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Vol.5, Ch.6, P.8

A burnished dusk brooded over Hensen. And under rustling leaves, there sat a lone, little girl, her eyes searching the far-soaring skies. Softly down there soughed a scentful breeze; and upon it swayed quietly her silken locks.

All the world seemed such at peace. And like a blanket, it embraced the little girl. Day after day it had been of unbroken tranquillity—days she imagined would never have graced her again. But however calm and bucolic it seemed, the girl knew: that sustaining this serenity were those in the throes of war, weathering to this very moment many a wound and lamenting many a loss; that valiant lives were leaving this world so that the meek might endure; that at the head of that so-desperate enterprise, there assayed one certain soul, brightest and blackest of them all. And upon him she pondered deeply.

“Mia,” asked a voice, “you are worried?”

There then came to the girl her sister, last of her family, looking rather concerned herself. But the girl merely shook her head and said, “He promised me.”

‘…I’ll come back…
…no matter what…’

So had he solemnly sworn, and the girl herself accepted it, doubting never once his voice nor his vow; for ever was he a staunch keeper of promises. Surely, then, would he return whither now she waited.

‘…All’s well…
…All’s to be well…
…Because you’re strong…
…Stronger than you believe…

…Very kind…
…and very strong…’

And such had been her own words. For in his heart had he trembled on that quiet eve; and she to comfort him had offered what she felt deep in her own: a sure and unshakable trust in his strength. Hence could she endure these uncertain hours. Endure and wait for him.

“Ah…”

Catching then the girl’s eye was the evenstar in the sky, fair and brightly ablink. And pressing palm to palm, the girl prayed for her promise-keeper’s safe and swift return.

∵

The sun had perished. Bright-wine twilight bled now over the mountains of Isfält. Verily; this battle upon Déu Tsellin, sparked at the first light of day, was now to fade with the last. Nevertheless, even as much red ran now down over summit and slope, and blades and bodies clashed still upon the grey courses, all the dusking beauty on display left me no less captivated.

“Gazing wistful at skies yonder,” noted Cronheim from the corner of my eye, “who’s the one holding back, I wonder?”

A fair point. It was rather foolish of me to steep in the scenery so, embattled and ablood as I was, much less poised with weapon in hand. But to my defence, not by the littlest was my guard slackened. In fact, I quite wanted Cronheim to come charging hither. But alas; as ever was he keeping his distance, loathing to make the lunge. For being wise, he knew there to be no opening on offer, whether chanced or contrived.

“The evenstar twinkles,” I replied to him. “What eye dares miss it?”

“What eye, indeed,” conceded Cronheim. “I, too, am taken with the star. How it gleams all alone in the high loft.”

Little by little I let my feet creep forth. It had been but a short while since last the unseen blade was brandished; not for a time yet could Cronheim wield it again. Thus was he wary of any opportunity-seizing from my end, exposing nary an opening of his own that might tempt my eye. Yet the deed was needless; with the hour-sand trickling against me, and the last light of day dimming by the moment, a gamble had to be made.

“Seht!” Stamping off, I gained the mareschal in a shooting rush, and there swung upon him a full-weighted sweep. But up aslant his own sword went, deflecting the assault before flowing into a sweep to mirror mine. Lowly I stooped, rolling forth and under the counterattack; and landing aknee—“Dyeaaht!”—I chanced a rising cut.

But just as it appeared my ploy would surprise him—“Hup!”—Cronheim responded with placid speed, twisting about and beating my blade away. But risking the mêlée no more, he made a long leap aback; and in the next moment, we found ourselves standing at a stalemate once more.

“Hoahh…!” so left my lungs a breath large as it was languishing. A mere second or two had that exchange lasted, yet the tax exacted was terrible, indeed: exhausted I was, to the utmost. Bone and joint, muscle and mind; all begged for reprieve. But none would come yet. Not for a long while.

No; I could not slow here, nor err, not even in the slightest, lest I be dislimbed in the blink of an eye. Staying afloat between swallowing waters and a battering storm—such was my plight, one made all the more dire by the difference between myself and my foe. For though his nerves surely burnt no less than mine, it was my body that bled the redder. Regardless, the mareschal made no move, prowling on instead with all the patience of a spider.

“A bother that you’re so much a bull and a bird at once,” he muttered. “I expected little less, of course, but…” As he spoke, the hero-knight backed away by half a step, fine-tuning to a nicety the interval spanning between us—to best serve the next swing of his bladespell, like as not. “Ah. That reminds me: Redelberne,” he continued with brows lifting. “It’s there that I met your sister not long ago, you ought know.”

“How now,” I said. “Is it swords we cross or cups and saucers?” To stall was senseless. His Dēcollāns Ruptūra ought now be ready. And yet here was the mareschal, pining more for parley than an end to his opponent.

“Oh, come,” he returned. “Can’t we bask in the occasion?”

…”Bask in the occasion”? Curious words. Yet, it well-seemed to me that the very idea that our duel should soon end—nay, that our paths should soon part—was a very sorrowful one to him.

“Do they call you ‘Stefan the Soppy’, as well?” I quipped.

“Nay, nay,” chuckled Cronheim, “but I daresay you’re as maudlin as I, Buckmann.”

Blades bent against the other man. Edges angled for the kill. And yet, leashed in by what but profitless prattle. Indeed, very soon was one of us to quit this coil. This I doubted not, and by the look in his eyes, neither did Cronheim. Nor did we doubt that it would be the other sooner to go. Perhaps that was precisely why we stayed our blades so: for should there be any last words to air yet, now was the time.

“Well? What of my sister, then?” I humoured him. “Under scrutiny, is she? Compelled to pay for her brother’s blunders?”

I say “humoured”, but in truth, the matter yet miscomforted me. News of my parents’ house arrest had reached me some time ago. But as to Felicia’s fate, my ears had known naught but a long silence. Seeing me interested asudden, Cronheim cracked a heartful smile.

“Such aspiring compellers’re in no short supply, I’ll say that much. But you’ll be happy to know that they were all quelled,” he revealed mildly. “Oh, indeed: by the grace of Her Royal Highness, your sister the Lady Felicia was acquitted of all culpability.” To that, I became quiet. “Hmm? Why so speechless?” Cronheim said on. “Think yourself unworthy to worry for your own sister? If so, rest assured: you yet have the right.”

“…”

“Yes; as do all who yet have a heart.”

I clenched hard the soot-steel. “Words… right out of my mouth.”

Sir Stefan Cronheim. The knight unsullied; the shining touchstone of chivalry. And more than aught: a hero very strong—and very kind.

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