Vol.6, Ch.2, P.9
Waves searing and bellowing beset me. Then, like storm-waters thrashing, a wall of debris buffeted all my body. Crossing my arms quick, I shielded my head, only to expose my torso to an assault of blasted timbers and stones, each a knife set on stabbing me through. Meanwhile, more stones still, without stall, hammered away at my legs and shoulders as a flash of flames broke upon me like a raging tide. A disaster damning me from every side, as though possessed of a mind to have me dead, and withal the dogged determination to deal it full.
And then, a bang! from behind. Shards sharp and bright shattered all about me; but before aught could be made of them, I felt myself floating, flying. Stolen of all sense of balance by blaring sound and blinding light, however, I no longer knew up from down, only that I’d been flung aback by forces fiery and ferocious.
Pain then set in, panging me in a shower of hurt as down, down, down I descended. An errant rock smote my brow, and my lungs, bludgeoned by stone and stung by heat, gasped confusedly away. But clenching hard my teeth, I endured the gauntlet, fearing to faint amidst what could be my final moment.
But in that flight, I sank into something of a sea of spikes, of rushing sounds and prodding sensations infinitely unfolding. Beyond squinting lids, I discovered greenery gusting all around me. Leaves and branches they were—it was down into wooded parts that I had plunged. And after a second or three of careering through the canopy, of rapid rustling, twigs snapping, and being beaten all about by bole and bough, a giant blow as from a battering ram struck my back square. But the descent—it had ceased at last. The ground had broken my fall, in a manner of speaking.
After further tossing and tumbling terribly across the turf, my body faltered and stopped. And there as I lay, my vision convulsed, bending and blurring in swirls to sicken the senses. And in my ears droned a dreadful ringing.
“Kha… hahh…!” came my wild wheezing. All wind had been knocked out of me; I needed air—direly. So much so that despite the throes throbbing in my ribs—“Hhahh…! Haehh…!”—I quaffed lungful after lungful of the stuff, that all the sooner might I recover some clarity—“Hahh…! Ghahagh…!”—for I was now deep in hostile territory.
Such was the only thing certain at that moment: that the bombing was obviously a belligerent act; that all this place had become a battlefield. All the better, then, to get moving as soon as possible. But before that, I had to muster myself and sort out the situation.
Panting and lying flat on my back, I began looking about. Dust and dancing leaves confounded at first my already confused sight. But as things settled, I saw for certain that I was outdoors: it was not only from the steeple that I’d been cast, but clear from the lectitōrium to which it was attached, and into the woods that grew in its shadow. Verily; there, peeking down through the green canopy, was the tower still standing very tall. Of stern masonry had it been made, though discouragingly, the top parts appeared much in ruin, with the once-proud spire replaced by a pillar of smoke.
“A building of old… broken…” I rasped aloud. “…Reckless… reckless rascals that did this…!”
Ash and embers glode in the air. Glass, stone and timber smithers strewed the ground; the second lay in hot wisps, whilst the last, each and all, were yet aflame so as to depict some wake of war. But there seemed no sign of any other soul. I was alone in falling out of the tower, then. Goodness—was everyone else yet inside? In the tower? Or… the lectitōrium, maybe? Though the steeple had endured it, an explosion that’d been, one sudden and set off in a space enclosed. Would that they’d weathered it without harm…
…But amidst that thought, I discovered that I was wrong: I wasn’t alone in exiting the steeple. There he was, a few passūs away from me. Or rather, what’d once been of him: a foot. Namely the right, from what I could tell. All torn and bent it was, and the shreds of cloth and leather that yet clung to it were burning. And anear it lay a long object—one of the utter many blasting cans that’d sparked the explosion. Though cracked and scuffed, this one seemed wondrously to have failed in fracting or firing off, likely after being struck free by that kick of mine. So it was, then, that I was gazing upon the limb of the legate Myrd. The colour of its clothing, though scorched, attested that enough.
For a little while yet I lay there, collecting myself. And at length, “Hah… eangh…!” I groaned, and by good luck, I was able to heave my upper body erect. Luckier still, I felt no bones to be broken. A crack or three ran through my ribs, maybe, but I could yet move.
A miracle, if ever there was one. That was a fall of fifteen-odd passūs I’d taken. I ought thank the tower window and this wooded patch for pillowing my descent.
“Nnngh!!”
But there, right about my belly—it was burning hot. And withal it shrieked with a shooting pain. I looked down, and found grisly growing out of my flank a timber splinter some ten digitī long. Worse news was, I knew not how deeply it delved. This overcoat of mine, it’d done well to shield me from both heat and impact. Why, were it not upon me, I might now be burning in pieces along with the legate. Yet it appeared that through some seam had this splinter pierced the tough leather.
As it was, the wound was bleeding rather badly. But little could be done; part with the splinter, and blood might well come gushing out. Best not bother it, I decided. Thus, bearing a stake of wood in my side, I slowly raised myself. Hand next on knee, I pushed my way up.
“Khh…!” I groaned again through grinding teeth as I strained to tame the shivers now running all through my body. I had to quit this place, and quick. Any moment now might enemies beset me—enemies with a taste for survivors.
On knees unsteady, I staggered off, but not before helping myself to the blasting can. Its cork was scorched, but yet sound. Good; the explosive stuff inside ought serve me somehow. Panting as I plodded along, and with ears yet madly ringing, I dragged myself off to the nearest cover I could find.
“Come on, Rolf…” I huffed hoarsely, “…this is… nothing…!”
Yes. This was nothing. Getting this burnt and battered is part and parcel with taking an explosion. By now, I was quite used to it. Used to explosions—a silly thing to say, I know, but it’s true. I’d endured no less than three back at the Erbelde, after all. This made the fourth.
But to have survived so many… why, I ought thank the fates, as well, for experiences so priceless. Indeed, what was the first blast at the Erbelde but a monstrosity in comparison? That one had undone the Des Ailes Greatbridge itself; this failed even to topple a tower. The only things it could boast about were flinging me from a steep height and stabbing me with an errant splinter.
I smiled. With a face dirty with dust, sweat, and blood, I smiled a smile for no one in particular to see.
This won’t undo me. It shall not. See? I’m still standing. Standing tall and untouched…!
∵
The lectitōrium woods. A little deeper therein, mingled amongst some trees and shrubbery, I found myself sat again. Being nary too far from the tower, this spot, too, was sprinkled with ruin and burning timbers. But better here than directly beneath the tower, where I’d be as exposed as a ship at sea.
“Hahh… haa…”
My breaths had grown laboured. The mere stroll hither had left me languishing. All about my body, there broke a sickly sweat; and my sight absolutely swum with stars. No doubt the bleeding was to blame. It needed a good seeing-to somehow, anyhow at all, and soon.
“…”
Nay, not soon—now. Frowning gravely at the effort to come, I grasped fast the stake-like splinter in my side. Then, very carefully now, I pulled it out.
“Khhrgh…!”
A sound ensued, like the mincing of meat. A moment of this wretchedness, and there it was in my hand: the timber spike, released entirely at last. Wet and red it was from the point and a good deal on. But from the look of it, it appeared not to have pierced any organ, thankfully. Still, that left the bleeding, which now flowed all the more profusely.
I stared at it—the hole in my flank; the redness running from it. And then, I pressed it shut between my fingers. Wiping it whilst I waited, I at length released the wound, and found that its flow had flagged, if only for now. But with it cleaner and made more plain to see, it was time for the next step.
Taking up the blasting can in my other hand, I champed down on and wrenched open its cork, but kept the thing between my teeth—my tongue would thank me for it soon enough. Then, tilting the can, I dusted my wound with a smidgen of the Serpentine inside. Truly, like the Devil’s black spice it seemed.
I next reached for a piece of timber burning nearby. Steel was needed now—a will of steel. Resolved, I then pushed the flaming thing unto my wound.
“Gh-grrnggh!!”
—Ppaprapap!
Sparks sprayed; fumes flew; pain spiked. An agony groping, grinding, and gashing its way up to my pate was pursued by a stranglehold of heat. Hauntingly it hurt and beastily it burnt, as though bright-hot iron had been thrust upon me. Worse still, every nerve and every sense could but fixate on it and naught else. And before I knew it, the cork clamped between my teeth had sundered in two, saving my tongue from the same fate.
“Gha… aghh…!” I rasped, restraining the impulse to twist and writhe in anguish. But—
—sshhrrroohh…—
—soon enough, the flame and sparks waned to a smoky wisp, and what’d once been a gaping wound was now a scab: scorched and scarred, but ultimately closed.
I collapsed and let out all my lungs. “Hahh…! Hahh…!”
Cauterisation—such is this called. Rather than heal, it serves chiefly to stanch a wound by searing it shut. Certainly not the most useful of remedies, given all the mending magicks at large. But in my time as an Orderly ungraced, I’d deemed the method handy enough to learn. Although this, admittedly, was my very first attempt at it.
“Gh… hehh…” I panted pathetically on. And after catching some of my breath, “Come on, Rolf… Off we go…”
No rest for the wicked—nor an ungraced, for that matter: hardly healed though I was, some presence, I perceived, was in distant approach. Bearing the pain as best I could, I struggled up again and peered out of the shrubbery towards the base of the tower.
“Hrm…”
There: a group of Men. Four, five—all foes, no doubt. But where in Hell had they been hid all this time? And how had they escaped our canvassing? Twice? Questions abounded, but now was not the time to sort them out.
These Men… going by the frocks upon them, nary a sword had ever tapped those shoulders of theirs, nor any vows made to protect the princess. Nay; they had the reek of…
“…Cultists.”
True enough, some of their number had maces in hand—a fast favourite of the armed priesthood. What’s more, those so maced had a peculiar gait about them: straight and strong; the kind that betrayed a livelihood of battle. Men of the faith… lives of battle… Might the Champions Salvator be involved?
This I pondered as I hardened my gaze upon the yonder suspects. As their wide cuffs flapped to and fro, so were some glimpses shown of silken silver glinting underneath.
“Meaning… best not to mess with them…”
No, indeed. Fight them, and I’d be a dead rebel, and for good reason. But forgetting that for now, silvered frocks clearly signed that Yoná’s madly devoted were behind the day’s disturbance. I then recalled the legate Myrd. Though I couldn’t understand still how he did it, being dead as he was then, he really had imblazed himself and the tower withal. If one thing could move a man to commit explosive sabotage, it was without doubt the marriage of faith and fanaticism. And where there’s lambs and zealotry, the Quire can’t be far behind.
Or… were things truly that simple? It was the Princess Serafina herself, acting sovereign of all Londosius, that they’d tried to blow up. And what’d called her to this place but a parley? A council to seek reconciliation with a sworn enemy? One could see why they’d want to get in the way of that, to be sure, but… could mere warmongery be reason enough for what was tantamount to regicide?
…Nay. All that should come later. For now, I had to act.
Banishing the blaring pain from my pate, I got my wits wheeling. First things first: I must needs get back to battle-readiness. Indeed, a solitude was upon me, one not felt in a very long while.
I looked down to my wounded flank, and then to my other. And there, what ought be girt in my belt, wasn’t—
—for I had lost the sword of soot.
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Chapter 2 ─ End
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