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Vol.5, Ch.5, P.4

 

“Council all concluded, I take it?” speaks the Knight Stefan. “Already my blade pines for the next dance. You had best hope your whispers prove some profit.”

“Hark, braves! The last wind is come!” declares Erika, eye and blade trained upon the mareschal. “Elude his next attack! For thence, unto him we fly! One and all!”

“Hearts ahowl—very good,” says our enemy, his menace soft and stern. “Now, show me their fangs!”

Moving his body abrupt, the hero-knight sweeps forth his silversword. And like leaves blown by a gust, we braves bound back in avoidance. Afore us passes the sigh of death. Most are spared the invisible assault; others splatter unto the slopes in pieces. A grievous sight to see… but still, staying our bitterness with clasped hilts and clenched teeth, we Reùlingen lunge forth unto the final fray.

“Heaaahh!!” thunders Erika, charging at the head, her steel glinting under the grey sun whilst a meagre mass of knights muster to their mareschal’s defence. And with flourish more fleet and fair than ever I’ve seen of her, Erika strikes dead a foe in a single stroke.

“Wuoohh!!”

“Zyaahh!!”

And there the gallantries of Guido and Gunthar roar, their spears sprinting for the kill. I can see it clear in them: how set their souls are upon this last assault; how they mean to spend all power of thought and thew to win this through. And all too fain to follow them, I cast aside my staff, throw myself into the warring throes, and cry out:

“Hæleþmund!”

A cry accompanied by a rumbling boom as realmers and Reùlingen crash and lock. Amidst the chaos, I match a fist to the knight foremost in my sights. A shriek slashes the air; metals grind and gurgle—my fist has neared its mark, but without so much as a touch, it dents deep his silver breastplate.

Such is the spell Hæleþmund, ensorcelling my hands with husks of solid stormwinds and making of them hammers to mar even armours. Not in reach nor power can it compare to the spell of Knight Stefan, but that is fine enough. Being a mêlée magick, I can maintain it through many a strike—a flexibility this frenzy now requires dear of me.

“Daaahh!”

“Gurh… hrakh!?”

Another knight collapses, sword knotted and armour crumpled by my hand. Onwards I strive in the strife, wreaking strike after wind-shored strike. So, too, do Erika and all the Reùlingen vanguard assay in the assault, for they know as I: that very, very soon is the day to be decided.

“Syet!”

“Rreahh!”

The battle burgeons on. Swords jump and spears joust; friend and foe fall with every second to pass. Two minutes now it is nigh, and yet is the hero-knight’s horror-blade to be brandished again. For true, his next reaping ought be ready; mayhaps our dire charge distracts him sore? And his óðilr-weaving withal?

“Khwagh!?”

There! The last of the vanguard foes to fall! The Knight Stefan stands without defence!

“Desperation and disturbance both…! I see it now!” so bellows the hero-knight now alone. “You mean to muddle my magick! Don’t you!?” And there, first seen in this battle, is a furrow upon the mareschal’s face. But though now uncalmed and confronted with our imminent onslaught, he dares not yield. “Futile! The farce—it ends!”

With sinew, sword, and spirit accelerated, the hero-knight challenges our desperate charge. As a surging sea we braves are; yet, we but break against the mareschal and his barrier of bladework. Yes, for true: it is he alone against our thronging scores, a singular Man staying a tide with naught save his mastery of the sword. A sight to astound—still, we ourselves yield not; scores swell into a hundred and more as the wrath of Reù crashes down upon the Knight Stefan!

Not yet has he unleashed his spell…!

Not yet can he!

But we can! The last blow—it is ours to land!

“Wuuooaah!!”

“Nnggh!”

There, I feel it: a stammer in my storm-fists. Some blow was dealt; a blink, and I next find flying from the Knight Stefan’s shoulder a streak of red. His face winces; mayhaps below the roar of battle has he groaned in anguish. Still, in a passing glance, I espy his eyes yet agleam—

—like a tiger poised for another pounce.

“The blade…!” I scream. “The blade!!”

And right as I do, so does the knight-sword swing. A flash of a slash from the centre-guard—too swift, too sudden for any to escape. And yet, escape it we braves must try.

And there, my memories race. Back I go from these slopes. Back through the march; back to Arbel—back to the mock battle with the rebel of black.

Rolf.

My newest friend. My fellow fancier of dragons and all lores of yore. With sword alone did he silence the blades of my Hildewiða. Nary a match for the Dēcollāns Ruptūra that magick was, for true. But truer still, it was neither a thing to be scried by the naked eye.

Nevertheless, scry it Rolf did—every one of its six nigh-unsensible blades. And therein lies the lesson: to rely less upon the eye; to seek the secret in the seams.

The scything spell of the Knight Stefan, therefore… what is it but a mere extension of his sword? Straight and true as the mind of its master? And if it be straight and true, then it ought be in me to elude!

Yes! Recall!

Recall the regard of Rolf Man-brave! His fearless face! His daring deftness! His smooth and even sundering of perils imperceptible!

And then…

…and then be as he!

A soul staunch as steel!

How my flesh wishes to flee, but I brook it not—instead, I goad it. To stand its ground; to secure my sight as it fixes upon the hands of the hero-knight. And as I sense his ghost-like blade gaining nigh, I bend all my body low, head-to-heel.

Óðilr sweeps over my pate. Like falling snow, I feel it—just as I feel all my flesh missed by the magicked blade. At once, I look up. Guido, Gunthar, and Erika, too, are each in one piece, pressing themselves close to the sloping ground.

 

A ground that is aflood.

Running with the red life of our…

 

…nay! Nay! This is the moment!

We must press on!

As the sword of Knight Stefan exhausts, we surviving four fly unto him once more. No other choice is left us. Like the knights, our vanguard, too, once hundreds-strong, is now lost. Distance cannot deliver us, nor magicks of caution. Not anymore. No—here is where the hammer must fall!

“Hh—!?”

But then, an icy sigh soughs down my spine—

—for hard and knife-like yet is the hero-knight’s stare.

Hands in haste, he turns his sword and sets it upon another sweep.

The reaping… it repeats!

Had he always such a card up his sleeve!? The twice-come cut, never drawn till this day!? This hour!? This moment!?

Stefan Cronheim…!

A fox of a foe! A demon of a deceiv—

—Zshrash.

The sound of sundered flesh. A sound my heart hates. But what I feel next, it hates even more: a palm pressing my pate and all my body low.

A palm large and callused, as that of…

“G… Gunthar…!”

Peering up, I perceive him. Sweat beads about his brow. A smile lingers upon his lips. A line streaks across his bosom. Perfect and perforated, it bursts with blood, and then…

 

…and then, reveals his body riven in two.

 

“Hh…! Hhraaa—ahh!!”

A scream escapes my lungs. Were I my former self, of days long dusked and eyes steeped in book-dust, for true would I have fainted here and had myself next hewn. But no longer am I the boy.

I am a brave.

A brave of victorious Reù!

To win again today! And sing of our dear sacrifices tomorrow!

Thus do I rise as my friend falls. Rise and roar—to find my foe finishing his sweep and returning his sword to a guarded stance. The reaping is ended, then; a third stroke cannot follow. None!

“Come! Have at me! Hero and all!” howls the Knight Stefan. And so have at him I do.

Feeding my Hæleþmund all the óðilr I can muster, I then lunge unto him, fists quaking, breaths seething. Erika and Guido set upon him just the same, casting their own dice into this wicked wager.

And still is the Knight Stefan a foe unfaltering. With a twist, he turns Erika’s blade. With a spring, he escapes Guido’s spear. With a flinch, he foils my flailing fists. And in between, he brandishes his silversword; and striving against it, we wince and wend our weary bodies.

Five exchanges. Ten. Twenty. Our lungs languish. Our sinews scream. But we stop ourselves not. No—not till the taste of victory lies sweet upon our tongues!

“Tseeaahh!” thunders the hero-knight. He, too, is spent, spurring now his flesh with only the force of his spirit. A chance—like a lone star in a lightless sky. Now, to chase it!

“Zyaahh!”

“Rruoohh!”

“Heaa—ahh!!”

Thunder answers thunder; wringing out the last of our strengths, we remaining three throng again upon the mareschal. In this instant that so beseems an eternity, sword, spear, and fist converge. And then…

 

“…Death!”

 

So vaults the voice of Knight Stefan. His eyes, his blade—his whole being is now bent upon me—and me only. A matter of course; being but a wayward wiċċa, a boy in this battle of brawns, I have let slip an opening unawares. And nearing now to stab it true is a length of bloody silver.

Ah…

Time.

It stretches.

All moves as molasses.

All sounds wane to a whisper.

And at that moment, I see intervening, bursting in between us a fair and familiar face—

—one pale with more panick than ever I have seen in it before.

 

‘…You have me to protect you…’

 

Since springs long past: her favourite phrase.

Her purest promise.

But also in that moment, I see it: our fates to follow this dear sacrifice of Erika’s.

The sword of Knight Stefan would stab her flesh. Thence, with not a breath in between, it would fly and fell me next. There is no escape. The opportunity, the angle—all the pieces are in place for this fey sword-flash to find us. A fine fencer, for true, the Knight Stefan. The finest of the age.

Yet, not even the hero-knight himself can see all ends.

No; this end, I pen for myself. For the future of my folk. For our feet to walk onwards upon this world. For aught and all dear to me—

—my body bolts.

Without wit, without thought: forwards it flies.

For it feels from the pit of its beating heart that no other deed can be done.

Of this, I am sure.

 

“Erika…!!”

I stretch forth a frantic hand. Unto her body it alights. Like a feather she now seemed…

“Walte—”

…as the winds from my hand blow her back and away.

 

Pain then pangs my belly.

Something burrows through my flesh.

Something sharp. Something silver.

But I care not.

For all care left in me, I leave with my other hand.

To bring it forth unto my final foe.

And show him my final feat!

 

“Sċeaþatán!!”

 

∵

 

‘…How now, Wally…
…Don’t cry…
…’Tis only a book…!’

‘…But…’

‘…Fine, then… You stay here…
…while I go to get it back…
…But if troubles ever come again…
…tell me swift…!’

‘…’

‘…Come on…
…Up, up now, Wally…
…I’m here for you…
…Here to protect you…’

‘…’

‘…Wally…?
…Come on…
…To your feet…’

‘…me, too…’

‘…Hm…?’

‘…You have me, too…
…to protect you someday…

 

…someday, for true…’

 

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