Vol.7, Ch.1, P.4
“Hallo. The lot o’ ya lambs lost, or what?”
Now this was rather unexpected. To cross a covess all the way out here? Far from the folk and fences of Hensen below? A deal of caution was in order, especially for these men that were come to contaminate the reservoir waters. But as they all halted afore the unforeseen female, the company kept their suspicions hushed behind their faces.
“Lost? Why, not at all,” answered the man foremost amongst these “lambs”. A smile smeared itself across his lips. “Just gadding about with the lads, really!” he added, though not without a guarded gaze locked upon the woman.
And O, how the sight incensed him. She was neither alone, he saw, being accompanied by a few fellows of her own, nor seeming much like the Enemy; for she and hers were just as he and his: children of Man, each and all. And yet, what about that town below? That cesspit wherein mingled Man with the Nafílim filth? Could it be? That she and hers, too, had fallen in with the Foe? The Salvator inly quaked. The possibility seemed supremely preposterous to him—preposterous, and yet profanely probable.
But suppressing his hotting humours, the man smiled on and said, “Arrived in Hensen not some days ago, see. A strange and… charming place it is, bless! Can’t help but wonder and wander about, if you get me.”
“What? With ’em blades at your belts?” the woman noted with a squint.
Smoothly, the man looked down to his sword. “Oh, this?” he chuckled. “Well, better safe than sorry, wouldn’t you say? What with behemót likely out and about these parts.”
The woman chuckled back. “Aye, true enough,” she conceded. “’Tis fine weather for wand’rin’, I’ll give ya that at least.”
“Fine, indeed!”
Behind affable eyes, the Salvator studied his challenger. Beautiful and buxom she was, with dusk-amber tresses trickling down to her shimmering shoulders. Yet her gait and gaze betrayed many a battle under her belt, whence was also girt a sword of her own. And that was to say nothing of the men in her tow, each of whom also seemed too sinewed and soldierishly geared for the Salvator’s comfort. Indeed, he felt his fingers tingle. And then his neck became a trifle numb, as though bracing itself to be cut at any moment. For, to judge by the feline litheness of the female, that possibility also seemed coldly real.
That said, he and his totalled four and ten, and so could the man scarce imagine defeat at the hands of the paltry five afore him. Still, discretion is the better part of valour, it is said. Hence did he choose to peaceably part.
“Well anyway,” he said, “good day to you, now. Cheerio—”
“What’s that bulgin’ at your belly, hmm?” the woman cut in. “If ya don’t mind, that is?”
The man raised his brows. “Hm? Ah—” He then laughed to himself. And slipping a hand deep into his tunic, he pulled out: “—my waterskin, of course.”
Grinning sunnily, the Salvator dangled and sloshed the skin for the female to see. Despite the gesture, however, it seemed awfully large and full for just one “wanderer’s” throat. The four men behind the female all seemed to agree, as they flared their eyes and grimmed their faces at the sight of the skin. For her part, the woman made no disconcerted sign, if any at all. In fact, she—Frieda of Tallien—merely stroked back her amber hair, and lowly said to the Salvator:
“Take a gulp, then.”
“…What?”
“A sip. ’Tis a long way from town, innit? Poor thing. Ya must be parch’d.”
“…”
“…”
And there was silence. But all the same, the air icened and stifled on—till like a string snapping, Salvator swords shrieked from their sheaths! And Frieda and her fellows, fancying not to fight, turned heel and fled in haste!
“Get back ’ere, woman!” the zealots screamed. And like hounds unleashed, they leapt after their prey. But at that moment, a flurry of footfalls rumbled behind them—it was an ambush! Four more soldiers had pounced from the shadows, and now blocked their rear!
“Whoa!?”
The Salvators all stalled and closed ranks, their senses pricked for any more surprises. Meanwhile, Frieda and her four turned again; and baring their own blades, they steadily approached the saboteurs. Nine they now were; nine defenders against four and ten fanatics. Certainly did the Salvators boast a better number, but that seemed to them a small comfort now that they were handily flanked.
“Not good!” growled the man. “Come on! We break through!”
Yet, not being one to let slip so princely an opportunity, Frieda pointed forth her sword at him, noting well how much more aged he was than the rest of the zealots, and how much they seemed at his beck and call. Yes—there could be no mistake.
“There’s the gaffer!” she shouted to her men. “Catch ’im, an’ tonight’s mead’s on me!”
Enlivened by her voice, the Turnlancers bellowed all together, before bolting straight unto the Salvators. And there, battle burst anew.
∵
Two score paces away, Mia watched on from bush and boulder. But just before the very first swords rang yonder, the lass found her vision eclipsed asudden. Behind her was Dennis, shielding her eyes with his callus-hardened hands as the distant scene screamed and swirled with red.
“I can’t see,” Mia said.
“Good!” Dennis laughed.
“But—”
It was she who had brought the Turnlancers hither; she who had stirred their sleeping swords. But small and powerless as she was, it would be evil and vain to try and avail them. And so had she felt it her duty at the least to behold their bravery. Yet now to be deprived of even that? With remorse mounting, Mia shook her head to and fro. But tried as she might, Dennis’s hands matched her movements all too perfectly.
Frustrated and sightless still, she complained, “I have to—”
“Mia-lass,” Dennis swiftly said.
“…Yes?”
“What’ll dear ol’ Rolf roar down me ears, thinkst thou, should I show thee all the red a-showerin’ afore us now?”
At that, Mia uttered, “…Oh,” and ceased at once to resist.
“Good lass,” said Dennis.
“…”
Mia sank into some thought. Were adults like Dennis, too, just as scared of a good scolding? The lass cocked her head behind her minder’s hands. Between him and her, however, it was Mia who would get away with just a stern word. For Dennis, a fist to the face seemed the softest sentence. Indeed, the mere thought of Rolf’s parental wrath was enough to make the man shiver at the shoulders.
Even as he dwelt on this, Dennis observed the battle finishing just as asudden as it had started. The score, he discovered, was all in Frieda’s favour. And when the song of swords stopped at last, he saw his Turnlancers emerging both unmarred and victorious. And as for their prize, there yonder lay the leader of the saboteurs, both alive and, like a pig destined for the spit, right about to be trussed and muffled.
In truth, triumph would have been Frieda’s even without the trouble of her stratagem. Her might was worth many a man’s; she would have made up for what the Turnlancers lacked in numbers. At any rate, glad with the good result, Dennis sighed and smiled, whilst the face under his hands fidgeted.
“U-um… Can I look now?”
∵
“Bwah hahaha!”
Back at the war-offices, song and laughter bubbled. Half of the Turnlancers had returned; the others resumed their waterside patrol, though in no lesser spirits. The men here, however, more than compensated with their celebratory capering.
“Well, ’ow ’bout it, Frieda! A washout, weren’t it!? Wah-hahah!”
“Aye, squeaky clean,” she concurred. “Ya lads’ve done me proud.”
She would not cast cold water on them, of course. They truly had fought well, despite the stakes and the self-peril. Déu Tsellin, it plainly seemed, had steeled them much, to say nothing of the hard and daily training to which they stuck.
The celebration went on for a little while longer yet, till flushed at their faces, and looking forward to the mead and merrymaking tonight, the Turnlancer men left the office. Frieda remained to wait for Dennis, who, as it happened, had been absent all that while.
“Got the case crack’d, more or less,” he told her after returning some hours later to her desk. There was a hoarseness to his voice; the interrogation of their captived Salvator leader had proved trying.
“Awful quick, ain’t ya?” Frieda praised him.
“Aye. Found some scrolls on the scoundrel, scribbled with schemes an’ all,” explained Dennis, plopping himself down on a guest chair. “An’ luck’ly enough, ’e were just that lot what were in on the plot.”
“Just them?” said Frieda with surprise. “Not ’idin’ some friends somewhere now, are they?”
Dennis shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “’E all sorted square, ’is dep’sition. A bared blade makes a man honest. Besides…”
“Besides?”
Clearing his throat, Dennis sat theatrically erect. “‘Savour well the day, you dogs! ’Fore your conciliating friends come back to you in bits and ashes!’” he recited, before slumping back into his seat. “Last words o’ the bellowin’ leader, that,” he explained. “An’ from ’is face an’ fury, they weren’t no lie.”
So it was that this sabotaging scheme had merely been an afterthought. The main course, as it were, lay in another land altogether: at the parley for reconciliation at Rahm—just as the high heads of the Himmel had feared.
“Bloody hell. We ought send word, an’ swift,” said Frieda, who got up. But Dennis waved a hand.
“Courier’s a-gallop’d off already,” he revealed, “though the poor steed’ll sweat for naught, methinks.”
Frieda slowly sat back down. There was no doubting what Dennis said. By this hour, the heavy meeting would have been hours underway. Still, the two trusted to their comrades’ safe homecoming. Hence why warning them would be all the more “for naught”, as Dennis deemed.
“Any case, this served fine practice for defence an’ deployment,” he noted, “though we’ll be needin’ a debriefin’ soon, thick an’ detail’d to a tittle. I’ll quill the drafts. Be a dear lass, an’ ink the last touches for me later, eh?”
“Aye, count it done,” agreed Frieda. The queer and wavering conversation earlier today seemed a thing long forgotten now. Indeed, she was altogether glad for Dennis’s company and succour, for beneath that slippery veneer of his was a calm and capable man, through and through.
“Thou bist very welcome,” he sneered perceptively.
“Oh pish, you,” she spat at him. But with a sigh, she, too, sank into her seat. The day had been more eventful than she would have liked.
But Dennis, who looked at her knowingly, then said, “Small use frettin’, Frieda-love. We needed li’l Mia there. But if any blame’s to be deserved, I’ll take ’e, for lettin’ the lass frolick along.”
Frieda wryly grinned at Dennis. How eagle-eyed he could be at times. But she shook her head slowly. “Still… the feelin’ just won’t shake…”
The fault and folly of bringing a child to battle deeply discomforted the former freelance. Yet the fact remained that without Mia’s help, a great woe would have betided Hensen.
Seeing her sit conflicted, Dennis stood, reached, and inspirited her with a pat on the shoulder. “There, there. Bugger all e’er goes to plan,” he soothed her. “Anyroad, me board an’ bed be a-beckonin’,” he said, himself feeling too spent for the merrymaking come this dusk. “A good ev’nin’ to thee, Frieda.”
“Aye, sweet dreams.”
With that, the Turnlancer leader took his leave. And coming out into the streets below, he beheld all ablaze above him the sun-setting sky.
“Well, ’pon me word,” he uttered with wonder. How splendid it would be, to be able to just look up and take in all the welkins whensoever he wished. And indulging himself, he did just that. But soon enough, it became clear that the red dusk soaring over Hensen was not so different from what he had seen before in Tallien, or any other town of Men, for that matter. And at that moment, a murmur echoed in his mind.
‘We fight, we win, we live…
…through to tomorrow…
’Cos, er… who knows, ’ey…?
Maybe by then… the bad blood will’ve a-wash’d away…
Maybe by then… we’ll be a warmer lot than we be today…’
Those were his own words, aired on the eve of Déu Tsellin, and in whose presence but that of Walter’s. Sadly, the late hero of Reù never did live to see that “tomorrow”. But at the very least, the bad blood really was beginning to wash away—slowly, albeit, and steadily—and the warm Dawn seemed well on its way.
Dennis blinked at the burning clouds. How strange it all felt to him. Half a year ago, all that had comprised his concerns was Artean’s freedom. But now here he was, fresh from defending a Nafílim town, of all places.
“Dear, oh dear…” he chuckled to himself. And breaking a smile soft but scarce resistable, Dennis strolled onwards into the scarlet-bright streets.
∵
“I’m home,” said Mia, as she doffed her mantelet at the doorway.
“Welcome back,” greeted her sister, peeking from the kitchen. “It’s almost supper! What’s kept you so long?”
What, indeed. How was the day’s little adventure to be explained? Mia, twiddling her thumbs, could but so wonder as she looked at her empty basket.
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Chapter 1 ─ End
∵
Notes
Behemót
(Language: Hebrew; singular: behemá) The “beasts” of Soot-Steeped Knight; terrible creatures imbued with odyl of their own.
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