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Vol.5, Ch.6, P.4

 

“Eggh!?”

“Tch!”

Sven clucked his tongue bitterly. The strike had landed, yet the coolness so constant in him was all but killed, his countenance twisting now to a portrait of chagrin.

In that deathsome exchange, both savage and Salvator had slitted the other’s neck. For Sven’s own, its left half had all been hewn open. Severed of vital arteries, doubtless the duel would have ended there, were it not for the Sacrāmentum in his hands. A blow humbling enough for the Quireman; but as if to rub salt into his wounded pride, Sven’s revenge in turn had but shallowly sheared Sigmund’s own neck…

…failing to kill him by a mere half-digitus.

Half.

Had the holy blade bitten but that much deeper, Sigmund would surely now be dithering in his death throes. But alas; sprightly still he was, and perturbed not in the least! No; for he was yet alive, and that, to him, was all that mattered.

Thus with momentum unstalled, Sigmund rounded about and bolted straight back into the fray, betraying nary a care for the cut at his neck. And in beholding him so, Sven began to sense something squirming inside his own bosom:

A worm by the name of fear.

“Rabid cur, you!” screamed the Salvator as from his hands thundered forth a thrust of silver. Spurred and spited, by now would any other man have wavered at the blade, but not so for Sven: in the grip of the sword-devout so valiant, the Arturovna charged straight and true as it ever had done. Meanwhile, the former mercenary assayed a sway to the side, but at the last, could not wholly escape the Sacrāmentum, as the holy edge skirted past the side of his eye and ate eagerly into his ear.

Through the lobe a red cleft now ran. But Sigmund flinched not. Fearless he seemed, like a madding force of nature, as he ventured a stabbing assault of his own.

“Gahakh…!?” retched Sven, as the dread blade drave clear through his breast. Yet, ever merciless, Sigmund next snatched the blood-vomiting Salvator and sent a forehead crashing unto his nose.

“Bam!”

“Bffhah!?”

Aback Sven reeled. And aback by half a pace did Sigmund himself step, prying out of his opponent his bloodsoaked sword before intending it again for the Salvator’s stubborn neck.

“Rruaaahh!!” Sigmund roared, rearing back his blade before shooting it furiously forth. A flash shone, and out of the Quireman’s nape sprang the beastly steel, leaving behind a blast of severed flesh and spine.

“Khorh…!!” spewed Sven. His mouth belched blood. His eyes gaped aghast. At last, the beheading—it was done.

But in the next instant—”…Hn!?”—it was Sigmund’s turn to stare astonished.

Indeed; even so feral a swordsman as he could but find the ensuing sight a scene to stupefy. For the head full-hewn refused to fall, its flesh so severed by Sigmund’s blade clutching together like many tiny fingers and melding like clumps of butter scraped to a smooth plane. And just like that, whole, hale, and unharmed again was the zealot of Yoná.

Eyes red with wriggling vessels rolled and locked upon a stunned Sigmund. The Sacrāmentum, clenched still in spite of the fatal blow suffered, shot up from Sven’s side in a surprise swipe.

“Tch!!” grimaced Sigmund as he darted away in avoidance. Swift was his reaction, but not swift enough; blood shrieked and streaked as a cut wound appeared asudden upon his thigh. But now, both swordsmen stood vis-à-vis once more, paces apart, weapons poised, and nerves afire. A death-defying Sven, however, shook his head vigorously, testing his once-twained neck. It complied without flaw. His blade-driven breast, too, though torn of raiment, was now mended immaculately.

“Phew…” he respired with curled lips. “Quite the rush! But never again, thanks.”

“Back from the grave…?” Sigmund grumbled between his teeth. “A sick faerie tale, this!”

Verily; it was scarce the sight of the Sacrāmentum’s “miracle” that so sickened Sigmund, but more its blatant betrayal of nature’s workings. Sven, however, heeded not his opponent’s repulsion as he next sneered and said, “Come, lad, have a little love for faerie tales. This one should end sweetly, I assure you.”

Yet, sooner might it have ended had Sigmund swung instead the rebel’s black blade. Oh, most certainly, though neither man knew it. Suppose it had been so; as usual, the odyl from the Arturovna would have flowed immediately to Sven’s sundered neck. But in so doing would it have touched the soot-steel, voiding its virtue—all for but the briefest, mind! But such a short span would have proven long enough to let fly the hewn head—too far away, in fact, for the Sacrāmentum to reconnect in time the flesh, bones, and nerves. And so would Sven have passed then and there.

But alas, now was it clear: that in the Salvator the fates’ had found their favourite in this deadly race. Indeed, Sigmund’s caprice in selecting Sven to dance with was sore-proving now a spade digging out his early grave.

“How now, where’s that grin of yours gone, then? Hm?” mocked the Salvator, for he now found Sigmund standing grim and silent—and, as well, re-stancing steadily into a pose never before seen of him in this duel: a knightly centre guard, with back straight and sword true. Sven’s eyes widened with wonder. “…Oh?” he let leave his lips.

A full-frontwise offence—when so spent and surrounded, such would serve best; and with the checkmate so soon to be made against him, that was precisely the play in Sigmund’s mind. Sven, however, trembled neither at the change nor the challenge. In fact, he welcomed them.

Hence did Sven assume the very same stance, training straight the tip of the Arturovna to Sigmund’s eyes. How very curious, one might think of the Quireman’s answer. Why chance an honest joust with so mainful a foe? Was it not the sword-devout himself who thus far had failed in wreaking the killing blow? Much less the one to suffer them all? Nay; that, he reckoned, was largely on account of compatibility, Sigmund’s savagery being an ill match for him, as he would bitterly admit. However, were it to come down to a contest of technique, then, the Salvator surmised, should the scales tip full in his favour.

A wind billowed by. The pillars watched as they loftily loomed, twilight darkling all the while between them. And far below, the main battle rumbled and boiled away. But betwixt Sigmund and Sven, there sat now a menacing silence. Bit by tiny bit, the two men tiptoed close, each meanwhile reckoning the distance needed for the next pounce. A cutthroat calculation this was; having by this point exchanged blows beyond count, each knew now to a nicety the other’s preferred range for engagement. All that was left them was to exploit it to perfection.

One digitus. Two. Taken. Yielded. Taken again. A sight more beseeming a square-off between stern and studied swordsmen. Indeed, how very curious that these sword-deviants should, at the last, defer to orthodoxy to decide their duel.

“…”

“…”

Closer. And closer still. Two killers creeping nigh. Pit. Pi-tat. From the point of Sigmund’s chin fell a drop of sweat, followed by a bead of blood from his blade-bitten ear. And like hawks on the hunt, the two men glared and waited, each reading and deliberating the rhythm of the other’s respirations. Neither dared a blink; both roused their nerves, tasking each and every dendrite to the next draw.

“…”

“…”

Blade tips lilted and slithered slowly forth, twitching, anticipating. But at that moment, beyond either men to expect, the entire terrace tremoured asudden! And the roof groaned from high overhead! Yet, taking it as a sign, the men exploded into motion, bolting unto the other with swords soaring in the high guard!

“Sheeah!”

“Rrraah!”

Unto Sigmund’s skull flashed the Salvator’s silver. But sooner to land was the former’s steel—upon what but the Sacrāmentum amidst its swing.

Sven’s brows flinched—“Hn!?”—as in an instant, the opposing sword glode against his own—shnnk!—and there, bit into the back of his sacred blade. Forwards and downwards the two weapons plunged, their murderous momentums stopping only when together they slammed hard into the mirror-marble floor.

—Bkrakh!

A dull sound tolled: the sound of the Quire’s priceless weapon—Arturovna the mathom-brand—breaking atwain with all cruelty. And as though to wail out its last breath, the sundered blade bled a burst of odyl…

…telling at once the termination of its miraculous mending.

“Ghegh!?” Sven groaned as the impact jarred both of his hands. Sigmund, ceasing not, was already poised again in the high guard, his savage steel ready to reap.

The ace in your deck is dead. Surrender at once!

Not for a fleeting second did Sigmund fancy such words. Instead, from pommel up to point, he poured into his sword his savage spirit, and brought it all bearing down upon the Salvator.

“Wuooaah!!” he roared, and—drraffh!—shore straight through the flesh of the sword-devout. And the wound that so ensued writhed not, wove not, and altogether endeavoured naught but a profuse spill of crimson deep and bright.

“Agh… hhh…” gasped Sven as he buckled brokenly to his knees. And there, up he looked. Slowly, incredulously—eyes agape and aghast at the savage menace. The Salvator then ventured a last word, but with his throat thronging with humours, all he could produce was but a bloody gurgle.

And then, down the sword-devout went, collapsing unto the manicured marble. And the pool of red that seeped slow from his severed flesh heralded then his silent death.

It had been but a fine difference that decided their contest. In that final stroke, Sigmund had made his peace, full-prepared to expire upon his very own pool of blood. Sven, however, had dared no such thing. The Sacrāmentum would save him, he had thought. Not even a beheading was enough to fell him, after all. But ever by his own hubris is a man humbled.

“Hmph,” scoffed Sigmund. And with a swipe, he whisked clean the blood from his blade—a replacement for another broken once before.

Indeed, the technique that so ended Sven—the vieglance—was one hammered into Sigmund’s memory with the maul of humiliation. The swordsman then recalled it clear: the assault on Arbel a winter past, whereupon he had crossed swords with Rolf as an enemy, only to have his weapon cloven in two.

How it haunted his memories, his dreams, that terror of a technique. But so had it served a glint of grace, giving Sigmund on this day one last chance against Sven, the foe so fey, and to a resounding success, at that—not least against whom but he who had so confounded Sigmund’s very rival.

The thought enthralled the former mercenary, so much so that he then smiled a fang-filled smile and cried, “A fico for ya, Rolf! Hah hahahah!”

 

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