Vol.6, Ch.4, P.1
With the soot-steel restored, I was back to form at last. Albeit the clouds of this conspiracy hung dark and heavy yet. And unknowing as I was of the enemy’s numbers—much less the name of their mastermind—stealth and caution were key as ever. A misstep, and I could have a whole host of Salvators hot on my heels.
After exfiltrating myself from the studitōrium, I stole north-eastwards through the Acadēmī̆a grounds, keeping head low and ears pricked all the while. The priority at present was to join back with Lise and company. Stopping that, however, was the lack of any clues as to their whereabouts. In such waste had the lectitōrium been left that I could scarce puzzle out whence and whither they’d fled. That none of them had been slain therein was certain and solacing enough, but that was about all I could guess of their situation. There was nothing for it, then, but to start from north of that ruined place and circle my way westwards, keeping an eye out for any sign of my friends as I go.
Then there were these conspirators to consider. “When uncertain, ’tis wiser to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems,” it is taught. Though in this plight, such overestimation might well prove on the mark, frighteningly enough.
I slowed my pace. Mighty… I then grimly mused. And flashing in my mind next was the red-crowned figure of Raakel. An Owlcrane she was, and of the knightly leadership, to boot… meaning she counted, without a doubt, amongst such “mighties”. Question is: was she a conspirator, as well?
This bore pondering. When one recalls Raakel, one does so firstly her hammer-heaving form, wild and ruthless as a raging storm. The warrior was ever a devotee to strength and power, after all, and she certainly showed it upon the frontlines. Why, if it came to might alone amongst the 5th, I could but measure her second only to Emilie, the very mareschal herself. Yes indeed, Raakel did surpass even her friend and superior, Gerd—were it a one-on-one between them, that is. Which brings me to her loyalties: considering her compass, might she have cast in her lot with these conspirators on this day? Mighties mingling with mighties, and whatnot? And thence captived Lise and all, and whisked them away to be held hostage? That would rather explain much.
“Only…”
…Only, that required taking Lise at unawares, a feat Raakel, let alone anyone, would be hard-put to accomplish, I should think. The hammer-dame would prove a difficult foe, no mistake there, but only that: a difficult foe.
Or was I mistaken? After all, it’d been many a season since last I saw a swing from that silvermaul of hers; not since my swain-days, in fact. And to judge by what I’d gleaned from her figure at the lectitōrium, she’d trained herself up rather frightfully, I must say.
Nay… I ought trust to Lise’s strength. For she was very trustworthy, with or without her longdaggers. Besides, this all assumes Raakel herself, of all people, to have got a pate for conspiracy. Flipping the flag would mean betraying Emilie, and I could not think her capable of such a sin. Indeed, on second thought, it would be quite unlike Raakel to play at intrigue.
“…Though that ill-makes her a friendly, I suppose,” I muttered to myself.
Yes; sadly enough, this was the mire that Merkulov had boiled down to: a ghastly guessing game of who’s friend and who’s foe. And unfortunately for me, I could scry little of who was even sat about the game-table. Only the Himmel were on my side, that much was certain. All the more reason, then, to reunite with them at the soonest.
“Friend… and foe,” I sighed, as I stopped and stooped within a ginnel. “Pity. Here we were, convened for reconciliation. And now…” Now were we made to doubt one another, to defer to combat rather than counsel—all because of some dastard’s scheming. He must needs be smoked out, and his designs brought to light withal, if ever was peace to be discussed again. “Albeit the ‘how’ of that remains the rub,” I tempered myself. “How might I find the ferret when I could find not even my friends…?”
This was a riddle, for sure. As things were, I was practically wading in the dark, scarce able to call out for my companions, lest I rouse all that lurked in the waters. Ought I try fishing again, then? I next thought. Bag a bloke; squeeze out some more information, maybe?
On and on, I mulled over my choices as I began moving again. Even now, smoke was rising from the studitōrium yonder behind me. There was activity in the air; enemies were converging thither to investigate. So, keeping clear of the main paths, I got on. And at length—
“…What’s that?”
I had scarce entered the north-eastern grounds when my ears stood asudden. Something hard-by was stirring—or rather, someones. Quickly, I bent behind the corner of an alleyway. And peeping out, I found the source of the stir: a smattering of men gathered in a small courtyard. Yet they were doing more than stirring; they were fighting.
“…Well, well.”
Three frocked figures they were—Quiremen, most like—each flailing their maces at the fourth man: a Praetorian, to go by his livery.
“Krakh!?” shot a shriek through the air, followed by the collapse of a Quireman’s body. Nay, it was no blade that felled him, but a solid knuckle straight to the chin—the Praetorian was fighting without a weapon.
Despite his plight, however, there was no haste, hesitation, nor harshness in his movements. Like a leaf borne upon a wind, the royal bodyguard fought in a flow, deftly eluding any direct mace thrown his way. And with his person already paled, harm seemed little to know him. A slippery eel of a pugilist he was, this Praetorian.
—Hwohh.
Odyl billowed and air rippled. Overpowering another paling, the Praetorian had taken hold of a Quireman’s frock; and wrenching him in, then launched a knee deep into his belly. The Quireman vomited a short groan, but no mercy was given him, for over his bent body did an elbow next appear. And then—grekhh!—down unto the back of his skull it crashed. The Quireman crumpled immediately. Now, only one enemy remained.
“…Curses!” spat the last-stander. Heeding his fallen friends little—and in fact, seeming all the more resolute—he then raised his mace and rushed upon the Praetorian. But before the stroke could fall, the mace-arm was stopped short by a quicker hand. Up then flashed a forearm unto his neck, and there a struggle ensued. Having checked the Quireman, the Praetorian then pushed and pushed till his opponent was violently slammed and driven up against a wall.
“Out with it! Aught and all thou know’st!” demanded the Praetorian as his forearm pressed hard against the Quireman’s throat—yet not so hard as to silence any answering. Still, the Quireman deigned not a squeak. Instead, he let his reddened eyes roll up, curled his lips, and smiled stupidly. The Praetorian scowled back. “Thou’st best hope no harm’s come upon Her Highness! Or has it!?” he growled on, but to no avail: smiling still, the Quireman’s face shuddered, and then he swooned altogether. “Ach!” the Praetorian angrily groaned, before casting his unconscious opponent down onto the cobblestones.
There the victor stood, huffing and grimacing upon his fallen foes. But in a moment, he stopped, turned—and perceived me in my concealment.
“…Thou,” his snarl echoed from afar, “—Rolf the blackguard.”
If the displeasure in his voice wasn’t full before, then it certainly was now. Fifty and some in his years I found this Praetorian to be. Clad he was in silver armour and Londosian colours, though a bandage wound about his unhelmed and greying head. And as I emerged out of the corner and came nigh, so did his thick, up-splaying moustache twitch, and his wiry but rigour-wrought figure flare with distaste.
“And you,” I returned. “Björn the bodyguard, I take it?”
───────── ∵ ─────────
Comment (0)