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Vol.5, Ch.6, P.7

 

“…”

“…”

Silence.

Below, there beat the drums of battle. Above, there blew the gloaming breeze. But between Cronheim and myself, only quietude stretched, on and on like a thread drawn thin, as we circled and stared each other down. Yet, doubtless was his Dēcollāns Ruptūra ready again; doubtless was this thread of ours to snap, and this standoff to explode. Keen to strike the sooner spark, I pounced asudden whence I stood, crossing three strides in a breath.

Cronheim’s sword-tip twitched, glinting with hesitation. Perceiving this, I pelted ever forth to close the last gap.

“Dyaaah!!”

“Egh!?”

The mareschal grimaced. He was wavering—wavering between sword or spell, for such was now the distance between us that which course might prove best he could not so quickly guess. Good, I’d done right to pounce whence I had done, to force upon my foe a hard choice. Nevertheless, being a hero-knight, that very foe did not dither for long: in a blink, he turned from a stunned man to a storm in motion.

But the meandering moment sufficed well enough. In this duel, death was to be decided by the merest of margins; a constant tug-of-war of who might deal the soonest, soundest stroke. Thus bolstered by this barest of upper hands, I drave forth the dragon-burnt blade to stab my opponent through. Only, Cronheim himself had a sleight up his sleeve.

“Daaah!” he cried, as in the very nick of time, the mareschal made a charge of his own. And in turn was I made to grimace aghast, as what my foe endeavoured next was neither sword nor spell—but a clashing of bodies. Eluding my blade, Cronheim bolted close and bounded up, and there propelled his pate unto the bottom of my jaw.

“Khenkh!?” I yelped. My head thundered; my body reeled; my vision was thrown athwart. But in the throbbing blurs, I perceived by chance the figure of my foe bringing his blade low, and then with all speed, lifting it in a lightning stroke.

With sword unstanced and body unbalanced, however, I had no easy answer to assay.

“…hh—”

Hence, in that instant, I stopped my lungs and slackened my limbs. And in the next, I let surge all might and mettle into my sinews, through, through, through to the very tips of my fingers. From laxation to extreme exertion—the subtle technique once learnt to serve my sword now imparted unto my body power enough to explode beyond its normal bounds.

And explode it did: with a jerking jump to the side, I disappeared from the space through which now passed my opponent’s speeding sword. But I was scarce out of the woods yet. That very sword—soon would it come scything back. However, having made so desperate an escape, my body was now more aflail than even before. Unable to swing the soot-steel, I spurred my thoughts within the compressed moment, choosing thence the only thing that made sense: another full-sinewed escape.

Feet fresh on the floor, I kicked and careered away—only to hear next the hero-knight’s vaulting voice.

“Hoaahh!!”

This seemed it: Cronheim’s long-intended coup de grâce, as beneath his bellow, there flashed his sweeping blade, one doubtlessly endowed with the deathsome bladespell. How skillful. How calculating. Truly a huntsman he was, to have teased me out with his first swing, only to trip the trap with his second. Albeit, he had ill-guessed the speed of his prey. For fleet enough was my flight that the mareschal’s spell nicked naught but my billowing raiments, missing my bosom by a mere hair. Yet, chancing it not, I pelted further away upon finding purchase; and in a moment, we were stood far apart once more.

There, in nigh unison, we each exhaled a long lungful as once more we drew up our blades to the ready.

“Close-run,” noted Cronheim. “That ought’ve spelt the end of you.”

“Words right out of my mouth,” I returned, moving my yet-tingling jaw.

Again was the board reset. Again must I gauge time and space for the next assault. And so with the soot-steel pointed upon him, I searched my opponent for a chance opening—any at all.

Yet, by my troth, things had become truly grim. Stefan Cronheim… Hitherto had I dared not underestimate his might. But against all expectation would he shoot to heights higher and higher. A fey horror to face upon the battlefield, for certain; and precisely how fey and how horrific, I would soon discover with his next move.

“Very well…” he muttered. “…Off with the gloves, then.”

I bent up a puzzled brow. But as Cronheim himself offered no further explanation, I continued to watch him as he did me. Softly, he then assumed the centre guard; and after raising his silversword next: the high. Naught strange, as far as I could tell. Throughout this throe had I seen the same from him many a time: a preparation to deploy his sightless spell. Thus did I prepare in kind, clenching the black blade for another magick-unmaking…

…only to be assailed by a screaming sense of danger.

“…Hn!?”

Like a spike of ice stabbing through the heart it felt. Risking it not, I heeded the horns howling in my head and aborted the spellbreaking stance; and at the very soonest, bounded aback as far as my legs allowed. And ever as I did, I found the fabrics at my breast splitting down the centre.

“Heghh!” I gasped from another death defied; for once again had the invisible blade brushed afront my fleeing body. But Cronheim, hardly done with it, was already dashing nigh; and amidst his haste, he unleashed a slanting slash.

“Saaht!” came his cry, but more swiftly had come his second spell-swing. And I to escape it cast all my body aside, only to discover myself scarce unscathed: for amidst the flight had both of the undersides of my forearms been cleanly grazed.

Blood spat from parted skin. But heeding it little, I hoisted myself up and scrambled back to readiness.

“Slippery till the last, this hare…” grumbled Cronheim.

Yet “slippery” was too high a praise, as attested by the blood now weeping from my arms. Indeed, that last assault of Cronheim’s was sharper, deadlier than all that had come before—and to my dismay, it had proven more than I could handle.

“…Let me guess,” I said, “you’ve been holding back this entire time?”

“Did I seem so gentle?” denied Cronheim. “Nay; I’ve merely not wrung the rag of its last drop, as it were. You’re as pious a sword-devout as I; you ought know well of what I speak.”

“…”

Deep thought dammed my answer. Sure enough, Cronheim had hitherto been fighting with all due ferocity. Only, not till just now had he instilled the last iota of his heart, his soul, his very being into his blade.

Such a thing is the sword. It answers. It echoes. When a wielder dares a step beyond the bounds of his abilities, so does his sword hone itself in kind. Quicker it becomes; keener and more cruel. But such a step is never taken lightly. And so must the next be but half. And then a quarter. And then but a tip-toe. An agonising, excruciating toe forwards; all to more eke out the slightest sliver of advantage. Only thus can the accomplished swordsman become more than he can imagine; only thus can his mastered sword gain such an edge as never could any whetstone bestow upon it.

Cronheim was one such swordsman, of course; and his swordcraft besides, therefore. Along the years of his service had he ventured the step beyond, as well as the half-step and the quarter to follow. But not till this day, upon this very hour, had he dared it: the last toe over the precipice of prowess.

A trifle, one might deem it, to so extract the final flake of a fraction. What is such an effort, if not futile? Why, to myself—and my opponent, as well, it would soon appear—it was aught but.

“The pebble of a difference, Buckmann,” emphasised Cronheim. “A modicum to the common eye; but between us, it is the very stone to turn the tide. Is it not?”

It was. In plying my abilities, in bringing myself over the brink, had I become capable of countering Cronheim’s bladespell. Whether in timing or spacing, my very body had learnt to listen for the unseen attack, and without so much as a hitch, at that.

“…”

…Nay. That was not it at all. By the stern rod had I been made to remember it. And now has the tutor turned fickle, as with a sudden twist—“Heaht!”—Cronheim clave the air with a scything stroke.

This was evil. More swift and concise than even the last, this cut of his I reckoned was not to be contested without wound. But there was nothing for it: bracing my low-bent arms, I moved to break the approaching bladespell…

…nay!

It’s too swift! Much too swift! Once again, I gave up the effort and flew aback. But a leg of mine winced, being wounded prior by Sven’s sword and enduring leap after dire leap, slackening thus my escape. Louder and louder my senses blared, telling me that the invisible blade was yet hot in pursuit. Only—

—hwwiht—

—already had it bitten.

A whistle of air, and out washed a stream of red.

Alighting roughly, I looked down to find my right upper arm grazed… or rather, gashed open and gushing with blood.

“Kagh…!”

A deep one this was. Grimacing, I strained the struck arm, if only to stanch the bleeding by even a bit.

“Alas,” echoed Cronheim from afar, “that soon I must part with so splendid an opponent…”

And there did the mareschal stand poised, training his blade square upon his sight of me. And his words: they had not a hint of guile in them. No; there was grief. True grief. And withal the embers of murder smouldering still in his eyes. Yet I dared not let things end here. Ablood of limbs though I was, my spirit was spent not in the least. Indeed, so long as it burnt bright in my bosom, I could yet give battle to my foe.

Clenching my teeth, I bore the pain as I bent my eyes upon Cronheim. And standing firm, I gripped strong the blade of black.

 

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