Vol.5, Ch.6, P.2
Up the hero-knight hove his sword. Yet, despite its ensorcellment, nary a change was come upon it to be seen; and though poised from many a pace away, Cronheim did not pelt unto me in assault. No; he but swung it down whence he stood.
At once, bells blared in my brain. Death was near. Death from a distance. Spurred, I hurled myself aside. But sighting my response, Cronheim promptly rounded his sword back into a scything sweep. Alarums howling louder yet, I rose and brandished down the black blade. Through the air beside me it slashed—brisk, but ultimately empty air. Yet amidst the swing, I sensed something to have been severed… and extinguished. My guess: some ghostly stream—ghostly and odyllic—had just been flowing forth to mow me down.
“…Fancy that,” uttered a distant Cronheim. “Never mind magicks; your blade cuts odyl itself.”
I gripped my weapon warily. That just now; beyond all doubt was it an assault unseen: the blade of Sir Stefan the Unsullied, storied for its invisible brutality. A chill then seized my spine. That’d been an escape too close-run; but thanks to the sword of soot, it was an escape nonetheless.
“But, heavens above. To have solved my twice-swung puzzle—and on the first try, no less…” Cronheim continued. “Rolf Buckmann. You are an opponent most appalling.”
Spoken with soft astonishment. Sven beside him, too, was beset with wonder. Yet that had been no fluke. During that slice of a second had it flashed in my mind: the mock battle back at Arbel. There, too, had Walter’s Hildewiða been an attack hard-detected. But now was it proving the very preparation I needed to counter Cronheim’s infamous bladespell.
I owed Walter a great debt for this. Our friendship was allowing me now a longer life, if even by a little. Yet as I contemplated my friend yet unaccounted-for, it seemed Cronheim had something to say on the very matter:
“Why, I ought measure you mightier than the hero-wiċċa himself.”
My lungs stopped. I looked at him hard. “…It was you, then?”
“It was, indeed,” answered the Unsullied. “I did it. I dealt him his death.”
“…”
I stood silent.
Walter…
Deep down, I had my suspicions. Deep down, I had been bracing myself for the bad news. Still, these ears of mine had desired none the more to hear the harbinger—especially were his the very hands that had done the deed.
“You were friends, I take it?” asked Cronheim.
“Aye,” I groaned in answer. Like snow, a lull then settled upon the scene. And at length, I spoke again. “…What of the others? His braves? Comrades?”
“Slain—in droves,” Cronheim revealed. “Though some’ve slipped the net.”
My brows sank. “…I see.”
It was certain that the 2nd had returned southerly to the summit. That alone foretold enough of a Reùlingen defeat. And having for long been a folk so buttressed, so invigorated by the valour of Walter, like as not, a defeat for Reù had ever and always meant further the death of their hero. Oh, how I had wished otherwise. That theirs had rather been a retreat of prudence; that Walter were yet alive somehow, somewhere. But as far as I could tell, Cronheim here was lipping no lie… a candidity I never thought could be so cruel.
“Most formidable he was, your friend,” he said. “Unto the very last.”
“…Of course he was.”
War and loss. Both are as wedded as sun and sky. Raise the banners, draw the blade, and out comes the blood… from enemy and friend alike. Thus, to walk the way of war is ever to wear woe upon one’s heart—to accept that a friend today may be a funeral tomorrow.
…Indeed. I must accept it. This news. This loss.
I must.
“Shyeh!”
“Ach!?”
Without notice, Sven’s sword had sprang in assault, and I to defend had deflected it before recoiling clear away. But then, stabbing me through was a stare most intent. Glancing back, I found Cronheim poised again, distant as ever, with his sword aloft in the high guard.
Silver flickered. The air whistled. And as they did so, I threw myself aside once more, escaping the sightless blade by the skin of my teeth. And finding foothold, I fled further away from Sven, set already as he was for another assault.
“Haaah…!” I breathed harshly, now halted and holding ready again my blade.
That just now: that had been a blunder on my part. A blatant one. In my despair for a fallen friend had I exposed an opening, tiny though it was. A terrible turn, this. Nay, I must focus. Focus on the fight afore me—no matter the weight on my heart.
Buoying myself, I hardened my hands about the black hilt. And with careful feet, I drew away from my foes whilst surveying again the distances betwixt us.
That sightless onset… I should like to lunge in and silence its wielder long before he could do me the same favour, but there was also Sven to consider. Doubtless the Salvator was anticipating such a play with an offence of his own. And all that accounted little the third foe I faced here: my conscience, in all its vexation and vacillation. Once more might it betray me. Once more might it feed me to the wolves. Uneased now by the thought, my eyes quickened, and in their view was seen again Cronheim cutting empty air with a waist-level stroke.
Straightway, I wheeled the black blade to break the ghostly attack, but amidst the effort, I sensed that soon might it prove a mistake—for Sven had pounced again, his body and blade prepared for a low and slithering strike.
A snare of two swords. One unseen; the other serpentine. In a unified flash, they converged square unto me.
“Kghh!” I gasped. In the nick of time had I aborted my bladework and bounded swiftly away. Only, I had not fled without foulness: upon my landing, there ran through my lower leg a spike of pain. I glanced, and glimpsed then a red warmth gushing from a graze: Sven’s sword had found its mark, if only by the sharp odyl that had enwreathed it.
“Oh? Landed, did it?” smirked the Salvator. “Tsk, tsk. Dull now, are we?”
Dull, for certain. Hitherto had I assayed to accept loss. The loss of my future, my family… my friends. Yet in this hour was the folly unfurled: that all I had accepted was the mere fact. My feelings, whereas… nay, they were yet haunted. By the pain, the sorrow; and not yet, it seemed, was I so capable of shutting them away as I had thought. For at this moment, the very memory of Walter, of a friend newly made and untimely lost, was as a weepful blade plunging slowly into my breast.
Hensen. I recalled then of Hensen. Namely, of another friend found and fallen there—and on the same day, the same night, no less.
Berta. How tragic it was to lose you so soon. Were the fates more kind, I question not that even further might our fellowship have flowered.
But such is Death. Ever and always the unsought visitor. And withal to wagers of war as we: a stalker too intimate. Thus was Walter himself taken untimely. A good fellow forgiven never again to smile upon us.
I had wanted to meet him again. After the dust settled: to share with him further our interests, our achievements. And not just for a time, but for tomorrow and on.
But… alas!
“…”
What pain.
How much more must this bitter draught be drunk? For how much longer must sit screaming in the belly? I knew not. But even had I, doubtless this hurt would hound me none the lesser.
On and on, my thoughts darkened. And deeper into them I sank. My sinews, my bones, my very breath—all were now as leaden as boulders.
“Seahh!”
“Eggh!”
Once again: a twinned attack. Yet, by some stroke of luck, I stood my ground and survived the assault, breaking the mareschal’s bladespell and turning away the Arturovna. And summoning what mettle yet lived in me, I assayed a swing of my own. But instead of Sven’s flesh, the soot-steel found only air to cut, for its Quireman mark had quickly whisked himself away.
“Haa… haah…!” I panted. My hands fell. How horribly the black blade now weighed.
“The beast flags,” Sven noted over his shoulder to Cronheim. “At this rate, I reckon we’ll have him carved and spitted very soon.”
Another crossing of swords too close-run that’d been. And whilst I had escaped it uncut, it was small consolation; for had any slower my response been, without question would I have joined Walter and Berta in the great aether.
Nay, this was most foul. My sinews, my spirit, my steel—all were wasting away. Not in this state could I hope to endure the day, much less even the next attack. And so, to rally myself, I tensed taut my feet against the floor and made battle-blithe all my body once more.
For not yet was the fight finished.
And fight it—finish it I must.
Yes; this was all that was left me. As a survivor; as one with lungs yet burdened to breathe, I must fight on!
Unto the end!
Even should I be the very last to stand!
“I, too, have known loss. Unimaginable loss. And the wounds—they weep in me still.”
Those words. How soft and stern they were. And there, I found Cronheim, condolent of countenance.
“Take it from me, Buckmann,” he continued. “Not so easily does one escape the quagmire.”
I stood stupefied. The mountain air blew wintrily asudden.
Thrash and thraw as you please; the misery of Death clutches fast and for evermore.
The crux of Cronheim’s message, delivered unto my heart with the honesty of a hammer full-hoven. Crack, I heard on the inside. And then, a shatter; and deeper and deeper, I plunged into panick. From cheek to chin ran rills of rimy sweat. Pit-pat, pit-pat, the floor went. And as one aface a prey freshly snared, unto me then did Cronheim train his silversword.
“Your path has brought you far, Buckmann,” he commended me. “But here: it ends.”
“No it won’t, ya wappet.”
…
Through the scene resounded a new voice—and from behind me, new footfalls besides. Looking back, I saw him: a man in ambling approach, coming now from the terrace doorway and carrying over his shoulder a length of lax, sun-gleaming steel.
And at that moment, a fresh wind welled in me.
Yes… Yes, of course.
Ever would there be those to leave this world. But just the same would there be ones to stay: friends yet fain to face fate; friends to stand ever by my side.
Indeed…
…I am not so alone, after all.
And never was.
Such a simple and oft-spoken truth; but reminded of it anew, I found myself beset with emotion. To which did a set of fangs flash and the voice so familiar shout, “Oi, Rolf! Wash off that soppy face o’ yours! The fun’s jus’ gettin’ started!”
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