Vol.5, Ch.5, P.21
“Nnrgh!”
“Tomas!”
To his friend’s side flew a despondent Dan. And thereupon, he saw that Tomas had taken a spear to the shoulder.
No seldom sight this was. All about them, violence and valour mingled in a madding storm. Dire and more dire still had grown this summit battle. Being burdened with the last defence of the Dēlūbrum, the Salvators and the 2nd were all of them deathly determined. Their faces were twisted, their teeth flashed, that in this hour, the Víly-Gorka alliance knew alas of what a beast men could become when so backed against a wall.
“It’s nowt!” groaned Tomas. “Nowt but a flesh wound!” And taking up his sword once more, the simple soldier rose and returned to the fray. A flesh wound, indeed; the spearpoint had not pierced so deeply. Yet that was scarce the only scratch he suffered: all about Tomas’ body were the badges of the battle borne, all of them blood-leaking and lamentable to look at. And Dan himself was no better off. Nary a span of his skin was unwounded in some way. And an eye of his he had to keep shut, for flowing over it was a redness seeping from a scathe at his scalp.
Oh, what mettle. What Men. After conveying a barely conscious Kunz to the alliance healers, the two had hardly thought to stay. Nay; back into the battle they had hasted. Back to the frontlines so livid and afire. And there had they fought on, flinching or fleeing never once. Mainful were their efforts; feats worth many a merit. But in such course, they had accrued injuries of a number they could neglect no longer.
“Stand back, Stick and Stone!” at them barked a nearby brave. “Leave the fray to us!”
“Fie! Worry not, lad!” Tomas barked back. “We’re ’ere t’stay! T’bar th’breach with us dead bodies, if needs e’er be!”
“Aye, aye!” echoed Dan. “We’ll fights with ye, we will! All till the end!”
Grateful the two were for the concern. But being now so deep in the cauldron of reckoning, upon an hour when a single sword could decide the day, they dared not retire. Still, this swayed little the braves battling about them.
“Not with wounds like that, you c—”
“Good friend, we’re fightin’ t’protect th’wounded, ain’t we! Th’weary! Th’woeful!” argued Tomas. “Wot’s a scratch ’ere but a scar spared from ’nother, eh!?”
“Aye! So fret ye not ’bout us!” Dan added.
And next was seen in the braves a look of silent wonder. Such forcible words scarce became these men, so uncouth and bucolic of countenance as they were. Yet, in beholding their cheer so hale when yet their bodies were so bent and ablood, the braves could not help but perceive in their words a wind to lift the dourest spirit.
Assay with sincerity; fight the good fight—in so doing may a Man prove himself worthy of Nafílim trust. Such was ever an aim of Rolf’s, its fulfilment continuing unto this very moment. Of course, neither Dan nor Tomas themselves were privy to this private principle of the rebel’s. Yet even in their ignorance did they echo it. Yes; in conduct, demeanour, and mettle, they echoed clear the rebel’s roar.
“Reight! Back t’battle!” cried Tomas. “Stay with me, Dan! It’s make or break from ’ere on!”
At these last hours of light was the Dēlūbrum a fane infiltrated, though whether that would serve enough to win the day, none here knew. Foes most formidable yet prowled the inner premises, after all. And withal had the alliance scouts got wind of an enemy detachment mustering and vanishing from the battle altogether—likely sent in pursuit of the infiltrating few.
Such news had been evil for all the alliance to hear. Thus no more could their covert comrades be burdened. No more could the enemy be allowed to move. A step yielded here could spell the end of all things. This the two simpletons understood all too well.
“Always am!” Dan answered Tomas. And glancing to the braves, he bellowed, “With us, ev’ryone! Till the end! All till the end!!”
And then they were all of them roused; and with hope brighter in their hearts, they hied them further into the hot fray. Beyond any to question, this was to be the final act. Thus did they vow once more: to fight unto the bitter, uttermost end.
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“Have you gone mad…!?”
An outburst, strained and strident, spewing from the lips of Anette, Under-Mareschal to the 2nd. Upon her face were furrows more hard and harsh than was its usual—much, much more so.
Foes had infringed upon the Dēlūbrum, and in response had she given chase. Of course, the outside fray for the defence of the fane earned her every concern, but with perils on the prowl for Balbreau, the supreme commander in this battle and withal the lord of this land, Anette had not the luxury of choice. Either fly to the king-piece’s succour, or be met with a surgical checkmate—the answer was clear.
Still, the infiltrators, though few, were no fangless hares to be hunted; having penetrated defences so desperate and determined, they were, indeed, enemies with each in him the main and mettle of many a man. And so must they be matched in mightier measure—not least because to count amongst them was Rolf the ruin-spell himself. No; so wicked a wolf was not to remain amok. The marquis had protection aplenty, to be sure, and upon the upper storeys had been posted some of the fiercest sons of Yoná. But on this day so dire, Anette was loath to leave aught to chance.
Hence had she handed command of the 2nd to Felix, and taking with her a mustering of knights, had hurried into the Dēlūbrum basilica. Yet, before she could set foot upon any higher a floor wherein Rolf was sure to lurk, Anette instead had found herself and her knights halted—
—not a moment after making their entrance.
“I would have this explained at once! Alfred Isfält!” she thundered on. Verily; barring her way was none other than the marquis’ son himself. And, as well, one other: a woman soldier of the Salvators, standing hammer-ready afore him.
“Did you not hear my words?” Alfred answered sternly. “You shall not pass.”
That was no thin threat. About the feet of the unleashed lordling, there strewed the bodies of a number of knights—all laid low by Alfred in their haste ahead of Anette.
“‘Not pass’?” the under-mareschal rasped. “Why!? When to let us pass would see your lord father saved!”
“That ‘father’ but fostered me for his own profit,” Alfred countered. “Nay—I mark such a man no father of mine.”
Nor that coin-loving codger, for that matter, the sorcerer inly added, bitterly recalling his begetter back at the old mansion. Timo would protest against a thing so vain as revenge, I’m sure. But… would I?
“You mean to mingle with the enemy, do you!? Devils that they are!?” Anette pressed him.
“My dear Under-Mareschal. Neglectable, name-unworthy Under-Mareschal,” Alfred emphasised. “Yes, indeed—I do.”
“The sin upon your soul…!” hissed Anette. Her temples pulsed, her face fumed—as did those of all the knights now seething at her side. The lordling afore her had merely meant to air plain his new purpose, yet it well-seemed his words were as much a gauntlet thrown down. “And you!” Anette hissed again, looking lividly next at Malena. “Salvator archwife! You dare sin by his side, then!?”
“Aye! I do!” answered Malena, clear and echoing.
This pleased Anette as would worms in her wine. “The… blasted backwater that begat you…!” she spat at the backstabbing Salvator. “Have you the foggiest of what devilry writhes in your deed!?”
“I don’t know nowt ’bout deeds an’ devilruh,” said Malena, “but I’m ’ere to do wot’s right! An’ that’s that!”
Anette trembled. Her patience was passing its limit. On this day had the holy mountain been marched on, its Dēlūbrum defiled with feet profane. For as devoted a devout of the Deiva as she, already had her temper been tested enough.
But now, this. Two kindred of Man, committing the unspeakable sin of forsaking Yoná. Oh, how boastful in their blasphemy did they stand afore the under-mareschal. This Alfred, in particular. A son of the marquis though he may be, to make so vaulting an overture for defection was as to mark himself a sure enemy of Realm and Heaven both.
“One last chance…!” seethed Anette with failing restraint. “This I allow you! Lay down your arms… or lie in the earth a traitor…!”
“I am no traitor. No longer, anyway,” answered Alfred, “for on this day have I sworn to stop betraying myself.”
The under-mareschal stood speechless, ears red, eyes wroth. Throughout the basilica all about, bellows from the outside battle echoed terribly, yet plainly audible now were her teeth, clenching and clattering away. But with a full-lunged breath, Anette balmed her burning ire. Only, the act ill-stilled the quaking in her hand—
—as she raised it high and gestured it forth strong.
“Kill them!!”
With that thundercrack command, her knights sprang forth, swords aflash. Malena met the challenge, leaping in headlong, hammer in hand, whilst behind her, Alfred poised his staff and prepared his sorcerous answer.
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Chapter 5 ─ End
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