Vol.6, Ch.4, P.13
—Pa-lonk-a-lonk.
In a tankard upon the dirt did a stone land square. And paces away, upon the face of the man who had cast it ever so perfectly, there grew not gladness, but a grumpy frown.
“First toss,” he snarled to himself. “…Bugger.”
About him stirred an entire army: the braves of the Decke as they standbyed. For this was the Himmel’s encampment, teeming with tents and pavilions, messes and waggons, horses and supplies, and numberless bodies busying themselves in readiness and patrols. A hustling, smoky scene it was, all set up several mīllia away from the nearest walls of Merkulov. But for Sigmund as he was squatting and scowling at his distant tankard, the order to idle was torture.
“A hole-in-one. What could be better?” observed a fuddled Alfred from behind. The former lordling knew not precisely what game the wild swordsman was playing, but as far as he could understand, a stone so landed ought earn a happy score.
“Aye, sure ’nough,” groaned Sigmund, before explaining: “An aug’ry, this. Get the stone in, an’ that’s safe farin’ for a mate in mind.”
“Yet here you are, grudging the good sign,” Alfred sighed, his puzzlement turning to exasperation. To him, it was incorrigible, even for Sigmund, to hope for hazards and harm, all for the sake of some “fun” in the end.
“’Cos it’s lyin’, it is,” came Sigmund’s defence. “Can pile a ’ole bloody pouch in there, an’ it’ll mean bugger all.”
Puzzlement rapidly returned. “Reasonable, I… suppose,” remarked Alfred, cocking his head.
A die’s honesty held great weight to Sigmund, it much seemed. Of course, such superstitions much abound the battlefield, and rightly so. But for this former mercenary, they were a matter a mite more engrossing than is usual for a soldier.
“Uh my!” cooed a voice. “It’s bloomin’, it is.”
That was Malena, waddling nigh. It was yesternoon, upon arriving and pitching camp with the rest of the Decke, when she had discovered many of the local flora to be on the cusp of flowering.
“Wot—that?” said Sigmund, glancing to some green and ruddy frills swaying in the breeze beside the tents. “Jus’ a jumble o’ cabbage, innit?”
“No, no. Not these,” Malena corrected. “They’re propuh flowers, they are. Ain’t ya, now?” Kneeling down, she caressed the herbs in question.
“For true,” Alfred put in. “‘Kale’ they’re rather called. In days’ time, I reckon their colours shall flare in full.”
At those words, Malena’s eyes widened with wonder. Alfred was famed for his learnedness, true, but this being a world aswirl in war, seldom did anyone, much less a lordling, heed such humble herbs. “Why, Master Alf,” uttered Malena. “Ya go in for flowers, too?”
Alfred nodded. “Quite. An old friend of mine was wise in them.”
Of this friend had he spoken once before. “Timo” was his name; and in the short boyhood they had shared together, he would oft regale a young Alfred with the lore of all the luscious things that grew about.
“In bloom, they bear the visage of evening,” Alfred recalled of kale, “blushing in brazen violets from the centre, before fading into green at the gables. Truly a lovely thing to behold.”
Malena bobbed her head in gleeful agreement. “Aye, aye,” she said. “Ain’t many blooms so big that’ve got elegance to ’em.”
Dusting her knees, she then got up and beamed with delight. Malena’s had been a lonesome life, for Londosius had loved her little. Ever since her parents’ untimely passing, there had been nary a soul with whom she could share her fancy of flowers. Only, throwing cold water now upon her jubilation was a question from Sigmund.
“Well? Can we eats ’em?”
Malena could but pause and scratch her cheek. “A… aye. Y-ya can, sure,” she eventually answered. “Though, ya won’t see too much o’ ’em on a plate or pot, if you understand.”
Sigmund then droned a long “oh” and blankly stared at the greens. But at that moment, a realisation struck Malena like lightning, and she found her shoulders shrinking and her gaze glumly lowering. For Sigmund was right. All around them was an army at war; a throng of warriors ready at short notice to lay down their lives for their calling, if need be. And yet here Malena was, fawning over flowers. How stupid she felt, how out-of-place. Perhaps the realm had been right to curse and ridicule her. And so, lest she should live again the lonely years, Malena crestfallenly relented with:
“B-b-b, but they should serve decent f-f… for fillin’ soldiers’ stomachses… maybe…”
Sigmund sent a bent brow her way. “Ah?” he blared. “Wot’s soldiers got to do with it, eh?”
Wonder whelmed Malena once more. She raised a pair of puzzled eyes, to which Alfred, seeming to have scried the source of her low spirits, then said softly: “Have heart, Malena. A flower comforts a fighter more than you might fancy.”
Malena blinked. “Eh…?”
“For divest him of it, and all he would have to behold are the barrens of Battle,” continued Alfred, “—slowly to forget Life; swiftly to seek Death.”
“R… realluh, now?” murmured Malena.
“Aye. That’s the short o’ it,” Sigmund fastly affirmed, as though it were the plainest truth.
For her part, the former Salvator was left speechless. To be vindicated on the virtues of things that grew green and fair was far beyond her expectation. Why, having lived friendlessly for so long, sharing such words with another was something altogether alien to her. And these were men, no less, two handsome members of the male species revering her very favourite things. She was nary one to weigh another’s worth by looks alone, certainly, but all the same, she stood dumbfounded for a moment.
But with the word “favourite” yet fresh on her mind, Malena found something to say at last. “Th… that explains this, then?” she asked, looking at the tankard sitting on the turf. Such simple pass-times were perhaps to Sigmund as flowers were to her: a comfort, she thought.
“Eh,” he said, “in a way.”
Despite his answer, however, things were a trifle different for Sigmund. What gave him vigour to go on was not “comfort”, but rather “rancour”: a hatred for the sick and wicked world at large. He merely could not be bothered to put that into words; not here and now, at any rate.
“Yet if ‘lie’ it does,” spoke Alfred of Sigmund’s augury, “then it is some bane that brews now in Merkulov?”
“Aye,” was the curt reply. Yet it was not just the dishonest augury that told of that; it was also Sigmund’s very instincts, though neither of that did he elect to speak.
“Well,” said Malena, “bane or boon, things’ll be all right. They will!”
“Very true,” added Alfred. “Valour shall avail our friends—Rolf’s especially.”
That was no flattery. He, indeed, held Rolf in high regard, as did Sigmund. After all, the rebel had defeated them both handily, once upon a time.
“Peh. Can’t count on that,” doubted Sigmund. “Takes too much for the team, ’e does. Bloody gloak.”
Getting up, the former mercenary grabbed his tankard and walked away, waving a hand over his shoulder as he went.
“A fine friend, ’e is,” noted Malena, seeing him off. In spite of—or perhaps because of—her former friendlessness, she understood well what Sigmund meant: that Rolf was all too wont to return from battle bearing wounds intended for another. Hence the misgiving that the rebel might not be coming back from Merkulov unmarred. Suspecting much the same, the figure of a bloody Rolf began to flash, too, in Alfred’s mind.
The clouds beyond rumbled. A rustling wind picked up. “I shall go, as well,” Alfred said asudden. “A word with the Chief seems due.”
“Aye. Bring news, if ya can!” said Malena, as Alfred briskly made for the commanders’ pavilions.
Sigmund might very well have his “fun” in the end. All the more reason to counsel with Volker, therefore, and brace the braves for the bloodbath to come.
─────────────────────
Volume 6 ─ End
∵
Notes
Mīlle
(Language: Latin; plural: mīllia) Shortening of mīlle passūs. A unit of measure used by the ancient Romans; known as the “Roman mile”, it spanned 1,000 passūs in length. 1 kilometre is equal to 0.6757 of a mīlle. A mīlle, therefore, can be roughly equated to 1 and a half kilometres.
Comment (0)