Vol.6, Ch.1, P.3
Whilst Rolf and all the rest were weaving their alliance in the wake of their victory, so was Londosius yonder dithering in defeat. Indeed, shock, awe, and cries had seeped from the door-cracks of Central’s councils and were ringing through the realm like a bell tolling of some evil doom to come. And all who heard it were as children haunted by howls in the dead of night.
Still, the smallfolk did not despair, deciding instead to hold fast that their Deiva, and all of Londosius so under Her veil, would vanquish in time the Nafílim threat. But in place of despair, there were now ripples. Ripples playing and swelling over the once-serene surfaces of their hearts. For ever would they think of it: their dear and holy mountain Déu Tsellin; that earthen token to their spirituality; that fastness so infallible; that grey mound so guarded by heavenly grace—
—now lost.
All lost.
The jewel never to be stolen—set now in a heathen crown. To the people of devout Londosius, that was a dour thought, indeed, and from the bottoms of their bosoms did they weep for it.
“Heavens, you… You can’t mean that? The lord o’ Isfält, too? The bishop ’imself—dead?”
“Aye, love. Dead as a doornail, I’m ’fraid.”
“Oh… oh, Yoná. Mercy…”
There they were: summer-yeared citizens sat about in a town tavern, speaking in hushed and hasty tones. Nary a reason had they till very recently to doubt the might and majesty of their Deiva. Nay—perhaps even now were such doubts as dust in the wind. Only, as with sheep of an unsure shepherd, they yet yearned for some sign of security, for every news, every truth that came their way but served to worsen their worries all the more. And it well-seemed that the tide of tidings was not to stop any time soon. Too damaging had been the defeat, and too monstrous the tumult, that no sooner had Central moved to quell the whispers than was all of Londosius already aghast and agape. Now were the people apprised of the defeat of their realm’s finest, and withal the death of their hero-knight so valiant and beloved.
“Wot other evils lie in store for us, d’you imagine?”
“How? Why? Why’ve we lost? An’ why… why’ve the devils won? That’s nothin’ right, innit? Nothin’ right at all…”
No table in that tavern could sit long without the topic. Nor was much merry being made. The usual minstrels had long left in low spirits, and all the patronage looked into their cups with grim and glassy eyes.
It was amidst that melancholy that the front door swung open. In poured a party of no brighter cheer; but rather than remorse, it was displeasure that they displayed on their faces. And as glances turned, so was espied upon the newcomers devices of chivalry. Verily, they were all of them of the Order. But this was scarce a sight so seldom. This being the marquisate of Norden, the headquarters of the 5th were but a stone’s throw away. In fact, so frequently did such knights come down to town that they were by now something of a fond fixture to the local folk.
“A round of ale,” muttered one of the knights, “and sausage to eat.”
“A-aye. Right ’way, sirs,” answered the tavernmaster, who nervously went aback, leaving all his patronage to simmer in a new silence. With knights now in the picture, none of the commons dared so much as peep about the recent affairs. For their part, the knights seemed to know what was going on, that as they rested their swords and sat ’round at their table, they groaned under their breaths and gave each other looks, rather regretting to have ever come at all. But as they found out soon enough, some of the smallfolk were apparently more concerned than considerate, as shown by one woman who now sheepishly approached them.
“B-beggin’ your pardon, good knights,” she said to them. They answered little, only glancing at her tiredly. “W-we’ve ’eard tell o’ wot’s gone on, Déu Tsellin an’ all…” the woman continued. “So, I were wond’rin’ meself: wot… wot might it bode for all the realm, prithee…?”
Again, the knights gave no answer, nor any gesture, for that matter. A peer through the dim and smoky pall of the tavern would reveal them all to be middle-aged men. As a matter of fact, these knights had all of them led Orderly careers respectable after their own fashion, and unbeknownst to the woman, the tokens upon their persons each indicated ranks of leadership and renown. Thus ought they possess answers galore to soothe the woman’s worries; but pursing their lips tight, they instead stewed ever on in their sour mood.
“Is… is war a-comin’ us way?” the woman pressed them, unable to keep quiet her questions any longer. “An’ us town—soon to turn into a battlefield?”
“…Nay,” a knight relented at last. “Never so nigh has the enemy marched before. And never shall they.”
Closely situated to the royal capital, Norden stood many a day’s gallop from the nearest frontline. And so did none of the knights here doubt its safety, even in light of the enemy’s momentum. Their craving for the cup, however, belied their threadbare nerves.
Not that they were alone in their private consternation. Hardly so. Amongst whose feet had not trodden Déu Tsellin on its darkest day, it was perhaps the 5th and its officers, these knight-leaders withal, that took the tidings hardest. For these soft-handed, seldom-tested sons and daughters of noble houses, coddled by careers of idle service and piddling pursuits, there was disbelief, denial, and the desperation of a prey left with nowhere to run nor hide.
“I-in faith, now?” said the woman, her spirits lifting—only then to plunge low. “Oh, but… but the en’my. They’ve grown mighty an’ terrible, as I’ve ’eard…”
Newly betrayed was a trembling in the woman’s voice, one fathered verily by unease—and mothered perhaps by despondency besides. Thinking this to be the case, the knights could but pinch their brows in response. Oh, how fully had they hitherto trusted to the strength of Londosius, believing it a force all-piercing and impregnable. But now, of late, to must see it breached and broken time and again; and worse, to must witness their holy mountain taken in war… Indeed, it was all the knights could do to clench their teeth and stay themselves from beseeching the Heavens above for an answer.
“…War’s all a wager,” groaned one of the knights. “A friend today, a foe tomorrow; such are the fates. And such is your answer.”
The woman fidgeted. “But, wot…”
“…”
“…Wot ’bout Sir Stefan, then…?”
At her hoarsely whispered words, the knights’ faces all twisted in torment. A pillar of Londosian dominion; a name known in the lands over; a hero amongst heroes: Sir Stefan Cronheim, Knight Mareschal to the 2nd Order—slain. That such a soul fair and manful could ever fall to the simple whim of the fates set now the tavern-sitters astir.
“A-aye, the lass ’as got it,” one man said above the unrest. “Come on, good sirs. I’m dyin’ to know. We all are.”
“Prithee, lords,” implored a woman in the back, “it… it can’t be, can it?”
The rumour ran on. But before long, a knight raised a hand, and all the tavern was quiet again. “…It can,” he answered, sighing sternly. “The Mareschal Cronheim is… is with us no longer.”
With us no longer—nay, “defeated” ought be more the term, but at the last moment, the knight had checked his tongue. The word was wicked to him; for to air it would be to wilfully infect his thoughts once more of Stefan’s defeater. But much to his chagrin, the rustling and the rumour then restarted, and the words therein sent thunder through his thoughts.
“An evil jest, if I’ve e’er ’eard one…” muttered a man anear. “Who’s done it, then, eh? Who’s the bastard wot’s taken us hero ’way from us…?”
At once, the faces of the knights flashed and frowned even further. And like a lid blasting off after too long a boil, one of their number sprang up from his seat. “Ach! Peace! All of you! The enemy’s not so mighty!” he exclaimed, flushed and shuddering. “The mareschal was merely taken unawares! That’s all!”
“Rightly said! He was cheated, mark you! Slain by some sick, sick sleight!” added another knight, rising with no less hotness and humiliation. And in their indignance, these leaders then pondered of him. Of he whom they had spurned, despised, and at the last expelled from their sight—of he who fought now under the foe’s banner and had brought Londosius to this terrible brink; of he who had defeated their hero-knight Stefan.
How could this be? Never was that ungraced so gifted in battle. Never at all. Or so had the knights believed, for now was that very man a venomous menace upon their kingdom. Nay, this cannot be. It should not be. And so with much desperation were the knights denying his deeds, sooner ascribing his “victory” to some cowardly contrivance. But next to cast cold water upon their delusions was a new voice as it entered the scene.
“Cheated? More like felled fair and square,” it said, “if his bester be as I remember him.”
“Ah—” yelped a knight. And turning, the Orderly company found standing and coming nigh from a corner table a single man. Long were his lashes and high was his nose; an Endymion in the flesh, youthful and fair in all his features. And as the knights perceived him through the tavern pall, they did not rebuke him. No; they sooner softened their faces. “L-Lieutenant…” they all uttered.
Verily; afore them now was Gerd Kranz, Knight Lieutenant to the Owlcranes of the 5th.
“Apologies. We scarce expected you,” said one of the knights, noting silks in place of armour upon his superior’s person.
“Can’t blame you,” Gerd said to them, before explaining himself. “The marquis has called again, you understand. But imagine my surprise, sitting and waiting for company when I see you lot rumping in and rousing a row. Hmph, nay, don’t fret it. I jest. Anyway, speak of the devil.”
In the course of Gerd’s words, the tavern door had swung open again. And looking thither, the lieutenant sighted two women walking in, themselves neither appearing in any mood for merriment. And in seeing what he saw, the leaders nigh-shivered as the heat of their passions perished instantly.
“By gum, what’re ye on ’bout, then, eh?” the foremost of the women grumbled. “Ev’rybody up an’ down the street were fettled by all yer fussin’!”
The knights jumped, scrambling to stand at attention. “O-Officer Nyholm! And—”
“Madame…”
All the tavern was now at a standstill; for in Raakel Nyholm’s following was the 5th’s Dame Mareschal herself: the Lady Emilie Valenius.
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