly. Cowering, the Nafílim quickened their pace, and on and on they marched through the cold and sighing subterrane. And amidst their increasing consternation, there then commenced chatter between the Mennish escorts.
“’Ey. You heard? About what’s agoing topside?”
“Aye. Countless dead; ranks nigh all in ruins—it’s a black day for us Salvators.”
Alfred, Sven—the lodestars of the Champions Salvator were presently absent from the surface battles, being so tasked to protect the temple interior. Albeit, even without their mettle were the zealots yet a force to be feared. A misfortune, then, that the Nafílim alliance had proven themselves fiercer and more fearsome again; so much so that at this moment were they veritably banging at the Dēlūbrum’s door.
“Black, indeed. But bright enough for us. Were we not saddled with this swink, I reckon we’d be buried under our brothers right about now—bless ’em.”
Dark words. Though there lived not a tinge of panick in that Salvator’s tone. Small wonder; with the 2nd returned and arrayed to the Dēlūbrum outer defence—and withal the Vetimentum soon to be invoked—victory was but a hair’s width away.
Next were doors swung and stairs climbed. Out of the mouldy drear they emerged and into spaces palatial. The temple basilica this was, and all about now sparkled in white and immaculate marble; a grand architecture to leave the eyes in awe. Meandering through was a misty breeze, bearing the low bellows of the battles outside. But there was no tarrying on this first floor. Up more stairs the procession climbed; up to a storey whereupon no pilgrim was suffered to set foot.
“There, down that way,” commanded a Salvator. “Get yourselves inside. All of you.”
Now were they arrived at a terminating corridor. The end of it seemed a gaping maw to the Nafílim as they were compelled through its thrown-open doors. And upon entering, not few of the folk then fathomed at last what doom they were soon to be dealt. And so they wept. Wept, for the fair winds had forsaken them. And then they despaired, for it was in none of them to defy this evil fate.
Before long, all the Nafílim were thrust inside, and the doors were slammed shut, and all the air ceased now to move. The folk quivered and quailed, glancing hither and thither as the hall yawned all about them. Despite their headcount of a hundred and more, this space seemed to them ever so cavernous, high and wide and windowless, that its myriad lamps and candelabra availed little to lift the dim and heavy void.
And expecting them in that hall was the marquis’ attendant Jón Lydman, along with a handful of Salvator sorcerers. And as well, one more man. A keystone soldier to the Salvators he was, and who, by all accounts, ought be better utilised against the Nafílim belligerents at this time.
Indeed, so queer it was to discover him here that a Salvator escort came forth and enquired him, “Why, milord. What earns us this pleasure?”
“My father’s behest. Being one so steeped in sorceries, I am to behold the Vetimentum’s miracles,” the man soullessly answered. And glancing through the many implements splayed about the hall, he uttered, “History’s very first… and very last.”
Hair as gold as the westering sun; a complexion as pearl-like as the eastering moon—even in the dim of the aedis, as this room was so called, did Alfred’s features shine clear and fair. And true to his word, the bishop Balbreau had, in fact, bidden him observe this most momentous of occasions. To wit: the invocation of the Vetimentum.
Of course, to be so cornered as to must play so paramount a piece was, to the bishop, a bitter medicine to swallow. Still, it would seem he was fain to extract every efficacy from every drop of this “medicine”, no matter its bitterness—a tendency now finding little favour from his own son. Nevertheless, there was some merit to the bishop’s dogged determination, of which not even Alfred was one to gainsay.
“Herd them into the sigil,” ordered Jón. “We commence at the soonest.”
“And what then, Lord?” asked a Salvator escort. “Set them each to the sword?”
“Better spells than swords for a slaughter,” answered the marquis’ attendant. “Nay, time presses. Your duty’s done. Leave the rest to them.”
With a flick of his chin, Jón gestured to the sorcerers anear. That was the way of it, then: in one fell swoop of a spell, they would massacre the hundred Nafílim here, and make of them living sacrifices to stoke alive the Vetimentum. Thence would fires divine flood from the Dēlūbrum, and in a moment, destroy any and all Nafílim who so stood upon this mountain.
In envisioning such a victory, Jón and his sorcerers could scarce conceal their excitement. A glorious unmaking of the enemy as meted by the holy might of Yoná—soon to be witnessed by their very own naked eyes. For fanatics of the faith as they, naught more could so strum the strings of the heart.
“P-p… pardon, sir-ruh, but…” said then a slurring voice, “…w-wot’s this ‘slaughter’ bus’ness all ’bout?”
Gazes turned, only to settle upon one amongst the Salvator escorts: Malena, a woman of wondrous size.
“…”
But humouring her for not a trifle, the men all commenced their duties. The hall stirred; more commands were barked. And like sheep, the Nafílim were gathered into the massive sigil so graven into the stone floor.
“Ah, s-sir—” Malena muttered amidst the commotion.
“Shut it, ham shanks,” growled a Salvator. “We’re busy.”
“Bu-b-but! ‘Slaughter’! You can’t mean…!” persisted Malena. The poor woman had not the wit for this development—nor the heart. Naturally, she knew the expectations of her office; that this was a war waged against the Nafílim; that they were an enemy to be defeated. But what of the Nafílim in this room? Were they yet “enemies”? Prisoners though they were? Mothers, children, and elderly? Why? Why must folk so meek be played as pieces of war?
“Apologies. She’s, er… a queer one, you see,” whispered and bowed to Jón a Salvator none too pleased, who then approached and pulled Malena by the back of her collars. Only, her portly body dared not budge. Strange—on any other day, with but a fist to the face or a shove to the ground would she whimper and comply. But upon this hour, the Salvator, despite much tugging, discovered the woman to be as immovable as a boulder.
“Th-there be babes! An’ bairnses!” Malena protested on. “An’ gammers an’ gafferses! Feeble folk!”
“Quit that squealing already, will you!?” the toiling Salvator snarled. “To the corner! Now!”
“Agh!” yelped Malena. In his disgust had another Salvator struck her cheek with the butt of his spear. Malena then reeled. Even that was too much to endure. Still, the woman wound herself right back and repeated her protests. “N-no! You can’t, sir-ruhs! You mustn’t!”
“Mustn’t what!? These are Nafílim, if you’re blind! Devils!” rebuked a Salvator. “Have them dead here and we save all of Man the realm over!”
“B-but! These smallfolk! They ain’t done nowt wrong—”
“Shut it, I said!!”
“Gyah!?”
One Salvator, fed up with the farce, had just now kicked hard a Nafíl anear—an aged female, too meek and meagre to resist his wrath.
Malena gasped as she watched the woman fall to the floor. “S-s-s-st-stop!” she cried. And though her words stammered, her hands did not… as they reached about and drew up the warhammer girt at her back. The surrounding Salvators liked this not. They stared, narrowed and knife-hard of gaze.
“How now, you hog…” one of them hissed at her. “Lost your mind at last, is it?”
Malena grew pale. “I-I… I, er…”
“You dare…”
And there did hiss another voice. From behind the scorning Salvators: a soul absolutely trembling, boiling with displeasure. And turning, the zealots found Alfred seized in such a fit of fury as had never been witnessed of him before.
“What mean those hands to do with that haft…? Hm? Fight!?” he seethed at Malena. Blood-bulging were his eyes. Pulsing were his temple veins. A handsome man, twisted now into a sight to stun the Salvators—including Jón, an acquaintance of many years despite.
But a hammer-holding Malena did not back down. “…A-aye! Aye!” she yipped.
Alfred, Jón, the soldiers and sorcerers; men totalling twenty and more. Grim odds, indeed, for a warrior-woman alone. Nevertheless—
“These smallfolk! I can’t let you…! I won’t let you…!”
—a now-mustered Malena pronounced aloud her new-forged resolve: to fight her fellow man.
To fight, for the first time in her life, by her own will.
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