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Vol.5, Ch.6, P.1

 

“Haaah…”

Broken away from another bluster of blades, I drew in a measured breath. Ahead, Sven assayed the very same. Clashing, cutting, and breaking away; clashing, cutting, and breaking away—such had been our deathly loop, repeated more times than I cared to count.

“Phew, dear me! You’re quite living up to the rumours, aren’t you?” remarked Sven. “Nay—you’ve far outdone them, dare I say.”

Not some cajolery that was; after numberless blows exchanged, it was clear whose was the superior technique. Still, with the Sacrāmentum in Sven’s hands, my advantage was proving vain, for by the holy blade’s workings would my foe’s every wound, however lethal, link and close completely.

“A shame my blade ill-meets your ‘rumours’,” I returned.

“Oh, be not so hard on that thing,” Sven mocked knowingly. “There’s simply no magick here to unmake. For you see, mine is Yoná’s miracle made manifest: Arturovna! Mathom-brand!”

With that, Sven poised it proudly: the Sacrāmentum “Arturovna”. If memory serves, such had been the name of a holy man of old; a disciple of St Rakliammelech’s, no less. Yet, something felt amiss. Immediately, I plied my thoughts.

For a so-called “miracle”, it seemed rather… unholy in the way it went about its business. Nay; it must be a magick, if even of a seldom or subtle sort. And the sword itself: by my measure, its make scarce became a sacred relic, much less a vaunted vestige of ancientry.

Was that the truth of it, then? That the Sacrāmenta were naught but arms etched with magicks most meticulous in contrivance? Victory ought be in reach, if so. For were that sword of Sven’s truly but a wellspring as I imagined, pouring into him a perpetual supply of odyl with which to instantly administer its “miracle”, then by the soot-steel might that flow be severed—and with it, Sven’s own life.

Had I but realised this sooner. Hitherto had I slashed away solely at Sven’s vitals; but graze or gash, the Sacrāmentum would mend it in a flash. And it helped little that ever would his slithering reflexes milden what damage he received. Nay, I had to disarm him, somehow; hew his hands free of that blasted sword, for instance, and render him as mortal as any other man. Yet even that was its own trove of troubles. Were he a run-of-the-mill bladesman, sure… but he whom I faced was a sword-devout, the very most valiant of all the Salvators. Doubtless he would espy such intention, at best… or turn it against me, at worst.

“Come now, Rolf-lad,” said Sven, sensing my silence. “No need to tremble in your boots. Show me what a bull that brawn has made of you.”

A clear taunt. I should like to take him up on it, of course, and end this bother in a single blow. But going by his calibre alone, it would take more than that to bring him down.

“I prefer to prowl before the pounce,” was my answer.

“Oh? Pity,” Sven almost chuckled. “A claw too careful lets flee the fattest kill.”

…Yet no prey can fly forever. Yes; drawing out our duel was certainly another option. The Arturovna… it and all other Sacrāmenta alike must demand some risk or recompense from the wielder. Pure conjecture on my part, admittedly; but never is power implored without a price—especially from a god. For its part, I reckoned the Arturovna to be exacting from Sven a great wage, be it his fleshly stamina or even the very wick-and-wax of his life-candle.

Albeit, over-tarrying would test, too, my own limits. A moment distracted from the marquis meant more and more losses mounted upon my comrades. And that’s to say little of my opponent. Swordcrafty he was, keen to capitalise on every opening—the exact sort of fighter to love a long duel. And if my luck so far served any sign, I wagered the fates had something in store well before the final act.

“Haah…”

No good. Peace, Rolf. Breathe. Clear your head. Damning yourself in dead-end thoughts would only play into Sven’s hand.

“What’s this?” sneered the Salvator. “Ah… Well, well. You’re more brains than brawn than you’ve let on.”

That smile of his. Unsaddled it was. Unsaddled and smug. To suffer over and again blade wounds fatal would fray the nerves of any fighter, even had he a mending magick on his side. Yet here did Sven seem stirred not in the slightest. There was no question about it: battle was his bread and butter—and had been for perhaps longer than my hands had known the sword.

No helping that, at any rate. With mind renewed, I studied Sven. The movement of his muscles, the rhythm of his respiration, his very gait and gaze; any subtlety that might betray an opening. But in so doing, I espied something most unsought:

Another figure.

There, far behind Sven, coming forth from the Dēlūbrum proper.

“What have we here?” the Salvator cooed, perceiving the new presence. “Ought you be busy elsewhere?”

“Not to worry,” the figure distantly answered. “The affairs outside I’ve left to the rest. Trust in them—they are as keen as they come, I assure you.” Beside Sven the figure then stopped before turning a gaze my way. A man I saw it to be—knightly yet youthful of face, crowned with combed locks painted sepia in the sunset. And after a second of examining me, he said with suave, “Nay. My business, indeed, more beckons me here: where lurks our most mainful foe.”

His voice and visage—they were not unknown to me.

“Stefan Cronheim…” I uttered.

The knight gave a grin. “You remember. I’m pleased,” he said. “It truly is a small world. Wouldn’t you say, Officer Buckmann?”

That the mareschal to the 2nd Order should recall me in turn was more the surprise. Certainly had we found ourselves in the same room on countless occasions before, when I yet served as Emilie’s swain. But more certain still was that on those summons to Central, never had swain and 2nd mareschal shared a single word.

Down then he looked. Down to the weapon girt at his belt. “The heart weeps to cross swords with an old acquaintance. Nevertheless…” A length of light next gleamed. Silver slid from scabbard, brightsome under the dusking sky—a slow, simple display twisting tense all the mountain air. “…The deed deserves doing.”

My senses jumped. My sinews braced. From Cronheim’s stance, I perceived it. Nay; rather, I was made to: that permeating this man was strength most extraordinary.

This was it. The fates had revealed their hand. It was two swords now that I must face: that of the vaunted Salvator’s… and of the far-hailed hero-knight’s.

“My good Mareschal Cronheim, how now,” interjected Sven with a shrug of his shoulders. “What knight so sung and nobly named would deign entertain a two-on-one? Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

Tinged with a hint of hostility that was. My guess: this Salvator did not much like knights, or any so wont to wax philosophical on the field of battle, for that matter.

“My good Lord Sven. War is war,” answered Cronheim. “With the enemy now set to move on our king-piece marquis, we must needs bring all the board to bear.”

Sven grinned and chuckled. “Good. We’re agreed.”

Splendid. Just splendid. If ever there was a devil’s juggle, this would surely be it. Handling Sven with his Sacrāmentum was bothersome enough; with Cronheim now in the picture, I was as a boar caught between two tigers.

Perhaps their coordination would prove less than perfect? That seemed now the only path to victory, much less survival: some stutter in their teamwork to twist to my advantage.

“Ah—might that be the one? The blade of black?” Cronheim asked amidst my thoughts. And there I found him fixed upon my sword, his gaze deep with wonder. “I see…” he uttered, “…it is a most splendid specimen, I must admit.”

“Think so, too, do you?” I answered, poising the weapon meanwhile. “Lo, the night-like steel—how it tempts the eye.”

“Indeed. And, oh, how it stirs,” Cronheim then noted, “with something… something…”

…Something wroth.

Verily could there be felt in the soot-steel a flicker of fury ever so faint. But for whom or what was beyond me to guess.

“…Nay. Never mind,” Cronheim relented. “Twilight looms; let us be done with this dance.”

No sooner had our parley expired than did the mareschal speed unto me, his body and blade all in a blur. Lightning flashed—nay, a stab of his sword it was, nearing now with deathsome celerity.

No time to escape. I jerked my arms, defying the thrust with a last-instant deflection. Sparks flew. Silver disappeared. But just when I thought it was my turn to tussle, right beside me asudden was Sven, blade ready for a disembowelling blow.

“Seht!” he snarled spiritedly, and forth his offence flew, sweeping like the Reaper’s scythe. Under it I ducked, and towards the Salvator himself rolled in elusion. Aknee and now anear him, I unleashed a wide swipe of my own.

But not easily was he to be taken. Twisting away, he whisked himself out of view—and who to replace him was Cronheim, keen to cleave me clean.

“Khh!” I grunted. A counter was off the table; taking a hint from Sven, I, too, leapt far and away from the onset, standing ready straightway upon my landing.

“Hmph. Ever a prey to surprise,” grumbled Sven. “Little wonder he’s lived this long.”

“Best ware ourselves, then, we hunters,” Cronheim conceded. Not that ever could I have expected any slouching from him.

Albeit, dispirited though they sounded, I was even more so. Here was I, hoping they’d cohere worse than they’d let on. Proud and mighty swordsmen they were, after all, the very sort to shirk a shared spotlight. But nay; they were instead a duo as deadly as could be. Worse still, more cohesive again they would become as our clash continued.

What evil. More and more, the odds were stacking against me.

“Dēcollāns Ruptūra!”

And there to overshadow them all was Cronheim’s thundercrack invocation—the bladespell with which he had forged his battlefield infamy.

 

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