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Vol.5, Ch.5, P.17

 

“Glæmrift!”

There: what Alfred next wove was not a magick of war, but of warding.

Screams and shouts, angry and aghast, echoed terribly in the aedis, cowing the helpless Nafílim each and all. But as they did so, a bright but gentle light lifted over them in a shielding dome, magicked and immense.

A single paling is nary a thing to be conjured on such a scale. Spellhands toil enough to protect mere portions of the rank-and-file upon the battlefield, and only in concert, at that. But being a sorcerer of supreme faculty, Alfred was one to achieve all on his own the symphonious feat.

Yet, there was a fly to this ointment: the Glæmrift repels only the corporeal. Weapons bolstered by odyl it may deny, but pure magicks? Nay. And unfortunately for Alfred, there stood other sorcerers in that aedis, Jón included, who dared humour no mercy for the Nafílim. One might immediately advise a more complete paling instead, one to repel both weapon and spell, but that is a magick of the masters, and despite his sheer prowess, Alfred was not so almighty as to maintain such a perfect paling over so copious a crowd. Why, even were he able, victory would yet elude him, for to alone protect so many from so frantic an offence is far beyond what is wise in war.

But as the fates would have it, Alfred had not one, but two tailwinds at his back.

Firstly, the man was no gloating fool. Famed and brilliant though he was, never had he fancied himself faultless to any degree. Others in his sphere might beg to differ, but Alfred knew better: that he was not without his own failings; that there were yet in this world countless things to escape his accomplishment. Thus had his Glæmrift been no mistake, but a magick conceived from compromise swift and necessary.

One that had well-accounted for the second tailwind: a serendipitous accomplice.

“Their weapons I’ve warded, woman!” Alfred exclaimed askance. “Now—the sorcerers! Quickly!”

Though they both bore the Salvator insigne, Alfred had no prior knowledge of the woman’s name of “Malena”, much less even her passing acquaintance. But what he did have was hope—hope that she would answer. Hope that she would wield for him and the hundred Nafílim there the warhammer in her hands. And though Malena meandered, she did so but for a second, as the resolve blazing clear in Alfred’s eyes convinced her enough to spring upon the other sorcerers—

“Dyeeah!”

—and swing wide her hefty weapon.

“Hkroakh!?” wailed some of their number, who, like paper whisked to the winds, were blown aback by the brutish brunt. They had neither known nor noted it before, but Malena’s was a might unimaginable for so lowly a soldier. Indeed, till today had she heard nary a whisper of praise for her prowess, a long silence broken at last by whom but the sword-devout Sven upon the prior battle, and such words had not been tempted from him so easily.

Alfred, too, was another such example extraordinaire. Albeit unlike Malena, his barrel-bottom rank was the result of Balbreau’s paternal austerity; a “toughening up” of the son with a stern stint in soldiery, as it were. But just the same, Alfred’s strength most misbeseemed his meagre post—a fact the Salvators now rued bitterly.

“Ach…! Blasted barrier, this!”

“Alfred, milord! Cease this madness! And this magick withal, pray!”

As the Salvators pleaded, they plied their weapons to pry open the ponderous paling. Ire and impatience were asteam in them, for the Vetimentum’s invocation was sore-expected; but no matter their labours, the barrier would not break. Strange this was, as seldom is the Glæmrift so granite-hard; it halts true a hostile arm, certainly, but it is naught a cadenced and concerted effort could not defeat. This specimen of Alfred’s, however, remained wholly unmoved and unmarred aface the Salvators’ frenzy.

“Damnable bitch!” screeched one of their sorcerers, with stare and staff both trained upon Malena. But before any incantation could be brought to lip—“Gobfh!?”—the spellhand was hurled away by a heaving hammer-swing.

This was most sour for the Salvators. The sorcerers amongst them had been summoned solely to slaughter the helpless sacrifices, not to engage in combat. Hence had they not the wherewithal to coordinate with their armed comrades, who, for their part, were nonetheless too confused and occupied to pay them any immediate mind.

“Gyakh!?” the sorcerers continued to wail. A mere moment had elapsed since the start of the upset, and already were half of them mauled by Malena’s hammer. Lithe and light she was, much more so than any of them could have prevised from her plenteous proportions. Meanwhile, the unwounded of them, Jón withal, withdrew to a corner of the aedis in a bout of panick, and clenching their staves, stared breathlessly as the hammer-woman approached.

Conversely, a number of the Salvator escorts at last turned their attention to Malena. Ever dull had she been in their eyes; a woman meek and mete only for menial chores. There was no losing to her, no, no. What terror she was teasing out of the sorcerers must certainly be some silly mistake. Self-convinced, the escorts cast themselves upon her, swords bright and bare.

“Get gone, fussock!” they screamed.

But Malena, afraid yet unflinching, answered with another swing. “Seh!”

Through the air wuthered the weighty hammerhead, repelling all the assault. Arms flailed, blades bounced away; for too honed was Malena’s hammerwork, however unwieldy either weapon or woman might have seemed. Indeed, Malena’s martiality was marvellous to behold; there teemed in her talent enough, long-tempered by practice as persistent as it was solitary.

Oh, in faith, the poor woman. How she had toiled away at her daily drills, all in hopes of one day garnering even the meagrest recognition from her fellow Salvators. A queer twist, then, that she should cross arms with them in deadly defiance instead. Malena, however, lamented this little. This was her choice, and having cast the die, naught was left her but to show the world what valour had been hid in her heart all these hard years.

“Daaah!!”

“Ekhrrh!?”

Hammer swung. Men broke. Fright had taken root in them. Fright for the opponent they had long despised. But no matter the pain of their plight, these sword-bearing Salvators dared not admit it: that they were being overmastered; that turning back was the wiser way. Hence why the next words liberated them so.

“Fools! Slay that one first!”

A screaming order from Jón, and withal his angry finger pointing at whom but Alfred. How now; had madness taken, too, these men of Yoná? It is unthinkable to point arms upon the son of a marquis, not least in feudal Londosius. Yet, here was one such son, safeguarding the foes of the realm. For the Salvators, this was a sin too insufferable. But there was nothing for it; with Yoná watching from above, fealty must yield to faith—and any who so flout Her be forgiven with sword, stake, and fire. And there remained, as well, the matter of the Vetimentum. By all means must it be brought to bear. All the battle, all of Londosius depended on it; yet who to stand in its way was Alfred and his brazen betrayal.

“He shows now his true and churlish nature!” Jón shrieked on, foam flying from his mouth. “Alfred the foster-filth! Foul, base-born tyke! Now, men! Have him die like one!”

The Salvators were only too fain to oblige. In an instant, “Alfred” was now a heretic name upon their tongues, an enemy to be axed—one they found to be utterly defenceless as he maintained the Glæmrift over the Nafílim. Yet, even as the men turned their enmity upon him, Alfred betrayed not a flicker of fear nor a flinch of his feet. Nay; what sooner moved were his lips.

“Hildewiða.”

Salvator eyes flashed wide. “Wh—!?”

This was not to be. Conjuring two spells in parallel? Only those steeped in the arcane could assay such a sleight. These Salvators, they knew well what a wunderkind Alfred was. Yet it seemed his skill had scaled a summit too soaring to see—much to the men’s misery.

“Aghhaah!?”

Moulded by Alfred, the heavy aedis air shrieked and thrashed through the Salvator throng. Blood spat. The men faltered. And then, into the ravenous winds lunged Malena, letting loose her hammer upon the zealots’ number. Deathly resolute she was, ready to be rent asunder herself if it meant their certain demise. But as she assayed her sacrifice, the woman perceived a peace in the gashing gales: no harm was befalling her. No; not one hair nor patch of her skin was beset by Alfred’s spell as it swirled and slashed. And that was when it awoke in her: a trust for this son of the marquis, whom she had met but upon this very day.

“Ssaaht!” thus howled with the winds the woman and her hammer. And when the violence settled and the air started to wane at last, the Salvator escorts found themselves all floored and defeated—save but two who, with faces twisted in humiliation, began to flee. But in their flight, they discerned the odyllic weavings of their sorcerer counterparts, and mustering themselves, came quickly to their defence. Assured, the sorcerers trained next their staves to the shuddering Nafílim. Yes, of course; it was the blood of these sacrifices that would buy a swifter victory. Thus set upon slaughter, the sorcerers cried altogether:

“Sċeaþatán!”

Storm-like, the aedis flashed and flickered frightfully as from several staffheads, there leapt many-tined tendrils of lightning, each intent to tear apart a Nafíl. But beneath the commotion, there cracked another cry:

“Hærnwendoþ!”

Being so blinded by their own fulgurous display, the Salvators saw it not; but in truth, Alfred’s Glæmrift had vanished, only to be replaced by another paling, one equally immense, yet tailored to the turning of magicks. Thus did the web of levin fail, fading afore Alfred’s new defence—a sight to dash all the Salvators’ hopes.

“Wretched traitor!!”

Along with those wailing words of theirs came the last two escorts, keen to cut Alfred down. But as ever, the sorcerer supreme budged not one bit afore the lurching blades, minding instead the next spell to be spun; for trust was in him for Malena’s succour, and that was precisely what she gave. Appearing promptly between them, the woman hove a hasty hammer.

“Dyeaaht!”

“Gwagh!?”

Armour failed and bodies flew. And then: a sudden, drowning darkness. The Hærnwendoþ shone no more. But in not a moment—

“Sċeaþatán!”

—Alfred’s staff scorched with cackling light, and there he unleashed his own lashings of levin. Swiftly they sought the other sorcerers, and more swiftly again they found them. And what the sorcerers endured was a Sċeaþatán more quick and cruel than ever they had thought possible. Seized in a screaming grip of electricity, the sorcerers cried their last cries, and when dimness fell once more, they crumpled whence they stood as smoking masses of flesh.

Alfred and Malena looked upon them, and once certain that the threat was subdued, turned to face their final foe. And there they found him: Jón, standing stunned.

“What sin…! What flagrant sin!” hissed the lord’s attendant. “Th-th-this is beyond forgiving! Beyond absolution…!”

“‘Absolution’?” said Alfred. “Oh, peace. Your confession box would find me a most silent sitter, Lord Jón.”

“Heathen words!” the attendant snapped, and flying into a rage, readied his own staff and recited his own spell. But before one word could be woven, the air banged. Taking a straight hammer to the chest, Jón’s body blew unto the wall. And there, it slid down and fell limp and lifeless.

“…”

“…”

The aedis now sat quiet. It was done. A score of Salvators, all stopped by but two betrayers, who next looked to one another.

“…Woman,” said Alfred. “Your name?”

“Ah! Er, I-I’m—” stammered Malena.

“Nay!” Alfred exclaimed asudden, stopping a startled Malena with a wave of his hand. And then, lightly bowing, the lordling said, “My name is Alfred. Now—what is yours?”

Speak thy name before asking another’s; at the last did Alfred remember his gentlemanly manners.

 

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