Vol.7, Ch.2, P.4
“…”
Catching my breath, I toed the prostrate spearman. No response. Convinced he was now a corpse, I laxed the soot-steel, and looked ahead to discover Björn standing yonder by the ladder-hole.
“Cheers for that,” I thanked him. “But what’s happened to ‘shan’t save’ me?”
“Did I, now? Pity,” the grey captain snorted. “Nay, never mind it. These ears can only suffer so much.”
“Suffer”, whether because every little thing needn’t be thanked for—especially on the field of battle—or because a renegade’s gratitude is as wind to him, I could not guess. Ever a man to mean half his words, this Björn, or say half what he means, for that matter. Though perhaps I’m nary one to talk. Sig himself had once accused me as much in quite the same way; and now savouring it for myself, I finally felt for those that’ve had to put up with my tactless tongue all this time.
Björn came and crouched beside the spearman’s body. “’Tis a fine fracas you’ve made here, I’ll say,” he noted, retrieving his dagger, “but the curtains are ill-closed yet.”
“Yes,” said I, glancing to the ceiling, “but they shall be soon.”
No time to dawdle. One more floor of foes remained. And like between here and below, it was only a ladder up that would get us there: a separate one, which we eyed as it loomed on the other side of the room.
Breaking away, Björn went towards the up-leading ladder. I followed. The captain slowed to creep, peering hard at the ceiling hole all the while, till he stopped, squinted, and lowered his dagger in a lobbing stance. He glanced at me. I nodded back. And with sudden action, he flung the weapon up through the aperture.
“…Agh…!?” broke a yelp. Björn’s deft daggercraft had found a mark at a tight and cunning angle—the barest bullseye between the brows, I fancied. And before the waylayer’s body could thud the floorboards, I launched myself up the ladder just as before, and erupted into the third and final floor.
“Come ’ere, you!!” growled a group of vengeful foes anear, echoing the words of their dead comrades below, though whether by coincidence or a lacking vocabulary is anyone’s guess. At any rate, these were the archers that’d harried us on the outside approach; but trading bows for short blades, they all howled and hasted hither, bent on having me butchered. Undaunted, I met them headlong and swung the sword of soot. Its longer length prevailed, and at once, the nearest of the foes fell red and dead.
Skipping nary a beat, I half-stepped back, bringing into view two long-knives flying unto my flanks. Not this time would I defend; stepping back again, I further lured in the lunging men, and darkened the space whence I once stood with a black sweep. One enemy twisted violently, his breast being slashed asunder. The other, lucky in eluding my blade, forsook both friend and fear to pursue me further. And in the corner of my eye, I saw two more men throwing themselves upon Björn, who’d flown up the ladder after me.
Quick of hand and wit, the Praetorian captain recovered his weapon, and straightway started trading blades with his assailants. Subtle and austere was his daggerwork, as he slew one of the men with a sudden thrust through the bosom.
At the same time, I jerked back, dodging a knife of my own before brandishing the blacksword through my offender’s belly. The floorboards rumbled as another corpse was added to the count.
Nerves afire, I scanned about for more foes. Meanwhile, Björn wasn’t letting up: plucking his dagger out of his first opponent, he immediately sent it swiping at the other. Blood flashed and flew; and shorn at the neck, his foe fell dead, marking—as far as I could tell—the end of all the enemies here.
But Björn ill-agreed. “Not enough!”
“Then below!”
Not enough, indeed. Recalling our approach outside, it’d been four bowmen that manned the side watch, and three the front’s. But the bodies here numbered six. Nay, the last one hadn’t leapt and left upon my trespassing the place, to go and gather more men now that this infamous ungraced had reared his face. No; it was in hearing a swoosh! from somewhere anear that I answered Björn like I did: for the final foe was yet here—in fact, he was right below Björn’s feet.
—Brakh!
Up through the floorboards burst a surprise spearhead. But having grasped my words quick, and just as quickly cast himself aside, the ambush missed Björn’s foot by half a hair.
Vying odyls gusted and wood-splinters sprang. But whilst that ferocity unfolded, so did I lift aloft the sword of soot—just as I’d done amidst the fires of Balasthea all those moons ago. Confident I could repeat that feat, I mustered up my sinews, and plunged the blade of black into the floorboards underfoot. The timbers blew to smithers, and down I fell to the floor below, veiled in pouring, billowing dust. Yet the enemy there showed neither awe nor inaction, as he promptly tossed aside his spear and drew from his side a longsword.
I knew then what a challenger he was. Keeping keen and calm through all the chaos, this man had cunningly jumped down and circled back up, that he might beset us at unawares. Indeed, I could but deem him the champion of the men posted here; and by his posture and proficiency with bow, spear, and sword: an expert of combat besides.
Dust churned and trickled all around, as did stark-black streams of soot. I stared the champion down. He returned the courtesy. Gazes locked like horns, we both couched our swords. Then slowly, very slowly, we circled one another, stepping over the slain amidst the mirk. And at that moment, I sensed a ways beside me something aflutter: a moth caught in a cobweb.
Even so, I kept my eyes focused. But as for my foe—he did not. For a slice of a second, the moth had tempted his gaze, for very wary he was of Björn, who might show up at any moment through all the hanging dust. Yet in the end, such caution betrayed him; for seizing the chance, I had charged and swung, and there the benighted blade bit the base of his neck like a wolf on the kill, before devouring its way deep into his torso.
At once, he coughed a cloud of blood; and dropping his weapon, the warrior went limp upon the lightless sword. And after blade was freed from body, a silence fell. The dust had begun to settle when Björn came climbing down the ladder.
“Just in time for the curtain call,” I said to him. “Should I’ve waited?”
“Oh, peace,” he scoffed. “Go it alone when you may. It tires to stand astage with you.”
No other sign of enemies was to be sensed. The bookhouse was now clear, and along with it: our way to the grand college.
I wiped and sheathed my weapon before turning back to the cobweb as it wabbled below the rafters. The moth was stuck there yet, struggling inside the silken snare. But coming close, I reached up, cupped the critter in my hands, and brought it down. And then, I let it free. The little fellow fluttered in circles. And after a moment, it winged its way to a window, and disappeared outside.
“’Tis conceit if you think that some saintly mercy,” said Björn, but not with his typical asperity. Rather, he seemed as if in stern sermon. Is this how he speaks to his underlings, I had to wonder.
I shook my head. “Hardly,” my defence began. “Lo—it’s a four-striper that wove these webs. Upon them would that moth’ve remained untended, uneaten; only to die a vain death. A natural fate, you could say, but one too sad for my tastes.”
The four-striper is a nomad of a spider, settling in a spot for a stint before moving on, though never to come back. Any critter to be caught in the forsaken silks, therefore, is consigned to a slow and solitary end.
“Wiseacre’s words,” muttered Björn. “You appreciate little what you preach, I’ll not doubt.”
“How now,” I said. “Green I may be, but not so gullible as you glean, Björn.” I then looked to the captain. And newly returned to his face was his customary grimness, though of poignance not so usual. “Let me guess: ‘he who in battle dances with Death ought leave Life alone outside of it’?” I continued, to which the captain seemed to concede with silence. “A fair point, perhaps. But let me say this, Björn: I simply wished to see that moth fly again.”
“…”
Björn gave no answer, but rather withstood my stare incalculably. After a piercing pause, he turned and headed to the ladder leading down.
“…Come,” he said. “We must hurry, lad.”
From “sicarius” to “lad”—a demotion to my ears, if anything. Albeit how that weighed on Björn’s scales I could not guess, nor as to the impetus for his unprompted change of diction. But whichever the way of it, I followed him down the ladder, and together we put the bookhouse behind us.
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