Vol.6, Ch.3, P.16
A rumble ran and roared through the concourse. Dust fumed and cobblestones flew. And then, when the air settled and became quiet again, I unsquinted my eyes. There did I find myself knelt beside the soot-steel, its hilt yet fast in my hands. Softly asmoke was its black blade, and its tip was thrust deep into the ground—whence now sprawled a shallow, cloven crater.
“Like a hammer”, indeed; a standing stele did the lightless steel much seem, claiming uncontested conquest over all under the sky. And to attest this, whence the weapon now impaled, whence its blade had blasted a basin out of the pavement, there stood my sorcerous foe. Or, that is, once stood. For he was entirely missing. Staff, robe, flesh, and bone—all vestige of him had vanished, worsted away from this world by a dread and crushing stroke.
And yet, here I stood, wholly unharmed in the deed. Perhaps he’d broken my fall? When blade was brought unto body? This I had wondered, though only for the slightest moment, when, “Y… you!”—gasped the other men in wonder and indignance. Six in total they were, each taken aback. But now, two of their boldest, swiftly mastering themselves, sprang right into the crater after me. “You scoundr—”
“Scoundrel”—it was never in the stars for that word to finish. For when the pair beset me, I’d sooner beset them, wrenching free the svǫrtaskan from the ground, and with motion unrelenting, sweeping it right and then scything it left.
Fwoh-fwofh! so whooshed the wolfsteel. Raiments rent and bosoms riven, the two men tumbled dead, their once up-raised maces left to clatter powerlessly to the ground.
Out of the crater I leapt. Four foes now remained. One of them stood further away. I remembered him—him, and his deft dagger-hand besides. But now, for something other than his throwing-craft did I mark him the most dangerous, as despite having beheld in awe a blade plunge and pulverise a fellow Salvator, he hadn’t given in to fear, but to distance and calculation instead. A keen eagle, studying the field from afar, judging when to strike with his talons—certainly, if anyone deserved the soonest stroke, it was he.
Sword centred, I braced and bent my body low; and with a blow of breath, I stamped my foot—bakh!—and burst forth like a full-loosed arrow. Crossing three passūs in a pounce, I passed the three other men by, before foining the black blade forwards unto my mark—a mark who, at the same time, stood poised to answer. Shrewd and sharp he was, that as I fell upon him, he hastily hove and swung down his silver mace unto me.
But ever the resolute arrow, I stayed my course, and at the last, sent black steel running through the Salvator’s throat. So swift and violent was the assault that my enemy reeled in place, and his mace, once so mighty in his hand, fell and brushed my side to no effect.
“Aach! Bloody fiend!” cried his friends.
Again with the curses; was there writ some rule to reserve them for rebels such as I? But never mind that. Now were these Salvators halved to three; three lions circling a solitary wolf. Nay—three hyaenas, more like, for these foes altogether seemed now not so threatening. Nonetheless I dared not lax my guard. Assuming as sound a stance and assaying as swift a stroke as I could, I made my move.
Doubtless were these men prepared with palings. But with the blade of black back in hand, such defences were futile. Like a hot knife through butter, the soot-steel thus sundered the paling and clove open the skull of my next mark; and there the rest of his body fell limp.
“Egh…!” blenched the last two. Asweat they were now; asweat from dismay. And forgetful too, it seemed, of the fundament of fighting that was minding one’s distance. Indeed, their astonishment had rooted them square in reach of my lunge. But I spared them for the present. Now was the best time to get some answers, before reinforcements could come and encourage them.
“Tell me,” I began interrogating them, “who’s pulling the strings this time?”
And in so doing, I recalled the conversation eavesdropped upon earlier:
‘…And… …our eminence…
…come, as well…
…Can’t… …bad impression…’
‘…‘Mighty’… …too meek a word…
…for one as he…’
Words uttered with awe and reverence those were, the very sort reserved for a mastermind, I’d warrant.
“…”
These remaining men, however, deigned no answer. Not that I was expecting any charity, of course. Still, I stared upon and studied them both, and withal the look upon their faces. For these were foes both fraught and fanatic, cornered by the heretic they so hated; the same heretic that just now had hewn their fellows one after another. Frayed were their nerves, therefore; frayed and—given enough “convincing”—liable to let slip an answer or three.
“Word has it he’s sitting snug somewhere west. Bless me, if that isn’t a fair and fine leader you’ve got,” I scoffed, “—one I wager is no friend of yours; not at first, at least.”
There: the two started, frowning and averting their eyes hastily. For certain had some tender topic been prodded. This was a good start.
Quick to pull at the thread, I pressed the Salvators further. “Fine, then. Another question: where’s the hole whence you lot’ve hid yourselves?”
The numbers posted at this studitōrium were more legion than I’d imagined. Our braves had scoured the whole school twice, only to return both times with the all-clear. Yet in spite of it, out of the blue had these motley conspirators sprung. How? was the burning question; how and whence.
One of the men sneered. “Hmph… You waste your breath,” he answered. Despite his anxiety, some steel had returned to his tone. As a matter of fact, the both of them seemed now less tense, or even relieved, like urchins believing the adults distracted from some mischief in the making. How very peculiar.
“Ah. So there is something west,” I sneered back. “Something and more—like your precious hiding spot.”
Their faces puckered. “…You trickster!” they blustered at me. “Treasonous churl of a trickster…!”
Like fish to bait. More than ever, the men glowered redly. Then, as though to murder me would mend their mistake, they raised and readied their maces. Nerves and brows though frayed and asweat, the men stared menacingly upon me as they crept hither step-by-step. It would seem that all intent to retreat had perished from their minds.
Still, they were not such fools as to misfathom the gap in prowess between us. Not that they were reckoning it even half-correctly, I should think, but at the least, they ought’ve perceived how poor their chances were. Nay; they were not foolish so much as they were faithful. At this moment, the pining to appease their Deiva with my death far outshone any concern they’d got for their own lives.
Truly a most convenient thing, “god”. For its sake would a man make himself a martyr—or a willing tool. And in the eyes of the ambitious, there is naught more useful.
As a rule, I would not despise a man for his faith. But a man who puppeteers such faith for his own purposes? For him, my wrath is ill-restrained. And so did my fingers grimly grip the black hilt, as these Salvator mannequins then pounced upon me with maces murderous and mouths screaming:
“Heathen, harlot! To Hell with you!”
“Rrea—ahh!!”
With the soot-steel poised low, I pivoted in place, letting the first mace fall by. And before the second could strike, I hove my blade and hewed its wielder.
“Gworgh…!?” he groaned, as his belly was gashed, and a glut of blood came gushing from his mouth.
Lamenting little the loss of his fellow, the last Salvator turned and moved to ready his mace once more—only never to see it through; for I’d wheeled the wolfsteel blade back about and brought it flashing down upon his flesh.
“Aghakh!!” pealed he from behind a splash of red. And pulling the blacksword out of his twained torso, I let him and his friend fall noisily to their knees and depart this coil—or in their words, pass into the arms of Yoná.
“…”
Silence settled asudden. There I stood, eyeing their corpses. And after catching my breath, I knelt down to them, and wiped clean the soot-steel with the folds of their frocks. Holy men they once were, and indeed now “martyrs”—by their reckoning, at any rate. But by mine, they’d been but fanatics foaming at the mouth. Will the day ever come when the world judges which to be true? I then wondered.
—Graash.
Behind me spilt a sound. Yet it wasn’t made by another soul: rather, a section of smouldering wall had fallen loose from above. Upon the splaying pile I peered, and soon glimpsed within it an argent gleam.
“Finders keepers, I suppose,” I soon said to myself; as after investigation, I discovered amongst the wreckage both the Salvator dagger and the broken, blackened remnants of the glass shard. I took and wedged the former in my belt. It was yet quite hot from the spellfire earlier, but it ought cool by the time it came into Lise’s hands. Like me, she also might’ve lost her blades, and should appreciate a substitute. “And there we are,” I next uttered, upon sheathing the soot-steel back into its scabbard. And finding them fitting just as they’d ever done, I gave a deep breath. The sense of security and respair was beyond description. Things truly did feel different now that I was girt again.
But remembering the battlefield at hand, I cast my eyes up to the fourth floor wall, out of the hole whereof the Salvator captains and lacqueys were overlooking. None of them spoke. All seemed stunned. Best I quit this place, I then decided, before they recover their wits, at least. With that, I turned and took off.
“…”
And as I did, I fell into thought, recalling the rancour that’d wrought the riven crater behind me. The force of the soot-steel as it dragged me down through the air; the sheer passion that seemed to shake my very shoulders—come to think of it, there was that voice, too, wasn’t there? As with back when Balasthea burnt? Might there be some…
“…Nay,” I stayed myself. “Never mind it for now.”
Puzzling this out would have to wait, what with this conspiracy hardly dealt with. But determined all the more to see it done, I summarily put the studitōrium behind me.
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Chapter 3 ─ End
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