Vol.5, Ch.6, P.9
“Now, then,” said Cronheim, astood distantly still. “Death awaits. Let us be courteous, shall we?”
With that, the knight-sword ascended, slow and steady as a rising sun. And there at the high-guard was it borne for a briefness, a sliver of light gleaming in the gloam. But in that while, as hands gripped themselves ever tightly about the hilt, the face beneath them furrowed softly, as if swayed by some thought.
And then, down the bright blade flashed.
“Tyahh!!”
Doubtless like cattle did Cronheim mean to drive me: sidewise I would evade, and there be cut down by his bladespell as it followed. But nay; guessing his game, I speeded my thoughts.
This mareschal—long had he restrained the sharpness of his strokes by the subtlest, and in so doing, had me fooled when he had at last unfurled his fullest might. And in token of my failures to defend them: the new wounds now reddening my arms. Yet, no choice was left me here. I must try so again. I must challenge him.
Into his onset I poured my focus. The odyllic edge therein; if I could not see it with my eyes, then so I must with my mind. And there it was, riding upon the ridge of the silver blade: Cronheim’s craving for the kill incarnated clear, a murderous smoke dancing in the dusk. What a sight to scare cold the very skin. Nevertheless, at last could I spy the invisible blade; and I saw that it was horrible, for once again was Cronheim assaying beyond his limits. Only, hitherto had I survived his new fury—thrice, no less. Thus I might yet again. Yes; I may! A swordsman extraordinaire though the mareschal may be, of skill incalculable by common reckoning, he is not so infallible as to fool my eyes a fourth time!
“Dyaah!!” Sinews surging, I brandished swift the black blade. And there did it meet mid-air the masterful flight of Cronheim’s spell—and snuff it unto nothingness.
“Keener, are we…!” groaned the mareschal. My boldness seemed unforeseen to him; but just as prevised, he next wheeled his weapon back for another stroke.
Keener. Such a word beseemed more the sayer, for despite his surprise, Cronheim’s mien remained as smooth as ever—as did the manner of his second swing soon to come. For a mite of a moment, I measured it in its springing, only to discover its lethality a leap beyond the last. Nay; I could not answer with steel here. In hubris would that be done; hubris and self-bane both. So I kicked from the floor instead and flew aback, watching as the mareschal’s second swing was swung at last.
And then, I inly gasped. An evil chill came piercing up my spine—I was not safe yet! Quick as I could, I kicked off from the floor once more, springing ever further aback. And right as I landed, I found left and afront of me a long shadow in sudden, jerking motion. One of the many pillars in this vast terrace it was, being half a passus and more in girth, that it and all the others might bear the mighty roof above. Yet its motion was ill-explained… till there crept into my ear—
—ggrrngh…—
—the low groan of sliding stone.
And in a blink, all the pillar itself came toppling, crashing down. I threw myself aside, escaping the billows of dust and debris. And as it settled, I saw a stump of stone astood above the rubble: it was the base of the ruined pillar, cut cleanly aslant.
The Dēcollāns Ruptūra. Through solid stone had it sliced—as a hot knife through butter. What other-planely power, this bladespell. Nay; not just power. Promptly, I turned back to my opponent, only to find him scarce more than a figure afar. That was proof enough: that the reach of the spell itself had also been redoubled.
“‘Off with the gloves’, I said,” echoed Cronheim, coming nearer. “That… was not some jest.”
Sweat shimmered on his distant brow. The mareschal, too, was now beleaguered. And as well, it seemed, more fain than ever to finish this fight.
I stood in amazement. But in my mind, the clouds were lifted: the mareschal’s magick was no wielding of the winds as the world so believed. The absence of biting air whensoever it wounded me; the lack of untangling gusts whensoever I sundered it; and now, the too-cleanly cloven pillar—all of it well-evinced that the Dēcollāns Ruptūra was instead a severing of space itself.
A realisation running against all good sense. Had it horrified Walter just as much, I wondered. Or perhaps more so? For surely he must’ve puzzled out its deeper and deadlier subtleties. Nevertheless, the price of such a spell ought be exorbitant to the extreme. Unmagicked though I was, still could I tell: that only through much compromise may it be wrought to some semblance of sustainability. To wit: by restraint of its range and the moderation of its meting. Indeed, in deftly managing his odyl had the mareschal been limiting his magick, all to make wieldable the utterly unwieldy. Only, now were the chains cut and cast; Cronheim, holding back no longer, was brandishing now the Dēcollāns Ruptūra in all its original awe.
A desperate move, doubtless; for in mere minutes’ time would he be barren of all odyl. He must’ve thought it the wiser way, then—or rather, the only way to win at this rate.
“Again!” he cried, unleashing another stroke from afar. But I tarried not: assaying a stroke of my own right in concert, I felt then a familiar pulse running through the black blade. No question about it: another ghostly assault had been stopped. But it was naught to celebrate, for one thing was now made clear: the Dēcollāns Ruptūra—no longer was it waiting! At any time might it come! I was in danger, more than ever before. Fleeing now would only tempt Cronheim into extending again his reaping reach. Nay; I had to make a charge—a desperate move to match his!
Straightway, I shot towards Cronheim. And as though having anticipated the pounce, he pointed unto me the tip of his silversword. A deadly stab from a distance; perceiving it, I promptly pivoted mid-pelt to pass it by, only to feel nonetheless my flesh being sheared as the invisible edge ate at my neck. Half a digitus in it digged, sending deep red to spit upon immaculate marble.
Yet I speeded ever onwards, wavering not. Cronheim, wasting no time, snapped to a low-guard. What untiring stamina; still did he mean to brandish again the bladespell. Spurred all the more, I made a mighty lunge, and in the next instant, found my foe finally within reach.
Up I hove the soot-steel, and down to sunder I sent it. But nay! The brunt was sooner aborted. Cronheim’s eyes: they shone with shrewdness, having scried my intent to counter any block from that blade of his. I thus risked another move: dragging the blacksword down at the very last second, I drave its pommel into Cronheim’s belly.
“Gwohakh!?” he retched, so reeling and so bending from the blow as to shame his knightly stature. Nevertheless, I meted him no mercy: at once, I raised the soot-steel again, poising it to plunge unto his pitiful form. Only, a lethal light yet lingered in the mareschal’s eyes—his splaying arms steadied; his fumbling legs braced; and in a thought, there thundered up at me a peal of perfect swordsmanship.
A close-quarters cut, but one bearing the invisible bladespell regardless. All escape now made impossible, I jerked the soot-steel to strike instead my opponent’s weapon. The air faintly flickered as it rang; odyl had been undone. Still, the flow of fighting blades did not stop: Cronheim, defending my sword, slipped next into a stance for his next assault. The weapon in his hands vanished behind him—a tail-guard it was he now assumed.
Surely to come was a cut quick and cruel. My mind raced. Ought I fall back? Nay; I knew not whether he would wield the spell-unseen once more. Even supposing so, I had not the confidence to escape it; not with Cronheim so ready to reap as he was. But right upon that realisation, I found the mareshal making his move: from behind him bolted his silver blade, flashing in an arc wide and level. And there, I dared a move of my own—one far outside the scope of swordcraft:
I jumped.
Up, up whence it stood, my body bounded from the floor. And amidst the ascent, I reeled in my legs as far as they could, and watched as sharp silver flickered underneath my soles. Behind me blasted a sound of sundered stone—another column had been cloven. But all too focused upon my foe, I readied aloft the black blade as I crested the jump; and there, brought wolfsteel howling down in my descent.
“Ryaah!!”
“Nnggh!?”
Like hammer upon anvil, I struck as I landed—only to discover my blade crossing Cronheim’s, for in the nick of time had he mustered a hasty defence. But unable to bear fully the forcible brunt, the silversword gave, allowing the tip of the lightless attack to skim the mareschal’s scalp and scathe his grimacing brow.
With a shriek, our weapons scraped and parted. Cronheim recoiled away, a straight and shallow line now running redly down the interstice of his eyes. I followed suit, eluding the pillar behind me as it finally toppled to its ruin.
“A fine play!” Cromheim cried, his face stained with rills of fresh blood. But yet unbent of spirit, he beset me swift with a right-slanting stroke. And I, now on my feet, answered with the exact same.
—Khraang!
Blades tolled as they bit and bitterly locked. But the tables were turned; between my sinews and the weight of the wolfsteel, I ought have here the upper hand. And so Cronheim, having by now understood all too well the very fact, quickly abandoned the blade-wrestle and retreated with a bound aback.
“Hahh! Haah!”
“Hehh… haegh…!”
Distantly we stood again, our breaths rasping brokenly. But I could not give quarter now; this gap between us, soon or late, would prove only to Cronheim’s advantage. Quickly catching my breath, I pounced upon my opponent once more.
“Rraaah!”
“Ekh!”
The mareschal’s expression soured at the assault; finally was the look of distress upon him. But his blade languished not, being lithe and lethal as ever; that as I neared, it was swung strong and centred, emboldened again by the invisible bladespell. Yet, readable of rhythm as it was to me at last, I brandished fleet the black blade and broke the magick, and thence thundered ever forth before sending unto Cronheim my second swing. And he to escape it bent all his upper body back—but it was too late. My blade, biting through the breastplate, had pierced his bosom; and not this time did it wreak but a shallow graze. Indeed, though failing to reach his ribcage, the soot-steel had delved deep enough as to extract much blood from the mareschal’s right breast.
“Ssaaaht!!” thundercried Cronheim, heeding not his hewn flesh as he flew aback and brandished a vengeful stroke in the same motion. Again, the sightless bladespell snapped at me, vertical and viper-like. I twisted my body in place, and the spell passed without success, but for a graze at my right elbow. But being a magick most merciless upon all that it meets, even a graze from the Dēcollāns Ruptūra could prove a deep one, as my elbow next found—
—with its bone now bare and ablood for all to see.
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Notes
Dēcollāns Ruptūra
(Language: Latin; original name: “Behead Rupture”) “Beheading Rupture”. Spatial ensorcellment and bladespell. Vastly extends the arc of a sword attack with a wash of odyl, which then, for an instant, nicks atwain the very space it occupies, sundering all matter caught within.
Digitus
(Language: Latin; plural: digitī) A unit of measure used by the ancient Romans, taken from the width of a finger. 1 centimetre is equal to 0.5405 of a digitus. A digitus, therefore, can be roughly equated to 2 centimetres.
Passus
(Language: Latin; plural: passūs) A unit of measure used by the ancient Romans, taken from the length of a pace (2 steps). 1 metre is equal to 0.6757 of a passus. A passus, therefore, can be roughly equated to 1 and a half metres.
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