Vol.6, Ch.3, P.2
I strained my arms full-strength, as a snake bent on wringing taut its prey. For indeed, I had got a prey; and as I wrenched this way and that, so did it flail its limbs wildly.
Just a second ago had I, after baiting an enemy patrol towards an epitaph in the woods with a toss of a stone, sprung upon the very last man in their file. Touch-and-go it was, but thanks to a lucky wind blowing loudly through the leaves, I was now dragging my catch away undetected—away and back to the cover of trees whence I’d been stalking.
“H…! Ng…!” gasped the man—or tried to, at least, as my arms coiled and constricted his neck from behind. Even still, he struggled. Impatient, I released him, but then rapidly locked an arm of his, whilst snatching the back of his collar and twisting it tight, thereby stanching his pate of its precious blood. “H—! Hp…! Hhp…!” he gagged, but outsounded by all the fussing foliage, it was futile.
Throttling him as I went, I brought the man behind an oaken bole, out of sight of his yet-unsuspecting friends. But at that moment—kunkh!—a kick from the man’s foot banged against the bark, rattling the entire tree. Yet it seemed unintended, and more a result of his aimless and miserable struggle. To my chagrin, however, the outlash did provide him with some profit, as the sound next alerted his friends; and peeping from the shade, I saw them now turning and training their swords hither.
“Kh, kh…! Hr…!” my prey choked, desperate to catch their attention, yet the effort failed. I hove and reared, wringing the fellow furiously whence his friends could not find him. Just some seconds more now—seconds till his conscience faded from his blood-starved brain.
—Tuh-tuff.
There: unto the grasses fell his silversword. Had he lost the strength to hold it? Or had he noted my weaponlessness? And now plotted to turn the tables with an odyllic fist to my face? Nay, not likely. Deprived of air, his wits were waning, whilst his free hand grabbed and clawed away at the collar noosing his neck.
On and ever on the struggle gasped and grappled. It might’ve spanned some mere seconds, but more an eternity did it seem. Albeit any instant now, and it would end at last. The treetops then stirred more noisily still. Breezes blew upon us, freezing the sweat now upon my brow, whilst my scab-wound burnt and blared under all the exertion. Glancing down, I found the fellow’s face, too, draped and dripping. Indeed, we were both of us at the brink.
Growing frustrated, I fancied stealing a look beyond the trunk, but stopped myself. The other three; they were still there, I sensed. A mere four, five passūs away, pouring all their caution towards this spot. But at that moment—“Hfh…!?”—a stabbing pain thundered through my body. This bloody bloke—he’d elbowed me in the rib!
A rebellious blow it was; rebellious as it was arbitrary, having been just a jerk of the arm. But that same arm, to my horror, was both silvered and odyl-indued.
My bones rattled; my organs jarred. I nearly reeled for it, but by some stroke of luck, the elbow had only jabbed the uninjured half of my torso. Yet the odyl had done its damage, and I shuddered at the indescribable pain. Clenching my teeth, however, I endured it, and dammed a groan from gushing out of my throat.
For goodness’s sake, how much longer must this go on? There was no knowing. Not anymore. That blow had utterly stupefied my sense of time. But no use grumbling; breathing as hushedly as my raging lungs would allow, I strained my hands and arms with all the might I could muster. Even when my vision began to flicker, and my molars creaked under my pressing jaw, I dared not let go, much less let off.
“Ngh…!”
“Kh…! H…”
Till at last, the man swooned and his body fell limp. But though he’d relaxed, I did not. Very carefully, I lowered the both of us to the grass and looked about, and there found his three friends turning their eyes back whither my stone-throw of a distraction had landed.
Now’s my only chance. Whipping my spent and painful body to action, I lifted the fainted fellow and lugged him off—away from foe and forest, and towards the nearest building in sight.
∵
“Nnuhh…” moaned the man as he finally came to. The sound emitted in a muffle, for his mouth was plugged with scraps of linen.
It’d been a job to get him into this state. After welcoming myself into a groundskeeper’s cottage, I’d shoved the unconscious chap inside, doffed him down to his smalls, and with his tunic and belts, had his wrists and ankles bound tight.
“Nfh…!” he then gasped through his gag. His eyes widened, his face furrowed; it appeared his plight had dawned on him. At once, he plied the only joints free to him and swivelled his head about wildly, groping with his frantic gaze for any friendly in sight. Only, it found none; none, save an enemy.
“It’s simple,” I said as our eyes clashed. “You are captive, and I have questions. Answer them, and you’ll not be fodder for the worms.” Rising from a chair whence I’d been convalescing in vigilance, I stooped down to the man as he lay on the floor. “I shall ungag you now. But dare you give me trouble, and I will give you death. Is that clear?” I put to him plainly.
A pause thereafter, and the man nodded in concession, to which I drew the now-drenched gag from his maw. But even with the thing removed, the man did not immediately erupt with howls for help. He seemed to understand his situation—that it was I who manned the reins here—and was guessing how best to navigate it. To make things harder for him, I stood, took out his sword, and pointed its tip at his bare abdomen.
“Let’s begin,” I said to him. “Who are you lot?”
“…”
Silence. In response, I but probed him with a stern and searching stare, as though to count the very wrinkles in his irises. And at length, enduring it no longer, he looked away.
That would not do. I then persuaded him with a press of cold, keen silver against his cheek. Verily; divested of any silver by which to deploy a paling, the threat of a naked blade to him was very real. And so, obliging, his face bent back hither, and we were locking eyes once more. This time, I did not regard his irises, but peered into his pupils. Deep, deep I delved, seeking after the very soul that sat therein. And presently, his anxiety seemed to swell, for upon his face now sprang a few beads of sweat.
Still, however, he held, to which I slowly slid the silver blade down past his face, till its argent lustre shone grim against his neck. I continued:
“Who, I said. Quiremen? Salvators?”
The folds of the man’s face then fidgeted. “…N-nay, not me,” he at last forced out of his throat. “I’m a sword; a sword of Central.”
Central? Interesting. But also: “not me”—a rather curious thing to say, that.
“I see. You’ll not deny the zealots, too, to be at havock here,” I noted. “So, just Central and the Salvators, is it? Or are there more?”
There had to be. The frocks of the Church; the maces of the Salvators; this bloke with his standard-issue silver; and also the motley patrols hunting about the place… Indeed, considering all I’d seen of these conspirators and their disparate equipment, things were pointing to several powers being at play.
“…Yes, more,” the man wisely corroborated. “Local soldiers… knights…”
Well, well. My guess was right, more or less. The other side of the board was absolutely bristling, with more bishops, rooks, and now pawns and knights than is legal. But I suppose under the banner of the Deiva, no arrant array was off the table.
“You lot seem legion,” I next said. “But how legion?”
The man’s lips hesitated. “…I don’t know.”
“…”
“T-truly I don’t! I swear it!” he yelped.
His eyes flashed frantically. Was he telling the truth? It quite seemed so. With these conspirators comprising several factions, a lowly lacquey such as he could never have hoped to see the whole picture. No, not even if he tried. He was blind—or rather, kept blind.
“Name your master,” I demanded next.
“…”
The bloke, biting his lip, then looked down despondently. How pitiful he appeared. But sorry to say, I had got neither the time nor the patience for pitying another, being wounded, alone, and homeless in hostile territory as I was. If he was a hare in a snare, then I was a hart with hounds on my scent.
But to keep that apprehension concealed, I pressed the sword ever more threateningly against the fellow’s neck. The blade bit the skin. A flick of my wrist, and this chap would soon have a new shirt of red to wear.
“H-hold!” he yipped, his face frigid with fright. And after a pause, he sang. “…Our masters number many. Mine is Vilmar—a rector of the Church.”
My eyes squinted. “A rector?” I muttered. “Are all your masters so holy and high of seat, then?”
“A-aye,” the man answered. “As far as I know, anyway.”
Still was his tone timorous—a sign that he was yet honest, I had to reckon. But that availed little if his knowledge was so limited.
I worked the wheels in my head. Leaders, all hailing from the gilt hallows of the Church… Nay, there had to be a layer above. At least one more. After all, their lot had dared hoist the princess to the high empyrean, and so certainly seemed nary the sort to sit about in secret places, whispering plots and plans to one another. Nay, a bunch of blokes rabid and with more than a few rivets loose they were. And I suspected it was but a single hand that held all their leashes.
“Fine… let’s see, then,” I next said. “My comrades. Tell me aught and all you know of them.”
The topic of leashes and leaders was most imperative, to be sure; but as to not betray that to this bloke, it would have to be taken up again later, after some scattered questions, at the least. A rather inelegant way of going about it, maybe, but being haphazard at best in the art of interrogation, my hands were tied.
“…”
Such perhaps explains why my subject then fell silent. But I did not press him. Instead, I, too, answered with silence. The uncomfortable quiet went on for a good while, till at length, looking stiff at the face, the man relented.
“…I know nothing,” he uttered. I narrowed my eyes at him. “I-I don’t, really,” he followed. “Your… friends, they haven’t got caught as yet. Not from aught I’ve heard, in any case.”
“…I’ll take your word for it,” I snarled, after inspecting his eyes. “Can’t imagine the likes of you lot ever getting the pounce on them, anyhow.”
The fellow frowned and growled grudgingly. But to keep him on his toes, I swiftly continued.
“How are you men arrayed?” I demanded, more damning and deep of tone this time. “Is it you ‘swords of Central’ that now bar the gates?”
To which the bloke’s voice trembled slightly as he answered, “N-nay. The gate-holders, they’re a honed sort, more so still than my company. I-I haven’t got business with them.”
Well. He denied neither that the gates’d been taken. This, too, I had suspected, but I thought here to have it confirmed, just in case. Though I was left none the more relieved: there really was no getting out of here unchallenged.
“Next,” I said. “Your patrols. Tell me your rounds, your routes…”
…And so continued the interrogation. These scoundrels’ plans, their objectives, their movements; such intelligence did I desperately crave. But much to my disappointment, there was scant little to be squeezed out of this squirming conspirator.
“…Last one,” I said. “Are all your leaders come to Merkulov?”
“Mine is. That’s all I can speak to. That’s all I know,” the man answered. But then he added, “He’s posted not far from where I was. South-east, last I saw him.”
“…Very good,” I uttered.
And with that, I quickly lifted the blade from his neck and stuffed the man’s mouth back up.
───────── ∵ ─────────
Comment (0)