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Vol.5, Ch.5, P.8

 

War wuthered and wailed. Blades barked and broke. Men murdered Men.

With each passing second did the eastern slopes redden. And amidst the toil and tumult, Dennis heard them: voices of ill portent. From his opponent knights of the 1st they echoed, clear and strong—as though intended, too, for his own ears.

“…The 2nd wins the south…!”

“…Mareschal Cronheim endures…!”

 

“…The devil Walter is no more…!”

 

Dennis doubted his senses. But any denial died right upon the vine. This evil news; it was no lie. And how could it be? The 1st were proud; never would they deign deceive and cheat their way to triumph. Not that any such tricks were needed here, to begin with, no.

That was the way of it, then. The Reùlingen were lost. Lost of battle. Lost of the life of their hero Walter.

Dennis stood there with sword stayed and eyes blank. He recalled then the hero-wiċċa’s features, exactly as he had beheld them on that day at the Arbel war council. What brightness of gaze. What humbleness of heroism. What shining hope for the future.

Gone.

What was it by now? The count of coldened bodies? Of acquaintances and companions, cast untimely from this mortal coil? Too many for a man like Dennis. Too many flowers offered at too many burials. But for the first time in his life, soon was he to set one such stem upon the headstone of a Nafíl.

‘…We fight, we win, we live…
…By then, the bad blood will’ve a-wash’d away…
…By then, we’ll be a warmer lot than we be today…’

Such words had Dennis proffered to Walter. Winter-sown seeds, never now to know the light of spring. And ever as he pondered this, Dennis perceived in his heart another first in his life: a panging pain for a Nafíl’s passing.

“…‘Warmer lot’, indeed,” he murmured wryly. “I’ll miss the lad.”

But at that moment—

“Levis Cremātiō!”

—warmth waxed to a hellish heat. Yonder afield, a flame-brand billowed unto wings and washes brightsomely ablaze. And thundering with them was the voice of Estelle Tiselius.

The whispers were spoken true; that the 1st’s mareschal was not one to shy away from the frontlines. Yes, indeed; there she fought, fast in the fray, as had all her heroic peers and predecessors in their time. Hither and thither flew her flames, culling the Cutcrowns with every searing sweep. Blood boiled; flesh blackened; bones burnt to dust. Screams were smothered by moiling fires; once-proud steel reddened and writhed, as though left to wilt in a white-hot crucible.

And when such lights so lamentable reflected in the eyes of Dennis, a change came upon the Cutcrown leader. His easiness, his smooth and even aspect—all of them cracked.

For fearsome enough were the fierce and steadfast 1st. But now to reckon with their mareschal and her blade of brutal hellfire besides… it was all too much even for this master of mercenaries. His losses by now were beyond imagining, his remorse beyond bearing.

Oh, these knights of the 1st.

Never, indeed, had there been an enemy so imperious, so impenetrable.

“Dennis? Oy, Dennis?” Frieda pressed him. “You’re pale!”

Dennis looked gravely to the freelance beside him, finding her embattled—and withal betook with a tinge of terror as she beheld him in turn. And at once, his face softened. “Frieda, me love. ’Ow fair thou’st a-flower’d. Fairer still were’ee in some weddin’ silks,” he said, distant-eyed. “…A pity I’ll ne’er see the day.”

Frieda could not believe her ears. “Oy…!” she gasped. “Quit that ’apless prate!”

It was one thing to hear from Dennis’ lips so ominous an utterance. But the fatherly tone therein further froze Frieda down to her bosom. Still, there seemed to burn yet an ember of readiness in his words. Through his eyes it shone, and Frieda perceived it.

A readiness to die.

“Listen ’ere, you maund’rin’ man! This ain’t no time to give up!” Frieda cried, trying to rouse the man with a shake of his shoulder.

Dennis’ erstwhile easiness. His lackadaisical character, his jaunting jests. They were all of them a mere façade; a scab, cleaned and dressed, to conceal the wounds below of a bitter and woeful life lived. This Frieda understood very well. Hence why it was a simple matter for the freelance to espy the sorrow now seeping up from the cracks. How the sight of it affrighted her.

And certain enough, Dennis truly was resolved at that moment. Having been a mercenary of many summers, however, “resolve” to him did not necessarily mean “death”. No; it simply meant that dropped upon the proverbial table now was the option…

…to flee and forget.

“…”

Dennis turned a grim gaze back to the battle. How horrible a price it was exacting from his compatriots. And how ruthless and terrible these knights of the 1st were. He supposed, therefore, to cut his losses and command a retreat. The knights would not give chase. Of this, Dennis had no doubt. The tone of their tidings earlier was, to him, token enough of this. “Be gone, you rabble,” it had well-sounded to him, to all the Cutcrowns in earshot. “We have not the time for this farce.” And were he to swallow this mocking remedy, for certain would he and his Cutcrowns return home a lot ruthlessly halved and haunted. But better halved and haunted than wholly destroyed.

This was to be thought on. Broadly, with the Cutcrowns in peril and the Reùlingen now ruined, Londosius’ victory was all but certain. Why hang on to a hollow hope, then? It was not as though Dennis and the rest of these marchers-on-the-mountain were all bound by oath or alliance. No; as unanimously decided, they were cooperators of convenience; three armies merely agreeing to attack a common enemy at a common hour. Naught more. Who, then, might blame these embattled Cutcrowns, were they to turn tail? Indeed, ought retreating prove the wiser way?

“…Ought’ee, now?” muttered the master mercenary.

Frieda’s grip upon his shoulder laxed. “Dennis…?” she strengthlessly lipped. But the man seemed lost in thought.

With victory under their belts, the knights of the 2nd would surely return to the summit and set themselves to the Dēlūbrum’s defence. And should Dennis abandon the battle, joining them soon would be these lions of the 1st, fresh for another fray. Nay; not against knights so combined could even the vaunted Víly-Gorka alliance have any hope. And Rolf himself, despite his mainful might and ken, could not dare contend with both the Mareschals Tiselius and Cronheim at once.

Doom was looming. And oh, darkly, indeed, did its shadow press upon Dennis’ conscience.

“…”

But then, What matter? Dennis asked himself. What matter, for certain. It was his compatriot Cutcrowns that deserved his concern. Not Rolf. Not the Nafílim. Were their rightwise war to wither upon these slopes, then so be it. There were others aplenty to be waged. And that was reasonable enough.

Or… was it?

“…But turn ’ere,” Dennis mumbled on, “an’ this might well be the last o’ Frieda I’ll see, like as not…” Of this, the freelance herself knew not what to make. She stared at Dennis as she would a man with his toes teetering over some precipice. But then did the man himself turn his eyes back to his companion, and in them was a light like a lifting dawn. “Aye. Besides, I do want to see ’e for meself.”

“See what?” Frieda pressed him. “Come on, Dennis! Hang in there!”

“The world, Frieda-love,” answered Dennis. “The one wish’d for by thy rebel Rolf. ’E desires’ee above all else, methinks. A world o’ Men an’ Nafílim—in union.”

Upon this day and upon different fronts did the three armies face each their own enemies indomitable. Yes; there they all were. His fellow strugglers, fighting in desperate defiance—just there to his left and right, somewhere over the misty shoulders of Déu Tsellin. And much to the surprise of the commander of this middle army, that was an encouraging truth—one that had sustained his spirits all throughout this dire day.

Oh, to be sure. Whether or not Dennis had perceived it himself, this battle had, in fact, sown in his bosom a seed of change most meaningful. And now was it beginning to sprout.

“Aye,” Dennis said on softly. “A world gurt lush’ee be, if e’er could there be one.”

“Then win!” cried Frieda. “Live, win, an’ then you’ll see it!”

Dennis smiled at last. “The words right out o’ me mouth.”

The master mercenary had needed this moment. A moment to redouble his resolve for what was to come. And with a sure heart, he did just that. Verily; as sudden as lightning, Dennis was now resolved. For better, it is said, to decide things swift than to let them linger.

Especially upon such a place as the battlefield.

“Right!” Dennis shouted, stepping forth straight and strong. “The dance’ee be, then!”

“What dance?” asked Frieda, filled now with wonder for her dear friend.

“The slowest one, Frieda-love,” he answered, before turning a sidelong smirk. “The very slowest.”

“…Aye!”

Frieda nodded. Like a shadow under a lifting sun, her former fright faded. She knew now Dennis’ designs, and stepping forth herself, was equally resolved to see it through.

Rolf’s hands. In them was all to be left. To face the 2nd and the Salvators; to bring the Dēlūbrum to its knees. And trusting to this with all their heart, Dennis and Frieda, and soon all the Cutcrowns, would serve to stay the flood that was the 1st.

To dam the course of doom with their dead bodies, if need be.

“Then let us dance!” Frieda cried, clear and strong.

And seeing her then hasting headlong back into the fray, Dennis could not help but beam and think.

That into what a fair flower, indeed, had Frieda bloomed.

 

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