Vol.7, Ch.2, P.9
The Acadēmī̆a of Merkulov: the stage whereupon was played the parley for reconciliation, and as well, the storm whereinto Rolf was wrenched against his will—to fight; to survive his way out.
On its calmer days was it an institution storied and steeped in esteem, boasting the longest-lived traditions amongst the schools of the kingdom. Its many colleges veritably breathed history; and the lectitōrium at its east, with its steeple so tall and stately, was clothed in particular repute. O, what tears would be wept, were the people, princes and paupers alike, to learn of the fires unleashed upon it on this day, and withal of the grievous scars now gashed into its frames and façades.
But as for ancientry, it was not the lectitōrium and its steeple that were foremost. That distinction belonged instead to the grand college at Merkulov’s west end, which unto this day remained nigh-wholly unaltered. Indeed, with its flesh and skeleton of old, colossal oaks, the grand college glowed grey and glorious, a standing memory of a time when Londosius was yet young.
And being built five great storeys tall, it was withal a testament to the ingenuity of the realm’s foremen of old. Even now did no other building save the steeple dare surpass its height—a restraint exercised in deference to its history and prestige, it was said, that nothing near to follow should ever overshadow the father-building. But even that only attested further to just how very precious and special a place the grand college was.
Yet on this day, unlike any that had dawned before, there filled its halls an air of hazard; for treading them were not the usual magisters and students, but men-at-arms. Agents, sergeants, and zealots, spurred by schemes to kill all conception of “reconciliation”, had made of the grand college their chief command post. But strange to say, for so cold and cutthroat a theatre of conspiracy, it was also passing clamorous—as the men now scrambled to bar an intrusion.
“They’re merely two!” echoed a field captain’s cry. “Corner ’em! Quick!”
Anxiety sallowed his shrilling timbre. True to his words, the intruders counted only two. Yet such was their strength and cunning that the quarries could scarce be caught. In fact, what lined their wake was squad after squad of worsted soldiers. Nevertheless, more men were sent after them, and more again; albeit as the chase dragged on, the soldiery seemed increasingly like lambs sent to some slaughter.
“There! At the back!” shouted a pursuer, pointing furiously at the spotted interlopers. But as his fellows collected and careered after them, the daring duo, even with their backs to a wall, did not quail nor quiver, but merely readied their blades—one being broad and black, and the other silver and ablood.
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“All clear… for now,” I noted. “Never stop coming, do they?”
Björn scoffed. “Like vermin vomiting from a nest,” he snarled, wiping his red-slick dagger.
At our feet lay several felled men. Having finally infiltrated this monolith of a college, Björn and I had been wending our way through its winding halls, all the while “negotiating” with whomsoever took ill of our tarry. And as one would expect from a command post, that number absolutely teemed. Salvators, Central swords, Rahmer sellswords and soldiers—the corridors veritably rumbled with barking orders and scrambling boots.
We had by this point fought a fair deal and flew quite a ways in, but to pale profit: though hounded by a hunch that the ringleader indeed lurked somewhere hereabouts, we’d yet to catch a whiff of him, much less approach the heart of this base of his.
Fortunately, we still’d got plenty of fight left in us. Being few and freely mobile, Björn and I were finding the college’s crisscrossing courses much to our advantage, whether for losing our pursuers or pouncing upon them at unawares. And then there was the old man himself: mark it a boon of his waxing winters, but the Praetorian’d been proving himself quite the crafty quarry. And so had we been able to get on without injury, and chip well away at the enemy’s numbers whilst we were at it.
Nevertheless, this was all for naught if we couldn’t find the chief conspirator himself. Why, I’d yet to even come across another clue as to Lise and all’s whereabouts. Indeed, in spite of our victories, we were stuck. But just as I came to wit’s end, a queer sound beset my ears.
It was a voice. Only, a voice produced by no one we could see. From the sourness of its speech, however, it was quite clearly displeased with our presence.
“Hark! Ye trespassers!”
Now this was peculiar. The voice—it was tinny, and echoing into itself, if that’s possible. Beside me, Björn scowled with every wrinkle on his face.
“It resounds from afar, as if in sermon,” he muttered behind his moustache. “Another secret magick of theirs, perhaps?”
“Or perhaps not,” I said. “Look.”
In a thrusting passageway we were, along a far-off wall whereof crawled down from the rafters a ream of brass tubes. With them could summons and announcements be made to reach all throughout the building. A rather special specimen; one finds them very seldom outside the scope of a school.
“Of course. Carries well through copper, sound does,” observed Björn as he looked whither I pointed. “An apparatus for the pupils… though employed now to petty purpose,” he added with spite. The Praetorian’s expression then twisted terribly, enough to affright our foes, even, were any here yet alive to see. But the one at the other end of the tubes, being spared the sight, continued blustering on with bravado.
“Surrender this instant! All of Merkulov is besieged. Reinforcements are imminent. You cannot escape!”
“’Tis only obvious rubbish they blather, these blighted scum,” growled Björn. “‘Surrender’, they say? Hmph! ‘Pray have mercy’, they mean!”
The old man was rather right. Slowly but surely, our enemies here were losing numbers enough to crybabe about it. That ultimatum of an announcement, then, was little more than an empty attempt to turn things around. But regardless, reality was not on our side. These men yet boasted a firm upper hand, and not solely on account of numbers, either. I’d guessed it before, but that bit about Merkulov being besieged seemed no lie to me… nor about enemy reinforcements being on their way. Indeed, it might be prudent to upon them base our movements henceforth.
Gathering all the pieces, I puzzled out how might this plight unfold. And in so doing, an idea struck me.
“Björn. Suppose we take them up on it, hands up and all,” I suggested. “What think you?”
The craggy captain scoffed again. “Reckless,” he rasped. “You fledgelings are all of a feather.”
Well, better to take flight than tarry in a storm, I say. And though he sighed and scowled as he’d ever done, Björn did not, as a matter of fact, refuse the idea. Call it his “style” of acquiescing, frustrating though it be.
“…”
It was then that, by some whim, my eyes went to his belt. Thereon still was no sword girt. Even upon our victory at the bookhouse had he dared not divest for himself such a blade. Nay, that’s not to gainsay his daggercraft. It was sufficing very well, actually. But at the end of the day, Björn ought be most at home with a longsword in his hands. Yet here he was, evidently content to brandish on that stabber of his, face furrowed and furious all the while.
As I’d once heard, a newly appointed Praetorian is bestowed his sword by his royal charge. Yet it’d been that very sword that Björn returned to the princess amidst the parley. Doubtless had that signified to him a turning point: a sudden bend in the arc of his long story, all because of what but a moment’s outburst.
Still, he seemed dead serious about it all; serious enough to forsake the sword, even when both his life and that of his princess’s now depended on it. Why, he might not wear nor wield one for the rest of his years, I reckoned. After today, he would return the Praetorian token, and retire from Londosian soldiery altogether. In other words, Björn was at this moment fighting his very last battle.
To be sure, a war-chief of the Himmel ought be all the happier to hear such news. That’s one fewer Londosian to fight, after all, especially one as keen and capable as Björn. But for some reason or another, I felt myself wanting to stop the old soldier, to tell him to take up his guardian sword once more. I suppose that, deep down, it was very sad to me that so wise and resolute a soul, be he friend or foe, should fade away into the dusk of this day.
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