3 bar menu

Vol.5, Ch.6, P.5

 

The Dēlūbrum; third storey. There afore a grand doorway did silvered Salvators stand watch. And in the shadows out of eyeshot loitered Lise, just now discovering the contingent of Men. But she did not tarry; with daggers gripped, the jarl-daughter darted from the dim and lunged like an arrow, shooting down the hall and headlong into the Salvators’ midst.

“Seahh!”

“Gwofh!?”

Swift bladework scintillated in the sconce-light. Armour tumbled and voices leapt; and when all was settled again, Lise stood alone. Swordsmen these Salvators were; but being too fleet, the frau had allowed them not even time to draw their blades. But now was wariness needed; pressing herself against the double-doors, Lise listened in, and heard beyond the barrier a barking of orders—the mêlée here had not gone unnoticed.

Doubt lingered in her no longer. Backing up, Lise clenched hard her odyl-surging daggers and jammed their points into the seam between the doors. A bang! and a blast of splinters later, the lock-bar beyond was broken, and in barged the dagger-poised damsel.

The opulent oratory therein rattled with arms and armour as a squad of Salvators yonder arrayed in a defensive line. Seven they numbered: two bearing staves, the rest with readied spears. And further behind them, standing afore a candle-laden altar, was one more man, to whom Lise tasked a discerning eye. Four decades in age; high of height; hair neck-long and auburn; and withal a body bedight in noble dress—indeed, the man well-matched the descriptions.

“You there,” said Lise, pointing forth a blade. “Balbreau Isfält in the flesh, I take it?”

“Ill-mannered mongrel,” resounded the brow-bent bishop. “State yourself at once.”

“Why, pardon,” answered Lise. “Jarl-daughter I am—to Alban of Clan Víly! Lise!”

And with that last syllable, down the aisle dashed the damsel, showing the bishop speed unparalleled even amongst all of fleet-footed Víly. A blink, and already were Balbreau’s eyes aglint with dagger-light. But now to intercept the fey reflection was a trio of spears. As befitting the bishop’s elite guards, these Salvators had sprung to his rapid protection, showing the interloper their own brand of speed.

But ever defiant—“Haaaht!”—Lise wove between the snapping spears before bounding into the air, clear over the retinue’s heads, and unto their bishoply charge. For an instant, the Salvators could but gape at the audacity on display, whilst the damsel herself, still airborne, brought next a crossing of daggers unto the marquis’ throat.

—Kh-khangg!

Nary the sound of a severed windpipe that was. No; a spear-haft had halted the assault, for at the last second had a Salvator intervened. Thwarted, Lise kicked off from the obstructer, and right upon finding her feet, twirled aside to escape the other spears soon to surround her. Silver points stabbed and crossed to no effect; when Lise was next spotted, aloft she was again, vaulting in return to nigh the oratory entrance. A light landing, and the jarl-daughter stood low and poised once more, eyes sharp and daggers ready.

The guards redoubled their alarm. To bring blades to the bishop’s throat from so afar, yet in so fleeting an instant—this “jarl-daughter”, indeed, was no common threat. Even the bishop himself had begun to perspire in suspense. Lise, meanwhile, sensed herself inly rejoicing. The skill of the Salvators, coupled with the mien of the man whom they minded; all pointed to one conclusion: that afore the frau was, beyond a doubt, the Marquis Balbreau Isfält himself—supreme commander to all the enemy forces upon this mountain.

Long had Lise awaited this opportunity, for just as long had she yearned to equal Rolf in his accomplishments. Nay, never would she deign debase herself out of some felt inferiority, nor fetter herself in fruitless fits of envy. Valour is a thing to be avouched, to be paid all due respect. Such was ever a motto of the fair-minded frau.

But just the same, Lise longed to know no shame in mingling with the mighty; to accrue myriad merits and stand an undisputed pillar of Víly. And what to fall on her lap now was one such merit: the head of the highest enemy commander, fresh for the felling. Not from so princely a prey could the damsel’s daggers dare abstain.

And she ought be forgiven her cravings: at the battles of neither Ström nor Tallien had she found so high a head of her own to hew. But with the marquis now in her midst, soon would that stain be wiped—soon would she walk abreast the black rebel at last. Albeit in truth was Rolf himself just as undecorated; it had been Sigmund to unmake the Margrave Aaron of Ström, and Frieda who had reaped vengeance from the Viscount Bartt of Tallien. There was Rolf’s besting of the Östberg twins to consider, of course, but that scarce counted; not with the elder of them having merely assumed total command amidst an emergency.

Nevertheless, Lise was afire. That head of Balbreau’s; it was all hers for the taking. But as her eyes smouldered with anticipation, so did they discern one of the sorcerers raising a hostile staff. At once, Lise kicked off from the floor, intent on stopping the spell to come. But waylaying her warpath was another speedy spear.

“Tch!” strongly struck the damsel’s tongue. An unladylike response, to be sure, but in the heat of battle, it was gloves-off for Lise as she begrudgingly bounded back whither she came, being loath to dispute a spear with a spell hot on her tail. But as she broke away, that very spell made its appearance regardless.

“Gāstċēn!” a sorcerer incanted, casting unto Lise a lunging sphere of flame. Glass and marble flashed as fires fell and blasted, ruining rows of pews and shaking the air all about; but with a large leap had Lise eluded the violence. Had she been more shrewd and restrained in the manoeuvre, however, then she might have shifted to a flowing offence, as was her desire, but alas: ever was the damsel a poor eye for spellweavery and its wiles.

Indeed, enemies of such mixed formation had long been a bane to Lise. But baulking her bleak plight, she stood erect and pointed again a dagger at her mark. “An ultimatum, Marquis!” she boisterously began. “Surrender here or be slain. Name your doom!”

“Foolish darkling,” scoffed the marquis. “My doom I leave only to Yoná’s will.”

There were reasons enough to corroborate his confidence. Alfred, Sven—within the Dēlūbrum had Balbreau posted anew his Salvator paragons. And joining them in the defence was none other than Stefan Cronheim, the mareschal and hero-knight himself. Verily; albeit had this one woman managed to worm her way to the marquis’ midst, there was no question in Balbreau’s mind that the other transgressors would soon be stopped. And thereafter, like as not, would the three come thundering to his deliverance.

What is more, the Vetimentum was being made ready. Why, at any moment might it emerge, to engulf all the sacred summit and its crowning sanctum, and purge the Nafílim in fires empyrean. “Surrender”, indeed; why wave the white flag when to the marquis the scales were so skewed?

But Lise retorted, “Who’s the fool of us, I wonder? When not to your rescue may come your son? When your ‘vetimentum’ sleeps still to this moment?”

At once, Balbreau and his guards stood aghast. They sooner believed the woman to be bluffing. Only, as they next found, their doubts merely mounted; for how might an enemy, much less a Nafíl, know of the Vetimentum?

“Preposterous…” murmured the marquis. “Alfred—he is no more, you mean to say?”

Words evil to utter as they were to hear; evil enough to root the Men in rumination. And for Lise, that proved just the opening she needed: pouncing forth unpunished, the jarl-daughter brandished her longdaggers upon the nearest Salvator.

“Kh—!?” her victim began screaming his very last, but having taken two blades to the vocal cords, the soldier produced but a bloody rasp as he sank in his demise. Baffled, the other Salvators blinked—“…Vixen-devil, you!!”—before flying into a rage, pouring upon Lise a spill of spears. Yet this was it: her snare was sprung.

Lise worked her thoughts. Time tarried; plans were spun. Twirling and vaulting as before would be all but futile, she now fathomed. Nay; better to cast the cocoon—and steel the wings against the winds!

And so quickly did she cross her daggers, and bracing herself aface the advancing assault, moved to meet the spears. Blades flashed—once to the right; twice to the left; once to the right again. Steel and silver rang through the oratory; in not a second, four spears were foiled in total.

How now, what strangeness. These Salvators; by sinews alone ought they outmatch this dainty maiden. But nay; such was her speed, her skill, that the tide of spears was dammed full by daggers delicate. Yet the contest scarce ended there—an unseen step, and at once was Lise right amidst the Salvators. Blood spewed from the sliced neck of one; crimson sprang from the thrusted thigh of another—vital arteries in each: eviscerated with precision daggercraft.

“Ghahagh!?” the two Salvators cried as they crumpled. Lise, meanwhile, caught at the edge of her eye the two sorcerers astir. Up their staves went, and loudly they incanted.

“Hellehyrst!”

“Hrīmhorn!”

A conundrum. Taking one spell was woeful enough, but two? A Lise from any other day would surely have evaded the volley as widely as her legs allowed. Yet, in so doing would the flow of battle break, and that was anathema to the blademaiden. Nay, as in a song, setting a speedy tempo and flow were more to her preference. To pause would only aid her enemies; and that, to Lise, seemed now the greater risk.

Decided, the damsel then began suffusing her flesh with odyl—a danger, as dullness was long her wont when it came to wielding odyl; but all the tireless training since the sacking of Hensen had served well to whet it keen. For having seen Rolf, mainful though he was, not once shirk his own toilsome drills, Lise learnt for herself a hard lesson: that as she was, the jarl-daughter ill-sufficed.

More was needed of her. More discipline. More wit. And after an answer of much sweat and humility, fruit had been borne at last, that with speed and deft never before witnessed of her did Lise now bolster her body with the odyllic boon. And newly abrim, she abode for the briefest of moments, measuring the imminent magicks with a fearless eye; and in the next instant, the damsel dared it: an escape as minimal as her nerves and sinews could muster.

The Hellehyrst stampeded nigh, only for its pyres to barely pass the blademaiden by. Six icy crags of the Hrīmhorn hunted her flesh, only to course over her too-quick skin. Yet seven had been the volley’s count, and in that instant, Lise discovered where the last had gone.

“Eagh!!” she nigh-shrieked as the frozen missile struck her shoulder square. Still, the damsel faltered not, for her paling had held, and no longer was she but a doll for dances dainty, but a gale with the gusto to charge through the thickest resistance. And continuing down her warpath, she came upon the sorcerers, and there unleashed her daggercraft.

Steel flashed forth in twinned crescents, wide and sweeping, and in them the two sorcerers were ensnared. Without sound, they, too, then sank to their knees, and with necks cloven open, were soon corpses coldening upon the marble. But not even then did Lise let up. Turning neither eye nor face, she flitted into the air, and alighting right beside a Salvator, sent both blades stabbing into his flank.

“Gnnrrgh!” he groaned, and dropping his spear, the Salvator pitched forth to the floor. But as though in concert with his fading screams, there resounded next one other voice.

“Sċeaþatán!”

Now, then; how could this be? Two sorcerers there were in the oratory, just now freshly silenced. Nay! One more yet remained: the marquis himself, mighty of magicks in his own right. And the levin he unleashed served a sure token, shattering the air with piercing peals as they approached Lise at speed. Yet the young woman herself was already in motion, moving swifter than the marquis could incant. And appearing next afore the very last spearman, the damsel shot into his belly a blasting kick.

“Gwogh!?” he retched; and light-bodied through Lise was, such was her momentum and technique that the kick was as a hammer-blow, sending the Salvator careering away and right into the claws of the cackling levin. The air sparked; the spearman screamed. Silver and electricity wriggled and writhed in cruel contention; and when the levin vanished, so did its victim collapse. But no sooner had he met the floor than did Lise pass him by, coming upon the marquis like a sudden wind.

“Brimb—” began Balbreau, but it was too late: his staff once so trained upon Lise was struck clear away by quick daggerwork. “Hegh!?” he yelped. Yet, managing to keep his staff clutched in his hands, he drew himself away from the frau’s haunting figure.

“Pity,” Lise spoke. “Your peons appear all perished, Marquis.”

“…Fie!” was Balbreau’s answer, one accompanied by a dagger of his own—a secret blade drawn and thrown from his breast and unto Lise’s own. But with a simple twist of her body, the frau let the weapon fly fanglessly by; not even aface a cornered foe did she dare let her caution slacken. “Hahh…! Hhahh…!” the bishop began panting. Pale was his complexion now. And no matter how he pined for it, never would the Vetimentum appear. Indeed, it would seem this assailant had been telling the truth—the very same assailant now approaching him with daggers poised.

Now, to take his head—and be rid of this husk at long last! so thundered Lise’s thought as she fixed a pair of fierce eyes upon the bishop.

 

─────────　∵　─────────