Chapter 100: Volume 2 - CH 5.6

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Deeper.

And deeper still.

I sank.

Or was swallowed by the soundless dark.

Headfirst.

Down to the last lengths of the well’s depths.

Karl’s wrath had wrought arrant harm: from my many wounds ran ribbons of red, rising to the surface like snaking smoke, a trail tracing my drifting journey down.

And in the drinking dreariness, I felt in me a longing.

Longing, for someone—anyone—to save me.

I’ve come to these foe-lands seeking no fight, but honest fellowship.

And so perhaps a fellow of a soul might send down for me a ladder.

Such was my thought.

…And a sore selfish one, at that.

Selfish, if not foolish.

They are all of them swept up in war.

A war, heaved upon their hearth and home.

As yet, they are all of them desperate in defence.

A defence for dear life, for all their dearly beloved.

Yet here I am.

Craving their succour.

Though, there is no harm in seeking help from another.

It can be a virtue, in fact.

But a virtue best endeavoured after all other avenues are ventured.

Have I done all I could?

Exhausted all enterprise?

Fought to my final breath?

On and on, I sank.

And as I did, I looked down.

Down to see up.

Up at the night sky, beyond the stirring surface.

In it hung the moon.

A perfect circle of serenity.

Soundly cinctured by the well’s mouth.

A moon, round and red.

Yet the moon is only ever red as it rises from the ridges of the horizon.

How curious, then, to redly hang at so high a zenith.

…Ah.

I see now.

That is not red.

No. Not at all.

The colour, I know very well.

Amber.

An undented disk of lambent amber, looking down like an eye from heaven on high.

Looking down—at none else than I.

And in its stare I espied sorrow, slight and subtle.

In its gaze I gleaned graciousness, great and golden.

Yes.

You’re right.

I’ve not done all I could.

I’ve not yet fought.

And so fight I must.

Fight, I will.

“…Bwhhah…!”

My face broke out of black waters. Lingering in my every limb were searing sensations: veins verging on boiling, blood beating to the rhythm of a new resolve.

Gaping and gasping for air, I looked up.

The well—up and up it stretched to no shorter a height than fifteen passūs. And its width: one and a half, thereabouts. Quite the endowed well; too endowed to endeavour an L-figure climb.

There’s no helping it—hands and feet, it is. The old-fashioned way.

Decided, I waded to the wall and laid a palm upon it, finding stones composing its construction. They’d been laid with care: between each, they protruded to produce ledges of little more than a quarter-digitus. Dagger-ridges be thicker than these handholds.

Upon them I placed my fingers and proceeded to clamber up.

“Gh… ach…”

Wedging my nails into each tiny width, I continued to climb with all due caution. The whole of my waterlogged weight, shouldered by fingertips hanging on ledges no broader than a lip of a bowl—a burden borne by my nails as they bit into every stone. Blood soon seeped from the seams between skin and nail.

“Ha… hhah…”

Sharp stings seared down the lengths of both my arms, like screams above a cacophony of pain already pulsing through my body, beaten and bruised as it was. Yet I had to go on. And the only way out was up.

Stone by stone, I ascended the echoing shaft.

“Ngh… gheh…”

I’d read chronicles of accomplished climbers, who with but their fingertips found purchase upon cliff-faces most fatal. All their weight, upon the pads of their digits—here was I, endeavouring the same, though measuring little to their mighty mountaineering. Still, the stories resonated now more than ever; with his mind put to it, a man truly can accomplish aught.

Investing all vigour to my fingertips, I toiled my way up. Every stone I seized with strength of such desperation that my fingers seemed fangs set on biting the rocks from the very wall itself.

“Khehh… egh…”

Grit and grime mingled with blood fresh from my fingers as they moved from stone to stone. My right hand rose, catching another section. Then, with teeth clenched, I carried myself up, and in the same motion, caught a higher stone with my left. My right followed suit, speedily ascending to snatch the lip of the well-mouth—the exit was reached at last.

Quitting my would-be grave, I glanced up. There, the moon hung as whitely as ever; my life was delivered yet again, it would seem, but not by this light.

With thoughts remembering amber, I clambered out into the ashy air.

ㅤ∵ㅤ

Lise lamented.

There, clinging to Berta’s lifeless body, the girl wept and wept to the winds.

At the very first light of her life was Lise forever parted from her mother. Alban doted on his daughter all he could, sure enough, giving her what his wife might have given. Yet more surely was he jarl to the Víly clan. His people deserved priority, and he duly obliged. Thus were the days many where father and daughter could not see one another, many where they could not be as family.

Still, lonesomeness was a lair ill-lived in by Lise, and with all the vitality of a vernal sprout, she grew fast into a spritely young frau. It was all thanks to one woman, one soul whom she might have called a second mother:

“Berta”.

But now, too, was this most beloved mother lost.

Lost to time, lost of life—a breathless body, embraced by Lise as she lamented on and on, broken, bereaved.

Amidst her sorrow, there then came a clink and a clank. Behind her laid the Londosian lost; a pile of partisans, out of which emerged one Man. With an ungainly up-swing of his yet-gripped sword, he rose out of the fleshly rubble.

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“Wuooo—hh!!”

A roar, leaping from the lungs of Lise! As though the ghost of Berta’s fury yet haunted the battlefield! Tears turned to living rage: rising, Lise lunged, a lioness with fangs of longdaggers in her hands, her soul set on the kill.

“Uoh!?” the Londosian flinched out of the way, never imagining that so distraught a damsel could endeavour so swift a strike. His high sword too-slow, the Man chanced it not, choosing retreat over reprisal. “Bloody shite!” he shouted, scrambling back. “Out with the bear, in with the rabid cub! Curse the fates, curse ‘em!”

The biting, blubbering words of one Ebbe as he glared back unbrokenly at the fiery Nafíl. He owed his life to his Londosian brothers, whose shadows served a shelter against the brunt of Berta’s dying light when it flashed through them. The attempt was not without its toll: the Man needed mending, and he certainly moved like he did.

Discerning that dire plight of his, Lise pursued her mark with all speed and spite.

“Eaaa—h!!”

“Oufh—!?” Ebbe flinched again. “Shite! Oh, shite!”

Lise proved too fleet a foe for his eyes to follow. With miserable immediacy, Ebbe forfeited the fray, tumbling as he took the fool’s flight.

But it was a flight too fraught.

The end was nigh!

He was lost!

Ebbe curled every cranny of his face in fear, knowing anew that this foe was well beyond him.

And yet…

…yet, he drew breath.

For Lise stood not a pace closer to him—something had stopped her steps. A presence was reflected in her fierce eyes: figures, looming behind her prey.

“‘Allo!” called one of them. “Master Ebbe? Ye look a fish in a frypan, don’t ye!”

“…Have a mind for your brothers, man,” the vice-commandant hoarsely retorted, rising and dusting himself off. “They all be dead.”

His words bore some weight, as for the slightest moment, the band of soldiers held silent—soldiers, each clad in silver. They were a detachment, led by the cantankerous Karl, fresh from a plundering upon the west end.

“By whose hand? Hers?” asked another soldier, eyeing a livid Lise.

A shake of the head. “That one,” snarled Ebbe, then flicking a chin at Berta’s corpse. “Though the lass be lethal ‘nough. Keep your wits ‘bout you!”

Nodding, the soldiers began their sidle towards Lise. Barring Ebbe, they numbered nine. Ten total swords, then. Ten towers of silver, soft on the approach, intent on the taking.

But their measure of Lise’s reach was ill-reckoned. For hers was a forte for the fortification of self-speed, yielding fleetfootedness of no equal even amongst the valorous Vílungen.

Odyl flashed through the frau.

A blink—

“Hha…?”

—and blood bloomed in the air!

A surprised soldier, now with a neck scarce connected by skin, crumbled to the ground. His attempt at flight had failed, his paling was pierced, twained by the twin daggers of a daughter in despair!

Lise stood above him, several paces whence she once stood but an instant ago.

Ebbe bit his lip. “Have at ‘er! All o’ you!!”

At his signal, the soldiers surged in, a tide of silvered Men. Despite their skill and stature, however, none were more than pawns before the queen: argent arms fell upon the frau from all angles, each blade full-bedight with odyl, only to be dashed by a dance of daggers.

“Damn’d damsel, ye!” clucked Karl, spiteful of the Nafíl’s nimble bladework.

And so he ventured some of his own: up his silversword sailed, and down to the damsel it dived. Yet Lise was too light-footed a foe, letting his sword slice but the air above her skin. The longdaggers then answered silver with a scything sweep.

“Uuafh!” blew Karl’s lips as he narrowly escaped without a scrape. Nay!—upon his shoulder, a graze in his armour’s gap! Redness coursed over silver; scorning the sight, he receded to a safer distance. Lise, keen to keep him on the hook, primed herself for a pursuit. But it was cut short: Ebbe’s bray broke the air.

“Spells! Now!”

“Flagrāns Vallum!”

One amongst the Men was evidently learned in sorcery. With his spell sung, there then sprang a palisade of pyres right before Lise.

“…Ech!” she hissed, startled by the heat, and shot back straightway to gain precious space.

Oh, precious indeed: the frau was ever fraught against the might of magicks, finding them too hounding to handle. But merciless was the moment: another spell was spat out anew.

“Globus Igneus!”

From behind the fence of flames, a fireball formed and flew. Yet Lise moved little: so brightly the bulwark burned that she could scarce espy both the speed and path of the projectile.

But she tarried too long. Avoidance was futile. The reality realised, Lise imbued her body with odyl and stood poised to take the pyre.

Only, too much was mustered elsewhere. Her limbs, her longdaggers—aught and all she needed to mount a speedy assault were fast-full of odyl. To recirculate so much to her defences in so little time was difficult—too difficult, in fact, for though she excelled in swordplay, never did she grow beyond a simpleton when it came to controlling her own odyl.

Dire, then, were her defences. And falling upon them now was the fiery girth of the Globus Igneus.

“Aaaah!”

Flames billowed. The air boomed.

Out of the ensuing smoke flew Lise, flung clear back before tumbling to the ground. Yet many battles were under her belt by now, and she knew well to ready herself at the soonest. Only—

“Agh!”

A groan from her lips, a fall to her knees—the direct hit had left Lise hollowed of immediate vigour.

His foe hampered, Karl appeared, closing in for the kill.

“Rruuaahh!!”

“Augh!”

Metals met, odyl detonated. Out of the contest came Lise, tumbling through the dirt once more. Might was missing in her: she had stopped the Londosian’s sword, yes, but not the odyl that followed, for her own was too slow in re-steeling her daggers against the magicked blow.

“Master! Th’bint looks dumb t’battle magicks, she does!” Karl called back whilst grinning at the girl. “But ‘er face be fair ‘nough fer th’fetishists, methinks! Why, we ought t’cage ‘er up! An’ cash in fer some righteous reugols!”

“Ever an eye for some coin, ey Karl!” Ebbe chuckled. “Pin ‘er down proper, then! If she slithers loose, snithe ‘er tendons off!”

So spoke the snakes.

Indeed, few Men nurture carnal lust for Nafílim flesh. But in all spheres, there are exceptions. “Dilettantes” be their brand, though “debauchee” might be more the word here. And to such Men of eclectic erotomania were Karl and company set on selling off the foe-frau.

Oh, how their spit stung her ears. For in them was not a speck of respect for neither her nor her Nafílim folk. Enduring their damned conversation, Lise clenched hard her teeth whilst rising to her feet.

But then—

“Globus Igneus!”

—flames flew anew.

A whole volley of them, fireballs arching through the dark air. Instilled in them was nary a thought for where they might land, for as they did, humble homes all around erupted in rubble of burning red.

One errant orb shot straight for Lise, who leapt aside in escape. But it was espied by a cunning Karl, who came cackling and crashing in with a craving sword.

“Hehehehyeeaa!”

“Eghh!”

Once more, the Nafílim maiden was made to spill upon the earth. Here, too, had she guarded. Here, too, had her odyl failed. The longdaggers, then, proved a paltry protection.

“A righteous strike, Karl!” Ebbe squealed with glee. “Trap the tramp, lads! One o’ you! Rope! And quick!”

The rank of realmers approached. To them, Lise gnashed her teeth as she toiled up to her feet. Cornered, she cut them with her glare.

—Bvouvhh!

A rocking crash! Something, somewhere, was sundered.

But as the noise resounded, so, too, did the nearest home tip and topple to ground, rousing a great plume of fire and smoke into the night.

“Shite!!” Karl cursed, recoiling away from the wreckage. “Wot in ‘ells!?”

Lise, too, leapt off the other way.

And so they stood, foe and foe, the span between them barred by a burning husk of a home.

────　Notes　────

Flagrāns Vallum

(Language: Latin; original name: “Flame Wall”) Fire-elemental battle magick. A spell in the form of a wall of thick flames. Its breadth can be shaped upon conjuration.

Globus Igneus

(Language: Latin; original name: “Fireball”) Fire-elemental battle magick. A spell in the form of a sphere of flames, conjured and lobbed at a target. Explodes and scorches on impact.

Passus

(plural: passūs) A unit of measure used by the ancient Romans, taken from the length of a pace (2 steps). 1 metre is equal to 0.6757 of a passus. A passus, therefore, can be roughly equated to 1 and a half metres.

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