Vol.5, Ch.5, P.18
The Dēlūbrum boasted of neither gate nor battlement to bar our way. Indeed, its defence seemed all but futile against an earnest siege. Still, ever as we the Víly-Gorka alliance pressed the summit offence, we perceived in our grasp not one speck of superiority. Our foes, on the other hand, comprising Salvators and the knightly 2nd both, resisted with all valour and advantage available, that unto this sunsetting hour had they yet to yield a single length of ground.
Desperation was taking hold. Our losses were mounting. And were this waning wager of ours to wend into the night, such losses would only accelerate. Something had to be done. Something very soon.
And then, as though to remedy my grim meditations—a crash.
Arms and armour flailed. Bodies fumbled and fell, as if toppled by a tide. And after a swell of bloody cries, it was clearly seen: a breach in the enemy vanguard, freshly gashed open by the bold gallantry of our braves.
“Herr Rolf!” one of them shouted. “The way’s open! Forth, forth!”
“On it!” answered I, and with the soot-steel hard in hand, into the breach I bolted. “Ssyeht!”
Left and right swung the blacksword as I bounded over the tangled and tussling bodies. The enemy men blenched, widening further this fault in their formations. Time was of the essence; rather than stay and press the advantage, I speeded ever onward through the enemy throngs. And soon enough, I was met with a sprawl of bristling spears.
“No further!”
“Haht!”
“Gwogh!?”
Still, I stopped little. Weaving hither and thither, I slew the spearmen in chaotic combat, a display teasing further hesitation from the other foes about. Perfect; looking back not once, I broke yet again into a forward sprint—only to soon be barred by a swordsman of size.
“Sit, hound!” he bellowed. Bush-bearded he was and bountiful of brawn; a mound of armoured muscle charging my way. And yet for all his size, I saw his silver greatsword to be grim and graceful. Like as not, he was of strength and station a shelf above all the others here.
But that was small reason to halt. With a driving stamp, I lunged headlong unto him—“Dyaaah!!”—and swept wide the soot-steel.
—Ggrrokhh!
Dull and deathsome dinned that sound. The greatsword had yet to fall, but already was its wielder, in all his sinew and silver armour, sundered clean in twain.
“Hyeh!?” his fellows yelped, shrinking whitely as they witnessed the brute expire in more pieces than when he had stood.
Grasping the opportunity, I flew forth once more, fighting all along my straightwise way. “Get you gone!!”
“Uaaagh!?”
Singing and scything, the soot-steel opened for me a path. And before long, no more soldiers stood afore me—at last, I had broken through the enemy masses.
Glancing back for an instant, “In I go!” I shouted.
And in answer, the braves further back raised their blades and cried, “Fair winds fly with you!”
May they fly with us all, I thought as I put the braves behind me and delved into the Dēlūbrum vestibule. As per our plans, I would be alone from here on, to infiltrate the foe’s heart and take their highest head. And so, just as the braves had trusted to me, so did I trust to them and all the alliance to hold the outside fray.
∵
“The sick sanctum itself…”
Secretly, I scurried through the temple, eyes darting and ears perking for the slightest sniff of the enemy. Yet even amidst my wariness, the splendour of the space escaped me little. The Dēlūbrum, crown to Déu Tsellin’s holy head, itself a jewel in the Yonaic Crosier—small wonder why the Salvators assayed so desperately to protect this place, from all the look of it.
Masonry, marbled and magnificent, composed its every nook and cranny. Shafting through the high lancets was the golden sunset, mirrored by the perfectly polished stone floors and echoed by numberless burning sconces. And filling the space were files of up-shooting columns, themselves sumptuous in size and icy-white to see. Altogether, it was a sight to awe even this godless ungraced.
Yet, this was but the first floor to the basilica of the Dēlūbrum; an anterior ward to welcome in pilgrims and laypersons. Not here would the marquis be found. No; better to go above, where the Quiremen’s offices and apartments were situated. Thus did I keep to the side ailes before presently finding a set of stairs to ascend.
Now were my footfalls muffled. Talk about rolling out the red carpet; these corridors of the second storey, I soon discovered, were endlessly laden with rugs rich and rouge. For a floor forbidden to all plebeian presence, the splendour on display certainly had not a crumb of “clerical restraint”, as one might say. At any rate, I wared myself as I slinked on, as a mouse in the abode of a slumbering beast. Yet, ever as I went, I could scry no sign of the enemy anywhere beyond the din of battle outside. Were the Salvators so pressed for personnel? As to leave even the Dēlūbrum proper unprotected? So much the better, then. Any hostility to be found here ought lead to the marquis himself.
And then, speak of the devil: there fell footfalls, light and speedy, tip-tapping nigh from just beyond a bend ahead. The sound, however, earned none of my alarm. Hence with weapon laxed, I rounded the corner and—
“Yaaht!”
—was met with blade and braying voice.
“Watch it!” I snapped, jerking away.
“Ah—Rolf!”
…“No alarm needed”, indeed. A mite more careless and my neck might’ve been nicked for good. Luckily, the ambushing blade had thought to stay itself at the last instant, for she who wielded it was none other than Lise. Just as suspected: she, too, had broken through the enemy line, and was presently on the hunt for the same mark as mine.
“Sorry!” she rasped remorsefully. “You’re hurt, or?”
“Nay,” I said. “What about you? How fared you till now?”
“Well and without wound!” answered a puffed-up Lise. This was glad news; being both hale, our hunt ought go unhampered. But on that point, “The marquis—I’ve searched, but his trail’s all cold,” reported Lise. “Any luck on your end?”
I shook my head. “None, I’m afrai… mm?”
At that moment, the air rumbled. Subtle it was—but belligerent. Somewhere in the Dēlūbrum, battle had broken out. I looked to Lise and she to me. Trouble and intrigue, too, churned in her eyes. Had someone else sooner infiltrated the fane? And perhaps found the marquis, even? Only one way to find out.
At once, Lise and I sprang towards the source of the sound. Down through the maze of hallowed halls we hurried, hearing the rumble beat and burgeon with blasts and bellows as we neared, till at length, we came upon a dead-end dammed by a set of stern double-doors. It was by that point that the commotion had ceased, and so, nodding to Lise, I reared back and kicked the doors open. Without waiting, the jarl-daughter leapt through, blades ablaze. But as I myself entered, I found her standing rather… frozen.
“Wh… what’s this?” she gasped. The scene inside had stolen her wits—as it now did mine.
Spanning afore us was a chamber of ponderous breadth, one doubtlessly appointed to some special purpose. In token of this, laid all about were trinkets to contrive a magicked sigil of sorts. Wide the circle was, graven clean and intricately into the ground. Yet, that was scarce the source of our surprise; for gathered atop that sigil were Nafílim—civilian, enslaved, and of a number beyond a quick eye to count.
They all trembled whence they stood. Their youngests wept and wailed; their elderly flagged upon the floor. Not that any blame was theirs, as looking about, some battle truly had transpired here, with the reek of scorched air lingering, and Salvators a score or more lying lifeless and ablood. Nay; two of them yet stood, with one possessing a particularly familiar portrait.
“You’re late, spellbreaker,” he spoke.
Lise backed up close to me. “An acquaintance, Rolf?” she whispered.
“You could say that,” I answered. “It’s him—Alfred Isfält.”
“Hh!?” Lise gasped again. The name of the Salvators’ supreme sorcerer, brought up time and again at our many war councils prior, stung sharp her ears and roused her weapons to the ready. Still, she dared no attack, for the scene at hand was yet a puzzle missing too many pieces. It was then that Lise turned her attention to the other of the two. “And you,” she snapped, “declare yourself!”
“Ah, m-m-me name’s Malena!” stammered the soldier. A woman she was, though her timidity sore-mismatched the sheer girth of her figure. And from the emblems emblazoned upon her raiments, she, too, was as much a Salvator as Alfred. Only, her next words were anything but Salvator-like. “These poor folk; the Salvators were meanin’ to… to…”
“To massacre them,” Alfred finished for her. And strangely enough, his tone, too, seemed to not much love the meaning of those words. Still, Salvators sooner dead than their Nafílim slaves? Just what exactly had happened here? “At my lord father’s behest, these Nafílim were to be culled,” Alfred explained with spite. “Sacrifices, one and all, to fuel the Vetimentum etched into this mountain.”
A sacrifice now stopped, and from the look of things, at what but the hands of two scions… of Men?
“Y-yo-your pardon! These two, they… they have saved us! For true…!” so attested a Nafíl anear, for which the rest of the crowd vouched with collective nods.
“…And us along with, ’twould appear,” noted Lise, who, in her wonder, released her dagger-stance. I followed suit, laxing the soot-steel to my side. Not a lie was being spun here. At least, none that either of us could discern. The slain Salvators, the scores of corroborating Nafílim… and not least the immense sigil upon which they were all to be slaughtered. Something sinister, indeed, had been afoot here.
The… “vetimentum”, was it? A ritual magick, I doubted not, and likely one of terrible scope and consequence. Had it gone off here… oh, the spine shivers just to think.
“…”
But just the same, it all left me stunned and silent. I was moved. By the meaning of it all, I was deeply, deeply moved. Here, at the heart of the enemy stronghold, atop a hallowed fastness of Yonaism itself, was witnessed a shattering of the Shepherd’s shackles.
“Rolf,” uttered Lise excitedly, “could… could it be…?”
For true, as a Nafíl would say. In our hearts, the ground groaned and all the world seemed a wheel turning another way, slowly but certainly. Indeed, change was in the air—more so now than ever.
At that moment, Alfred broke into a brisk stride towards the doorway.
“And where’re you headed?” I pressed his departing figure.
“You well-know whither,” he said, stopping with a stern stare. “Swords silver ascend to this storey as we speak. Though whether they be the 2nd’s or the Salvators’, I cannot guess.”
Sure enough, below the rumble of the battles outside, there echoed the clank and clamour of moving armour. Like as not, an enemy detachment had been dispatched in pursuit of Lise and myself, all to foil our infiltration. But were they to happen upon this room and the scene that had ensued herein, then all the Nafílim folk were in grave danger… and withal the whole of our forces, should this “vetimentum” be re-attempted.
Alfred himself seemed sore-aware of this. Turning and looking all along the hapless Nafílim, he next declared, “My duty here is but half-done; I swear upon staff and soul to see it through.” With that, he then looked to his accomplice and asked, “Malena. You are decided, as well?”
“I-I am, sir-ruh! Aye!” answered this “Malena” with rapid nods. “To b’come a woman Ma an’ Pa can be proud o’! Thass me duty, it is!”
A duty that cannot be done under Londosian servitude—this she seemed to insinuate as she clenched resolutely the hammerhaft in her hands.
“‘Malena’, is it? And Alfred,” I then said to them. “You both have my thanks… and my friendship.”
“Eh!? O-oh, f-frie…”
“Save your thanks.”
Such was their answer, as night and day as could be: Malena, wide-eyed with wonder; Alfred, cold and callous as ever. Still, one matter yet loomed large between us.
“…Alfred,” I began. “Lise here and myself—we intend to fell your father.”
The sorcerer glanced to me. But seemingly unstung, he turned back to the doorway. “Do as you please,” he said gravely. “Blood or love, I share naught with that man.”
With that, he went at last on his way. Malena, fidgeting unsurely for a second, soon ran along after him, but not before offering Lise and myself a grateful nod.
“The marquis names no room here his haunt,” echoed Alfred’s departing voice. “He stays in the storey above, last I heard; though where precisely is yours to ascertain. Seek him—quickly.”
And as his words waned, so did the two disappear into the corridors; for down they were going—down to oppose their former compatriots.
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