Vol.6, Ch.1, P.6
“I am Alfred of Isfält. Gramercy for the gracious welcome.”
Today was rather special for Alfred, being his official induction into the alliance fold. The affair faced little friction, if any at all; the former lordling had, by this time, made some rounds and introductions already. Indeed, now with the treaty signed and the alliance broadened, the barriers between the races were steadily breaking down. Not that Alfred himself needed the boost; he already had his heroics at Déu Tsellin going for him. There was bitterness, of course, for the losses he’d wrought during the early clashes of the battle. But when it was revealed that he’d turned the coat and at the nick of time stopped that dreadful vetimentum business—saving not only a hundred and more enslaved Nafílim, but also our entire enterprise upon that mountain—any dissent was summarily snuffed, and Alfred’s name soon began to be much whispered of.
Which brings us to this moment. With the formal proceedings done with, we were all gathered at the training grounds outside the garrisons of Hensen. The noon skies were fresh after a recent rain and the breezes ran sprightly—perfect for a bit of prattle before a boatload of practice.
“‘Alfred’, hmm?” Lise said, hand-on-chin and looking up hard at the sorcerer, as one wrestling a riddle. “How about… ‘Alf’ instead? To mark the occasion?”
Not a bad idea. To fit more snugly into our circles, it might serve him well to shed a mite more of that lordly husk of his, and an informal name-change seemed just the trick.
“Oh? Coining bynames, are we?” mused Alfred, before doing a bit of hand-on-chinning himself. “Alf… Alf… Hm. Very good. It is settled: you may all call me ‘Alf’,” he soon agreed, and with some enthusiasm to his tone, at that. Why, if my eyes weren’t cheating me, I’d say his face was trickling with cheer—unusual, considering how seldom any emotion would seep from it at all. I shared much in his feelings, however; for more than once had I fancied bearing a byname of my own. Not that I disliked “Rolf” any. I was rather taken with it, in fact. But truth be told, I should like to be called something more intimate, if even for a day—a bit like Sig, thinking on it.
And so, I gave it a go…
“Lise.”
“Mm?”
“How does ‘Rolo’ sound to you?”
“Silly Rolf. Anyway, about the drills this afternoon…”
…and failed spectacularly. Pity; I rather thought “Rolo” would stick for sure.
∵
“Sċeaþatán!”
Levin swallowed the whole of the scene. Earth trembled, air churned; pulses of heat and light slapped us as they passed. And when the flashing faded and there lingered a noisomeness like perfume set aflame, the onlooking braves all unsquinted their eyes, unplugged their ears, and stood in awe at Alf’s show of magicks.
“Hoah…” one brave uttered, “…a Sċeaþatán that was? For true?”
“More a master’s magick than a rudiment, that seemed to me,” added one other.
The training grounds stirred with astonishment. Curious, given that the gallery of gazers-on were all of them Nafílim; why would they be in wonderment? Were they not all born with the blessing of odyl? Had they not spent their days dabbling in magicks? Indeed, one would be forgiven for the notion. But excellency in sorcery was as much a domain of Men, with the annals of history noting no small number of Mennish spellmasters. A necessity, perhaps: gaining odyl only from the age of fifteen and on affords little time for Men to match their Nafílim counterparts; thus since days of old have they devoted especial enterprise to the study and transmission of the magick traditions, producing such paragons as Alf himself.
Truly was it a tremendous tailwind at our backs to have him now in our ranks. And not only because of his strength: as our braves saw soon enough, Alf was also very wise in the wizard-ways.
“…One’s native stores of odyl is nary a thing to be changed, for true,” echoed Alf’s lecture. “But given cunning and creativity in its use, then even a twig may tinder a wildfire, as they say…” Ever as he spoke, the wiċċan all about lent him pricked and eager ears. His demonstration earlier seemed very much to have got their attention. “…Perhaps that may sound foreign to you all,” he went on. “Perhaps in possessing odyl since birth, and withal in taking the gift for granted, have such subtleties escaped you. But that ends today. Now, with eyes newly opened, let us…”
With Alf’s induction came his commission as an instructor to all our wiċċan. Of course, the sorcerer himself was to fight upon the battlefield with the rest of us; but it’d been deemed, as well, that sharing that prodigious prowess of his with the rest of our more magick-minded braves was too golden an opportunity to pass up. And as luck would have it, the arrangement seemed to be going swimmingly. Frankly, I feared at first that Alf would prove too “esoteric” a teacher: the sort to go more by sense or feel, something seen too oft amongst the genius sorts. But as demonstrated today, I was happily proved wrong. Grounded he was in his theories, and withal well-spoken in their explanations, that ever as our wiċċan listened on, they could but nod most agreeably.
“…Mind! Utmost efficiency is key, no matter the time or place,” his voice carried clear. “Take, for instance, my earlier Sċeaþatán. Certain circumstance may not call for such a…”
Smooth sailing so far. Excellent. With worries assuaged and spirits braced, I turned to my own pupils: namely, rank after rank of swordbearing braves. After all, it wouldn’t do to let our blades idle and dull if doubtless the battles onward would burn more furiously than ever before.
“Right, then,” I shouted with a clap. “Time we broke a sweat ourselves. Can’t end the day drier than our wiċċan mates, now can we?”
A sea of swords glimmered in the sun as the braves readied their blades. But amidst it all, a hand was raised. “Herr Rolf! A question!” cried a young brave.
“What is it?”
“In battle did you best the Herr Alf, the whispers tell,” he said. “How was it done, might I ask? For myself, I can’t imagine nearing him enough for even a blow—or lasting any longer than a moment, for that matter…”
“That I wonder, too,” another added aloud. “Such a mighty display today he has made. It puzzles to ponder.”
The other braves broke into a concurring murmur. Not that I could blame them. How best to reckon with a particularly cunning conjurer—now that’s a riddle to keep even the most seasoned of swordsmen up through the night. Unfortunately for these befuddled braves, however…
“I scarce recall ever besting Alf,” I stated. “No, our joust ended in a clear draw.”
“But that matches not the Herr’s own account,” a brave revealed to me. “A ‘complete defeat’, he himself calls it.”
“Bah, you oafs. Work your wits. The Herr Rolf cuts what we cannot, don’t forget,” another brave reproved his peers, earning from some of them sighs of resignation.
“Ach, for true, that,” said one other. “A shame…”
“Come. Don’t forget either that you’ve all got what I lack in turn,” I quickly reminded them. “Fight in whatever fashion befits you best, I say. That’s all that truly matters.”
Beside these braves had I faced a fair number of battles. Thus had I grown rather familiar with them, and would further still. And of them, this I knew: that they were all earnest warriors; that they meant to accept every drudgery their duties demanded of them, if only to safeguard both their loved ones back home and their brothers in battle. And for that, this I also knew: that these fine braves may become stronger and stronger still.
“Right. Let’s get to it, then,” I next said to them. “Pair up! Today, we hone the fundaments!”
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