Vol.5, Ch.5, P.2
“Spare me what men you can,” commanded Jón. “This errand from His Grace is most urgent.”
“Very well,” answered a Salvator captain, who then scanned through the summit environs. Bustling all about under the bright noon sun were press after press of other Salvators, his duty it was to rally them for the final defence. Before long, the captain raised his voice. “…Right. You there! You and yours, come hither!” A pause, and his eyes soured. “Oh. And you, as well.”
“S-sir! Yes, sirruh!” obliged a voice anear. There was Malena, shrinking as she saluted. It was not everyday that she was commanded directly by so high a superior.
But after a moment, she along with a handful of other Salvators stood afore Jón. “To the gaols, men,” he ordered them. “The devils down there are to be moved to the aedis—all of them, clean and qui—”
“Played the card, has he?” another voice wedged in. And like Malena, it was of another rank-and-file soldier’s. But unlike her, the tone here was none to be aired afore the likes of the lord’s attendant or a Salvator leader. Curiously, however, neither of them dared a rebuke, for this particular soldier was one most special, indeed.
“Milord,” said Jón, bowing afore an approaching Alfred.
“Is the enemy so menacing?” the lordling began debating. “That we must draw the one Blade never to be drawn again?”
“Menacing enough, milord,” answered Jón. “Already is the 1st unleashed; His Grace’s hand has few moves left, you must understand.”
Alfred looked away. “…Few, indeed,” he scoffed. His face then furrowed deep. Such frustration, let alone any emotion at all, was wholly unlike his cold and uncaring self. Were his lord father to invoke the Vetimentum, the Isfält clout would be forever castrated—and Alfred’s future prospects along with it. That he detested the very idea was deduced even by Jón and the Salvators there. But what else was to be done? A hesitant hand would end the futures of all the men here.
“’Tis your lord father’s will,” Jón reasoned. “If he means to right the listing ship, we deckhands must heed his hests.”
“That I know,” snapped Alfred. “But still can I fight; still there remains one mark to unmake.”
No Man need fear the Vetimentum’s venom. But just as the Londosians here would survive it, so would that turncoat of a cur. Yes, the black rebel—there would he stand, alone amidst the ashes of his bedfellow devils. And there to deal him his mercy stroke would be Alfred, if only to eke out from his father’s folly a chance for vengeance. Such did the lordling reckon; such was his sole resolve.
“Your eagerness inspires, milord,” Jón humoured him with all courtesy. Victory was at stake, thus would it not do to test the temper of the lordling pawn now; not when he was so needed to stem the enemy tide whilst the Vetimentum was being made ready. But of pawns too-important, there was yet one other. And speak of the devil; right as Jón pondered him, that pawn appeared presently, mingled amidst the Salvator detachment so defeated at the east. “Well, if ’tisn’t our sword-devout,” Jón called to Sven. “The Sacrāmentum awaits you in the armoury. His Grace would have it ungirt upon you no longer.”
“My good Jón, have mercy,” Sven answered as he now neared. “That thing’s more succubus than sacrament, I suspect. You wouldn’t have me sucked dry, now would you? Marrow and all?”
“Tame not that mouth and I would…” came Jón’s growling grievance. It tested his temper much, to have so cloaked a secret aired with such caprice.
“Fine, fine. Unpuff your feathers,” Sven relented, shrugging. “The armoury, was it? Off I go, then.”
“See that you do. Déu Tsellin depends much upon you,” Jón emphasised to the departing sword-devout, “as does the Vetimentum’s unveiling.”
At that moment, Sven stopped amidst the coursing crowd. “Faith; does it, now?” he said, returning an unblinking stare. “Ought be a chore to butcher all that meat, no? Suppose I lent a helping hand? Put the sacrament through its paces?”
There shimmered then a sharpness in the sword-devout’s eyes; a sharpness that pierced Jón straight. It would appear that Sven’s temper, too, had been tested on this day. A small wonder; though he had enjoyed quite the easy joust against Dennis and the female freelance, he could not slay them as he had so desired. And for why but the order to retreat, given right before the finale could unfurl.
“Rather reserve that itching hand for the Nafílim horde,” Jón reproved him. “The Vetimentum needs time, Lord Sven—and you to buy it.”
It would hardly require skill such as Sven’s to slaughter mere sacrifices, despite their number. No, indeed; the mettle of the mightiest sword here was better tasked to challenge the enemy’s own champions. Sven understood this soon enough, as with annoyance in both gaze and gait, “…I’ll make sure to fetch my purse,” he sneered, and shuffled off to the Dēlūbrum.
Jón saw him off intently. This is well enough, the attendant thought with a sigh, as long as the wheels are spun to motion—wheels which would soon crush all the enemy vermin.
“Very good,” Jón then said at length, before turning to his gathered aides. “All of you, with me.”
“S-sir!” answered Malena, and thence followed Jón with the rest to the Dēlūbrum dungeons. As for the attendant himself, though he shared in his lord’s lamentable situation, he could not help but inly grin. For stood upon a precipice this day was—
—a precipice of empyrean wrath, to be wrought for all of Londosius to see.
∵
Dennis shuddered with shame. Ever was he a man disposed to prudence, a mind most mindful, that not even in his dreams did he dare underestimate an enemy. Yet on this day of all days, his trusty foresight had failed him.
For he had not known.
Of what misery those so crowned the very mightiest could mete out.
Of what it truly meant to challenge the strongest of champions.
Of how high soared the summit of human capacity.
“Evil bus’ness, this…!” Dennis let leak from his lips as he strived tooth-and-nail against the knights. And as ever did his tone lilt with levity. Yet, missing from his words were the aimless ornaments so usual of them. Yes; though his mien showed it not, the Cutcrown leader was listing under the weight of his own regret—and finding himself seized in this whirlpool of war.
Once in the past had he beheld the 2nd Order in battle. Marvels he measured them. Of command, of capability, of cohesion; marvels never to be outmatched, he concluded. Oh, how he wished such a conclusion stood true still, for these knights of the 1st now aface him did exactly that: outmatch the unmatchable.
Put more precisely, “outmatch”, Dennis felt, was too meagre a term for it. The 1st’s way of warring was of another breed, another world altogether. Whilst the 2nd assayed hand-in-hand to achieve strength, the 1st wielded it as though it was native to them.
Consider a heterogeneous host, punctuated by personnel of outstanding prowess. Put them then beside a homogeneous counterpart, one comprising unnotable pawns instead, and the wise strategist would reveal a curious but common reality: that it is the latter that stands sooner to win. Why? one might wonder. But just the same would an ace soldier of the former wonder, Why heed my captains? I am no hound to be leashed. And therein lies the answer: for the poison of pride and caprice infects most woefully the feat-worthy and brings ruin to even the surest of armies. And as it happens, such poison pierces all too deeply in a world of magicks and mighty men such as this. Tales here abounded of warriors too-brave, who break formation to find glory or savour a lustier foe. And thus is it so, too, that in this world, heedance of command is a virtue all the more sought in a soldier.
But to every rule, an exception. Case in point: the knights of the 1st so filling the vision of Dennis to this moment. To be sure, they followed their leaders to the niceties, truly like hounds under hest and leash. Yet, excellent in itself though this was, the aspect to be noted laid elsewhere. And when Dennis himself had beheld it, he had thought it some abject absurdity or, in his words, some “evil business”. For the 1st were a heedful herd of not pawns—
—but paragons.
Each and all.
Frieda, who fought so valiantly beside Dennis, was herself a sword-hand singular even amongst the many honed mercenaries of this age; a professional through-and-through. This must be distinctly understood, for within the 1st’s rank-and-file were those against whom Frieda would fare to a draw, if not a close-run defeat. Yes, indeed; not lieutenants or brigadiers, but mere soldiers of the 1st could prove her match.
An entire force of Friedas or greater—by Dennis’ measure, this was a betrayal of all imagining, a beast beyond any earthly military to rein. “Evil business”, most certainly. Dennis felt all the urge to scream to the sky, to enquire what wicked power could suffer so unjustly dread an army to walk the earth. And who to answer him would be but a figure upon this very battlefield: Estelle Tiselius, a dame of heroism hitherto unheard of.
The bloody Battle of Erbelde some years past—in Estelle’s mind was it a stain upon the escutcheon of the 1st. For a month and more had they floundered in that fray, a stalemate sundered only by reinforcements… from the 5th of all Orders. Indeed, unto this day did the hero-dame deem it a defeat, that, being implacable, she had since pressed her men into exercises Spartan and perpetual. And so was produced the scene of today: knights already once renowned as the very most valiant—reforged and hammered into a host to shake all the heavens. And not by any other hand than Estelle’s could ever have this been wrought.
“That be the world for’ee,” Dennis privately complained. “A world wicked an’ wily…!”
Smooth and even he sounded yet. But ever as he strived bitterly against the 1st, and ever as the Cutcrowns decreased afore his very eyes, a dark thought began to thud in his conscience: that at last was his final reckoning come.
And that soon must he make his peace.
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