Vol.7, Ch.3, P.8
Through winds and over hills went horses in haste. Driving them were outriders from the Himmel; and underhoof did tremble the earth as they all madly made for Merkulov.
“Engh…!” grated Volker from atop his grunting, galloping steed. How many times had he, the head of this desperate company, done so today? O, mercy. Only a choice wisely made now served him any solace: to wit, his deferral of his erstwhile duties as governor-general of Arbel, that he might help lead the Himmel and look after his “Edelfräulein” on this odious day.
For it had turned odious, indeed. Noise, smoke, and fire had been discovered pluming from Merkulov’s steeple tower, right whence the parley was to take place. By the account of the scouts returning, the clamour was unquestionably contrived, if the seized and sealed gates of the school, which they had also discovered, did not attest that enough. And so was Volker now drowning asudden in a swirl of anxieties.
“A firework of a wile!” he growled to himself as he gripped the reins ever tighter. To be sure, he and all the Himmel had been alert for something like this, but never for aught of such scale. This thus left the war-chief wondering whether to curse the vile cunning of these petardiers, whoever they were, or to rue having blindfolded his own foresight so.
For all that it was worth, however, he had been duly watchful of the Himmel’s happenings, stamping out any embers alike that might have been smouldering at home. It was a fact that no few, even on this side of the battlelines, spat at the idea of conciliation. But as this day saw, it was Londosius whence burst the fires of rebellion. There could be no other way about it. Square in Mennish territory did Merkulov lay, through the gates whereof only a delegation from the Himmel had been allowed. Indeed, none from their sparse number could have brought about so explosive an enterprise. The instigators must hail from that kingdom so cruel, therefore. But if so, then the Londosian cohorts encamped yonder were also to be suspected.
This but further inflamed Volker’s dread. As arranged, both the Himmel’s Decke and the Londosian host were standbying many mīllia from Merkulov’s gates, that the meeting might commence without worry of war. And though the princess herself had sternly bidden them oblige this agreement, it was perilously probable that her host, too, had stirred in tandem with the tumult. And if so, then the Himmel must march thither, as well. Merkulov was now sealed; were the knightly Londosians alone to break through, there was no telling what they might take—or whom.
A mulling Volker ground his teeth as the wind gusted against his face. It was not solely his Edelfräulein that earned his concern, of course. There was his fellow war-chief Rolf, too, to worry about, and the other eminences and braves besides who were yet trapped therein. And then there was Alban. If aught befell his jarl, leader to Víly and all the Himmel, then…
“W-we’ll make it! We will!” echoed a cry beside Volker. “Ev’rythin’ll be all right!”
It was Malena as she raced alongside him. Imposingly large though the woman was, not least with the warhammer slung at her back, she drove her steed with steadiness and skill, and could keep up with the speeding company yet.
Volker nodded to her. “…Yes,” he said, “—fair winds willing.”
He turned back to the rolling hills rushing in ahead, wondering if his impatience had been painted upon his face. It burnt his heart to ever cause his comrades concern, more so still because he was their commander. Or might Malena have merely been perceptive and considerate? Volker pondered her. A daughter of Man, Malena had Nafílim blood flowing through her veins, it was believed, and for it, she had suffered long years of ill use. For one with so pitiable a past did Volker dare harbour no hatred, even if the woman herself should be Mennish— even if she had once lived and fought as a Londosian.
And speaking of Men, there was also Sigmund and Alfred, for whom Volker now had much to be thankful about. It was the former whose gut feeling had foreseen some foulness afoot, and the latter who, heeding it, had advised Volker beforehand that at the soonest ought a company be mustered for an emergency. Indeed, without those two, the war-chief might now be fretting back at the encampment yet, whilst screaming and scrambling to rally a response.
And so explains these outriders. Taking Alfred’s advice, Volker had assembled in expectation this speedy force. Few they were, but effective all the same, a fact helped greatly by the addition of the three foresaid scions of Man. Come horde or cohort, Volker deemed his riders fit to wreak a fierce resistance.
As shrub and heath hurried past the hasting horses, the war-chief felt gratitude teeming all the more in his heart, be it for Rolf, or Sigmund, or indeed all the sons and daughters of Man who had joined him against Londosian injustice—and in so doing, softened his conceptions for a neighbouring race.
“Whoa, whoa!” exclaimed one such scion. It was Sigmund, who, once galloping at the vanguard, now reined in his sweating steed. And as the others behind him followed suit, he pointed off to the side ahead—“Oy, lo!”—and looked to Volker.
Halting his own horse, the war-chief groaned again. “A hard choice…” he muttered, for a riddle now was upon him: that being a fork in the trail as it bent ahead.
So far, the company had been taking a shortcut as found and put forth by Sigmund. Unlike the path taken by Rolf and the rest of the delegation, which comprised causeways wandering through vasty fields of cotton, this one entered and followed a wild dell that struck more straightly towards Merkulov. Only, as the outriders saw, the path now split in two: the dell as it turned and tumbled down south-eastwards into wilderness, and another going up and curving about a northerly woodland. But oft do trees trick the eyes, especially ones surveying from so far off. Thus, rather than curve about as Sigmund had believed at first, the company saw now that the northward way wound into the wood itself— making the tree-bestrode path beyond a prime place for…
“…A trap,” remarked Alfred, riding up from the rear. “We’re expected.”
There was no questioning it. The wooded way would surely lead to Merkulov, but in taking it and being ambushed on both sides, this company could not hope to arrive there in one piece. And ambushed they would most certainly be. If the enemy possessed cunning enough to capture the entire school, then having something prepared for the Decke as they came to the rescue should be an easy errand, indeed.
“Bugger,” snarled Sigmund, sucking his teeth. “Well? Wot’ll it be, Chief?”
Volker at first looked in wonder at the savage swordsman. The latter ought be familiar with the former’s military sense by now: that if something so much as smells like a snare, then better it be avoided than ventured. But as the skies grew grey and distant thunder growled, Volker and all the rest turned hard gazes to the wood, knowing that to comply with common sense now could very well seal the fate of their friends.
∵
The winds had picked up. All the dark wood hissed and swayed about the outriders as they hurried through.
Trodding this trail went against all good sense, let it not be doubted. Barred they were on both sides by thick growths, from behind any bole or upon any bough whereof might lurk a ready malice. Volker, of course, liked this not in the least. It was he that had ultimately commanded the march through; but now as he dared the wood for himself, surrounded by dangers uncertain and crannies concealed, his confidence could only flounder.
A war-chief of long-spanning experience though he was, Volker knew all too well what a bottomless abyss of trouble the battlefield could be. Just an erring thought, a flight of forgetfulness, or a whisper of pride could send hundreds, if not thousands, of his braves to their deaths. And not a day had gone by that he did not feel that fear. But he could not afford to freeze now, to cow and curl up aface a “hard choice”, as he had put it—not with Rolf, Lise, Alban, and all else yet waiting for him in Merkulov.
So, withstanding the weight, be it upon heart or shoulder, Volker wrung his reins again as he charged through the trees. And he clenched his teeth, wary to the utmost of any ambush. Any moment now, from left, right, or both, might spear, spell, or arrow come springing to kill. And sharing in his tension, the rest of the company followed him, their faces set and grimly alert.
Louder and louder, the woods howled past. The trail was narrowing. Even so, Volker withstood and withstood, watching and waring all the while, his ears seeking past the frenetic haste of hooves for any sign of assault. And then, as with a taut string snapping apart, “Now!” he pointed and shouted. “Fire ahead!”
“Sċeaþatán!” thundered Alfred from behind. The staff upraised in his hand then shone bright; and ahead and aright beyond the fencing trees, there next flickered many flashes, as summoned levin speeded between the boles in a blinding web.
“…Khhraagh…!?” thence echoed many cries. The magick was on the mark; there truly were enemies biding in ambush. And racing past, the riders saw them: cloaked men within the covert, collapsing as the levin ravaged them.
Volker’s intuition was proved correct, both as to where and when these waylayers would pounce. Putting himself in their shoes, he had guessed that the attack would ensue in the second half of the stretch; for then would the narrowing trail have forced the riders to thin their files, and withal their defences.
“Bows, bows!” the war-chief called aback. “Fire aleft!”
And there, at the riders’ rearguard, bow-bearing braves stood steadily upon their stirrups, nocked their arrows, and—twang!—pelted a piercing hail into the leftwise wood. This preemptive answer, too, struck true, for just as the enemy’s own archers had thought to assail the company, they sooner found themselves harried by Himmel arrows.
“…Gyehhgh…!?” so resounded their distant screams.
And at that moment, Sigmund urged his steed, overtaking Volker to the tip of the file. “Now’s us turn!” he roared. “Cha—arge!”
Reflected in his fiery eyes were more enemy men ahead: a bold ambuscade bounding from cover to bar the company’s way. Their original aim had been to finish off the riders after the twofold surprises had unhorsed them, but that being now foiled, these foes could but chance a change of plans.
Back at the riders, Malena was first to follow Sigmund as the infantry pushed to the fore. And readying their sabres and spears, they brought battle upon the ambush.
“Rraahh!” bellowed Sigmund, charging and hewing from atop his horse. The enemy ranks, already confounded by the ill turn in their fortunes, more flailed than fought back as their men were mowed down. And in the blink of an eye, the racing riders of the Himmel altogether defied this foesome scheme, and broke through the ambush like a slicing tide.
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Notes
Edelfräulein
(Language: German) “Noblewoman”, “noble lady”. In Soot-Steeped Knight, the formal title for a Nafílim woman of high status, and as well, Volker’s habitual way of addressing Lise.
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.
Sċeaþatán
(Language: Old English; original name: “Lightning”) “Harm-twig”; “scather-twig”. Levin-elemental battle magick. A spell in the form of lightning strikes, summoned out of thin air. Shocks, cauterises, and potentially electrocutes on impact. The sċ consonant is pronounced with a sh sound, as in the words “shield” and “shine”. The þ consonant is pronounced with an unvoiced th sound, as in “think” or “thumb”.
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