Vol.5, Ch.7, P.2
“The Lord Balbreau of Isfält has fallen! The commander-marquis is no more!”
Dusk had bled deep over the eastern spurs of Déu Tsellin when the heavy tidings broke upon Estelle’s ears. But in spite of the portended ill therein, the hero-dame’s demeanour did not dither. Nay, it was not as though she had long prevised the dire development, wise of war as she was; but rather, as with one called thither beyond a battle as it burned all about, her eyes searched instead after some far-off fate. And what she saw then caused her delicate lashes to quiver, if even slightly.
“Where is the Mareschal Cronheim, then?” Francis pressed the war-herald. “Cannot he wrest the reins? And rally the summit, therefore?”
The under-mareschal’s counsel was most keen. Certainly, were the hero-knight to assume command and rally together both the Salvators and his 2nd Order within the walls of the Dēlūbrum, it ought be possible yet to hold out till the 1st’s return. Indeed, with the brunt of the two Orders brought to bear, the Nafílim alliance was sure to flee, if not fall altogether.
Only, the herald could but cast down a dispirited look and answer brokenly, “Sir… alas.”
Estelle studied closely the herald’s discomfiture. And soon enough, like a boulder budging after numberless years, her unmoving demeanour gave at last: wide with wonder went her eyes, and her lips breathlessly trembled out the heart-whelmed words: “Rolf, he’s…! He’s vanquished Cronheim himself…!”
Meanwhile, Francis sighed from beside his mareschal and asked on, “What of the 2nd? And the Salvators, for that matter?”
“Both withdraw southwards,” reported the herald. “Sir, summit and temple are taken! Wholly, our eyes say!”
So it was that both Kingdom and Quire had been out-warred on this day. And met with such defeat, there remained but one manoeuvre for Estelle to assay: the total withdrawal of her own Order from the mountain. It was nigh the eastern foothills whereupon they stood; to break from battle and join the southwardly retreat would prove a matter most simple, if not uncontestable. For being so frayed and bitterly fought, it was far beyond either the Cutcrowns or the Reùlingen to dare give them chase.
“Francis,” Estelle said sternly, “send word to our men: they are all of them to cease combat.”
The grey knight sighed again. “Alas, indeed,” he said with wryness.
Dig in the heels; fight to the last—being the very best of Londosius, ought it be in the 1st’s power to win through against this rabble? Common minds might question so for ages to come. In that moment, however, none there wasted a second on the thought, for it was precisely in being the very best that these knights knew such resistance to be reckless; that discretion was, indeed, the better part of valour. The 2nd and the Salvators were now leaderless and beaten, after all. And that is to speak naught of this fief: fallowed of its marquis and bereft of its dear Dēlūbrum, there now remained in Isfält nary a fastness to provide the 1st with purchase speedy enough. What was left them, therefore, was acceptance and concession—or a wasting last stand, to suffer sword, spear, and spell betwixt a hostile summit and spur.
“What mettle, too, in these wing-burnt moths,” murmured the fair mareschal, her golden eyes gazing intently upon the Cutcrowns and their Reùlingen counterparts. There, at the frontlines so frothing and aflame, they fought: her foes fey yet unfailing, spending their flesh by the second, but never despairing in the deed—no, not even afore so dread a force as her 1st Order.
Thus did Estelle know next in her heart a hint of gratitude; for had these foes yielded any sooner, then at this moment would she be marching back to the summit. And there, with all her knights behind her, would she reckon with the man long on her mind; and then…
“…”
Silence fell heavy upon her. “Mademoiselle,” Francis gently urged his mareschal.
“Come, Francis,” said Estelle at length. “’Tis time we rode for home.”
Sheathing her sword, its blade yet softly asmoke from all the fire magicks meted out, the hero-dame then turned to the summit one last time—to give forth a gaze that, though far-going, was most certain never to reach its recipient.
∵
Rallied and redoubled though the Reùlingen and the Cutcrowns were, still had the 1st proved insuperable. But even against odds so evil, the mingled Men and Nafílim had maintained morale enough to endure the knightly flood. Blades were broken; friend and fellow were slain. Yet on and on, their songs of strain and struggle strummed. And one amongst them was Frieda, whose flesh was fraught with hurts; whose bosom laboured with every breath—whose hands held fast her weathered hilt and flourished without fail her dulled and notched sword. But ever as her eyes leapt resolutely from foe to foe—
“What’s this, then?”
—so at that moment did they make out a mystery unfolding. The clamour of war: it was waning. Verily, under the deepening dusk, the ranks of silver arms and armour were ceasing their offence and falling back, leaving their foes in wonder and suspense. But whither they went was not east and upwards to the summit, but:
“…South?” Frieda lipped aloud. “Why?”
Hardly alone she was in her doubts. It was the Reùlingen camps that lay upon Déu Tsellin’s southern foot. Yet, where were all their occupants but here with the Cutcrowns in valiant succour? Nay, it could be nary another battlefield whither the 1st were now flowing. But if so, then whither else?
“Not that way the summit lies,” Erika said with suspicion, bracing her sword for some ambush or catastrophe to come. But presently, there sprouted in her calculations an inconceivable possibility. “No…” she gasped, dithering between hope and doubt. “Can it be? But, that would mean…”
“Aye!” confirmed Dennis as he panted beside her. “We’ve a-done’ee, lass: we’ve a-won.” And with that, the Cutcrown leader let himself fall bottom-first to the ground; and sitting there, he freed from his lungs all the battle-hot breath that remained therein and turned his tired face up to the fading skies.
“W… won?” said Frieda in disbelief. “But… how?”
Dennis laughed weakly. “‘How’? Open thine eyes, Frieda-love. This bain’t no fever dream,” he said, before pointing his chin to the high east. “Lo! The summit! There they be, Rolf-lad an’ all the rest. They’ve a-took the temple, they’ve a-done. The day be ours. Ours!”
Ours. Frieda could scarce understand at once that simple word of Dennis’s. Yet all the scene about her vouched full for it: no longer were blades flashing and blood flying. All there stood stunned or stolid, watching either the 1st as they withdrew or the summit as it sat with strange tranquillity. Yes; they truly had won the battle, and the day truly was theirs.
Another day lived, this makes, Dennis inly whispered. Challenging the 1st; chaining them to a fruitless fight upon these foothills—such had been Dennis’s decision, one that by now had exacted from his comrades casualties beyond count. Regardless, it had proved a wise and most fateful choice. But all during that dire struggle, Dennis had been most determined to cross Death’s door, if only to spare another fellow from doing the same—if only to bring Frieda home hale and with the least hurt. Yet, such had not come to pass. At battle’s end, Dennis himself had been spared, Frieda withal; and by what but the caprice of an unexpected victory.
And steadily, tidings of that victory began to spread amongst the haggard fighters. Doubt waned and wonder waxed; and before long, there leapt into the air a collective cry joyous to hear. There they wept, and they cheered, and they held one another close. Indeed, there they were: Men and Nafílim in full embrace. And in seeing this, Dennis grinned with gladness.
Beside him, Erika, too, was smiling softly at the scene. But there to pass upon her mirth was the faint mirk of melancholy. Ever perceptive, Dennis climbed to his feet, dusted himself off, and came close to Erika. And there he placed a solacing hand upon her shoulder; and he said to her, “Thou bain’t alone in loss, Erika-lass.”
The jarl-daughter slowly turned to Dennis and found the Man most solemn in voice and visage both. And in his eyes, she saw a sadness that lived ever long in him—a sadness she knew now all too well.
“But soothe thy sorrow. For they be always with us, they be: our dearest dead, e’er there by our sides,” Dennis said on. “Thou’lt know what I means someday. Aye. Someday for certain.”
Taking his words, Erika then trembled at the cheeks, and tears started in her eyes. One ran down. And then another. But softening her gaze as it quivered and twinkled with tears, Erika smiled again, and then said to Dennis:
“…Thank you.”
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