Soot-Steeped Knight (LN)
Nary a cloud marked the moonlit sky. In its stead was a battle boiling far below, a war waged by night alike to the sacking of Hensen, but unlike in one way: we were the aggressors.
Under my command strove a division of braves, their arms and magicks tasked to the fall of Arbel’s fourth northerly gate. Certainly curious that the Nafílim should fight by orders of a Man, but with reasoned heads and Lise’s vouching, the arrangement found no resistance.
For their part, our foes feigned no strength greater than their due. Defenders of ill-defensible gates, couching hares harried in concert—the Fiefguard’s diminished numbers were indeed proving a poor dam against our tide of braves. Soon enough, their mettle failed at last, a development heralded by a long and undulating boom through the air.
In the same moment, amidst the crush and clashes of arms, a call came to my ears:
“Commander! It’s done!”
To the gate I glanced. Beyond the smoke: a massive grille gaping open, marred by many Nafílim magicks. “We’ve a long way yet!” I cried back. “Don’t let up!”
Unfain for surrender, the Fiefguard salliers then rallied with reinforcements in the portcullis’ passage, fast forming a column to bar our breach. Their lord’s life was on the line; if his head fell, with it would go the whole of their home, the march of Ström itself. This, the gate defenders well-fathomed. Thus did desperation quicken their courage, spur their speed, and give ghastliness to their very gazes. Bravery burns more brightly in a cornered cur than a complacent lion, and so bracing ourselves all the more, my braves fought forth with all due caution.
Though for my part, caution was the costlier course. Loath was I to linger in the rearguard and dictate the battle unassailed. What’s more, my cause laid with the Nafílim now; to walk with them, I needed their trust. I needed to fight. Thus did I find myself at the fore of our offence, cutting through the enemy vanguard and laying lightless steel upon their rank-and-file.
It was then that another report reached my ears.
“Commander! Our sister forces’ve gained the other gate!
“Understood!” I cried in answer.
Lise and her contingent, too, sounded to be faring well. A glad tiding, for on this night, only hers and mine composed the main thunder of the Nafílim’s lightning. Elsewhere at the eastern gates, Volker played the partisan commander, dictating his two smaller contingents of cavalry in further harrying and drawing out the city defenders. Such was their sole duty, hence it fell to us at the north to breach the fief-burgh.
Hounding the enemy, pouncing upon them at opportunity, and pinning them down in place—a tactic employed by the Nafílim many a time before against the defences of Balasthea… and all with forces numbering but a few. Under the war-chief’s command, this night saw that exact expertise put on perfect display. The result: a chaos sown amongst the defenders, one reaped as fruits of advantage by our main forces at the north.
Truth be told, our success hinged upon not two, but just one breach. It mattered little whether it was my force or Lise’s that entered Arbel first: the sooner invaders were not to charge straight to the margrave’s manor, but rather wind to the other gate and strike the defenders from behind, and from there reunite with the other three forces.
Battlecries crescendoed. Again the Fiefguard faltered. Into the streets now spilt the currents of combat. Rallying, the defenders attempted to array themselves, only to be beset as I broke straight into their file.
“Sseh!” Black steel blasted through air and armour.
“Eaaagh!?” screamed a Fiefguardsman. Blood burst from his bosom as the svǫrtaskan cleaved through metal and bone. His fresh corpse sparked new fear in his fellow soldiers, who then fled swiftly like spiderlings afore a famished crow. In their wake was left a gaping hole in their formations.
This was it. The momentum was ours. A little more, and—
—the thought severed.
From their rearguard rushed forth a storm of a man.
“Rrryyyaaahh!”
“Hn!?”
Sparks flashed. Shocked steel stung the air.
A hammer-blow of a blade, biting deep into my last-second guard, with power enough to push me back by two whole passūs. Reeling, I felt in my arms a mad tingle, as though the impact had shaken them to the very bone.
There—now to my side: the blur of a spear, bent on stabbing me through. I broke away, avoiding the spearpoint.
Nay—it was no mere spear.
For it was not retracted as spearmen oft do post-thrust, but shifted straightway into a half-circle sweep, intent on maiming its mark—with the keen axe-blade upon its head.
Spying it for an instant, I bent down low—“Hhup!”—and back-rolled at once. Hewn air blew above me like a gust. Yet in danger, I dared another leap back, distancing myself further from the fray. Fast on my feet again, I stared sharply at my new foes, finding them two in number. One bore a sword. The other: “…A halberd, is it…”
A spear with an axe on one face, and at the other, a protruding blade, shaped like the sharpened bill of a bird: the thrice-threatening halberd, seldom seen in Londosius.
As for the duo themselves, they were clearly not of the Fiefguard rabble. No; sellswords seemed more on the mark.
“Hwahhah! Came to catch the bull by the ‘orns, an’ wot’s this I find!” the swordsman cried, with canines full-bare. His height reached a mite lower than mine, but brimmed with bulk nonetheless. Wildly grown was his olive-dark hair, his mien coarse and uncouth. No doubt he wielded the sword with savagery to match. “Black ‘air, black eyes!” he barked on. “A beast o’ a diff’rent breed! ‘Rolf Butt-mince’, ain’t ya!?”
“I am,” I barked back bluntly. “Just ‘Rolf’ serves.”
Mine was no chivalrous introduction, but a bait. Of all the fighters in this front, I measured these two the most terrible of them all: hell-hounds to be leashed in, lest my braves fall to their ferocity.
“I ‘eard ye be too much a babe fer battle, but looks like th’rumours’ve reckoned ye awrong, eh?” spoke the halberdier. His stature matched his mate’s, whilst about his pate grew a turf of dull-gold hair, all shaved to a wiffle. Lumber-like were his neck and arms, boasting of all the other brawn hiding beneath his armour. And if his prior attack was aught to go by, in them was not only power, but deathly precision. “No matter,” he said. “Th’bells be tollin’, mate. Into th’grave with ye!”
As though on cue, the swordsman slowly began to poise himself for the pounce. “Oh, but let’s ‘ave a bit o’ sport ‘fore the burial, shall… we!”
An explosion of steps. Such speed—the swordsman swooped in, heaving his hewer down unto me, the strike shouldering a mountain of momentum.
—Gkhahhnn!
Blades clashed and clapped like thunder.
The force of it all trickled down to my very fingertips. Every swing of his was a waterfall of fury. But in the violence was revealed vulnerabilities enough. With patience, I could pierce one of them and land a lethal blow…
…if only this were a one-on-one.
—Ffwoohh!
Another howl of hewn air.
The halberd sailed in, not in a stab, but a wide swing helmed by its axe-head.
As I’d thought: the halberdier was honed of eye and arm, for the sweep of his weapon was aimed squarely at my legs. A smart target; in bearing myself against the swordsman’s maniacal cleaves had my feet been fixed to the ground. But with the axe-blade well on its way to them, time was already up: an unscathed escape was impossible.
—Vsshrt!
Redness streaked from my leg.
I’d leapt back at the last slice of a second, avoiding the axe-blade but not the odyl wreathing it. My shin paid with a shallow wound, a fair price for what could’ve been a lost leg.
The swordsman scowled. “Oi, wot’s up with this wanker, ah? ‘E should’ve peg’d it ten times by now!”
“‘Ere I were thinkin’ I shear’d off ‘is shanks. Bugger,” said the halberdier, sucking his teeth.
The duo’s faces furrowed with fresh caution. I answered with a reassumed centre guard, keeping them both in my sight as we slowly circled each other.
“Mismannered much?” I asked them sharply. “You had me spit out my name. Why not return the favour?”
“Hah!” the swordsman scoffed. “You fancy us knights prim an’ proper-like!? Well, a fico for you, Bitch-moose! Names be nothin’ on the battlefield!”
“Yea,” the halberdier sneered threateningly. “If ye be so keen fer court’sy, why not wring us names out o’ us throats, then, eh?”
These two were quickly proving a pair of barbs, deep on the prick. But the halberdier—he could be laid low sooner. Rush in, cut him down in close quarters… a valid gambit. Decided, I began biding for the ripe moment.
Only, there was a rub: the halberdier hardly seemed the one-trick churl. His thrusts, I could evade. Their imbued odyl, as well. But doubtless he’d garnish his wicked menu from here on—likely with post-thrust swings sent straight to my neck.
That halberd of his looked the heftier of its varied brethren. Dauntingly so. Its axe-blade boasted both broadness and thickness, an unmaker of armour; wielding so top-heavy a weapon much seemed like leashing a livid lion. Yet this halberdier was handling that exact feat, to much finesse… and my peril.
But in my hands was a lion of my own, one with no less heft.
A match of mighty arms it is, then. I’ll not avoid his next attack—I’ll stop it, instead.
Just as the thought finished, a weighty whoosh sounded: the halberd, charging in. I answered. Metals clashed and groaned.
“Hmgh!?” grunted the halberdier, visibly surprised. Likely a first for him, to be halted by a single sword. Unceasing, I moved to seize the moment, but the attempt was swiftly cut short.
“Khrraaahh!!” the other foe roared, rushing in with a down-cleave from the high guard. I broke to the side, skirting it by a wide margin. Distancing myself further from the halberdier, I next trained my eyes to the swordsman, who returned the look.
“Come on, mate! Pretendin’ the turtle? That your play, Rolf Bint-milker!?” he taunted. “Even turtles know to bite back!”
“Do they, now? Cunning creatures, turtles,” I humoured him.
But his point pierced the mark: I had to strike back, lest “Rolf the timid terrapin” be full-writ on my headstone. That said, dancing with so deadly a duo demanded all caution. A careless step, and I’d be left a long smear on these streets.
Steadying my breaths, I stared at them anew, seeking the ever-elusive opening.
It was then that a comrade called to me.
“Commander! The other gate’s breached!”
Good news to my ears, but hardly so for the duo.
“Bloody ‘ell!” the swordsman cried with a strike of his tongue. “Flaccid Fief-cocks, the lot o’ them!”
“This is sour,” said the halberdier. “They’ll be peltin’ in soon fer th’pincer, they will.”
He had the right of it. Lise and her braves were most certainly making their way here. And once they arrive, any defenders yet lagging would find all escape severed.
“Then best we clean ‘ouse an’ shog off, innit?” said the swordsman, readying himself anew.
“Music t’me ears,” the halberdier echoed.
“The pincer comes, and still you tarry to tussle…” I remarked lowly. “You both bleat for battle as wasters pine for poppy.”
Laughter belched and boomed. “Aha hahahh! Says the priest puffin’ the same pipe!” the swordsman retorted, before straightway rushing in to resume our fight. His diction lingering bitterly in my ears, I resteeled my stance and gripped the soot-steel all the more tightly.
Chapter 118: Volume 3 - CH 3.3
Under my command strove a division of braves, their arms and magicks tasked to the fall of Arbel’s fourth northerly gate. Certainly curious that the Nafílim should fight by orders of a Man, but with reasoned heads and Lise’s vouching, the arrangement found no resistance.
For their part, our foes feigned no strength greater than their due. Defenders of ill-defensible gates, couching hares harried in concert—the Fiefguard’s diminished numbers were indeed proving a poor dam against our tide of braves. Soon enough, their mettle failed at last, a development heralded by a long and undulating boom through the air.
In the same moment, amidst the crush and clashes of arms, a call came to my ears:
“Commander! It’s done!”
To the gate I glanced. Beyond the smoke: a massive grille gaping open, marred by many Nafílim magicks. “We’ve a long way yet!” I cried back. “Don’t let up!”
Unfain for surrender, the Fiefguard salliers then rallied with reinforcements in the portcullis’ passage, fast forming a column to bar our breach. Their lord’s life was on the line; if his head fell, with it would go the whole of their home, the march of Ström itself. This, the gate defenders well-fathomed. Thus did desperation quicken their courage, spur their speed, and give ghastliness to their very gazes. Bravery burns more brightly in a cornered cur than a complacent lion, and so bracing ourselves all the more, my braves fought forth with all due caution.
Though for my part, caution was the costlier course. Loath was I to linger in the rearguard and dictate the battle unassailed. What’s more, my cause laid with the Nafílim now; to walk with them, I needed their trust. I needed to fight. Thus did I find myself at the fore of our offence, cutting through the enemy vanguard and laying lightless steel upon their rank-and-file.
It was then that another report reached my ears.
“Commander! Our sister forces’ve gained the other gate!
“Understood!” I cried in answer.
Lise and her contingent, too, sounded to be faring well. A glad tiding, for on this night, only hers and mine composed the main thunder of the Nafílim’s lightning. Elsewhere at the eastern gates, Volker played the partisan commander, dictating his two smaller contingents of cavalry in further harrying and drawing out the city defenders. Such was their sole duty, hence it fell to us at the north to breach the fief-burgh.
Hounding the enemy, pouncing upon them at opportunity, and pinning them down in place—a tactic employed by the Nafílim many a time before against the defences of Balasthea… and all with forces numbering but a few. Under the war-chief’s command, this night saw that exact expertise put on perfect display. The result: a chaos sown amongst the defenders, one reaped as fruits of advantage by our main forces at the north.
Truth be told, our success hinged upon not two, but just one breach. It mattered little whether it was my force or Lise’s that entered Arbel first: the sooner invaders were not to charge straight to the margrave’s manor, but rather wind to the other gate and strike the defenders from behind, and from there reunite with the other three forces.
Battlecries crescendoed. Again the Fiefguard faltered. Into the streets now spilt the currents of combat. Rallying, the defenders attempted to array themselves, only to be beset as I broke straight into their file.
“Sseh!” Black steel blasted through air and armour.
“Eaaagh!?” screamed a Fiefguardsman. Blood burst from his bosom as the svǫrtaskan cleaved through metal and bone. His fresh corpse sparked new fear in his fellow soldiers, who then fled swiftly like spiderlings afore a famished crow. In their wake was left a gaping hole in their formations.
This was it. The momentum was ours. A little more, and—
—the thought severed.
From their rearguard rushed forth a storm of a man.
“Hn!?”
Sparks flashed. Shocked steel stung the air.
A hammer-blow of a blade, biting deep into my last-second guard, with power enough to push me back by two whole passūs. Reeling, I felt in my arms a mad tingle, as though the impact had shaken them to the very bone.
There—now to my side: the blur of a spear, bent on stabbing me through. I broke away, avoiding the spearpoint.
Nay—it was no mere spear.
For it was not retracted as spearmen oft do post-thrust, but shifted straightway into a half-circle sweep, intent on maiming its mark—with the keen axe-blade upon its head.
Spying it for an instant, I bent down low—“Hhup!”—and back-rolled at once. Hewn air blew above me like a gust. Yet in danger, I dared another leap back, distancing myself further from the fray. Fast on my feet again, I stared sharply at my new foes, finding them two in number. One bore a sword. The other: “…A halberd, is it…”
A spear with an axe on one face, and at the other, a protruding blade, shaped like the sharpened bill of a bird: the thrice-threatening halberd, seldom seen in Londosius.
As for the duo themselves, they were clearly not of the Fiefguard rabble. No; sellswords seemed more on the mark.
“Hwahhah! Came to catch the bull by the ‘orns, an’ wot’s this I find!” the swordsman cried, with canines full-bare. His height reached a mite lower than mine, but brimmed with bulk nonetheless. Wildly grown was his olive-dark hair, his mien coarse and uncouth. No doubt he wielded the sword with savagery to match. “Black ‘air, black eyes!” he barked on. “A beast o’ a diff’rent breed! ‘Rolf Butt-mince’, ain’t ya!?”
“I am,” I barked back bluntly. “Just ‘Rolf’ serves.”
Mine was no chivalrous introduction, but a bait. Of all the fighters in this front, I measured these two the most terrible of them all: hell-hounds to be leashed in, lest my braves fall to their ferocity.
“I ‘eard ye be too much a babe fer battle, but looks like th’rumours’ve reckoned ye awrong, eh?” spoke the halberdier. His stature matched his mate’s, whilst about his pate grew a turf of dull-gold hair, all shaved to a wiffle. Lumber-like were his neck and arms, boasting of all the other brawn hiding beneath his armour. And if his prior attack was aught to go by, in them was not only power, but deathly precision. “No matter,” he said. “Th’bells be tollin’, mate. Into th’grave with ye!”
As though on cue, the swordsman slowly began to poise himself for the pounce. “Oh, but let’s ‘ave a bit o’ sport ‘fore the burial, shall… we!”
An explosion of steps. Such speed—the swordsman swooped in, heaving his hewer down unto me, the strike shouldering a mountain of momentum.
—Gkhahhnn!
Blades clashed and clapped like thunder.
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I had pride in my physique, but the impact proved heavier than I could handle. I faltered for an instant, humbled, yet the exchange repeated without relent. One more strike, and then another—vying metals shrieked in my ears as I guarded against the swordsman’s bear-like blade-swipes.The force of it all trickled down to my very fingertips. Every swing of his was a waterfall of fury. But in the violence was revealed vulnerabilities enough. With patience, I could pierce one of them and land a lethal blow…
—Ffwoohh!
Another howl of hewn air.
The halberd sailed in, not in a stab, but a wide swing helmed by its axe-head.
As I’d thought: the halberdier was honed of eye and arm, for the sweep of his weapon was aimed squarely at my legs. A smart target; in bearing myself against the swordsman’s maniacal cleaves had my feet been fixed to the ground. But with the axe-blade well on its way to them, time was already up: an unscathed escape was impossible.
—Vsshrt!
Redness streaked from my leg.
I’d leapt back at the last slice of a second, avoiding the axe-blade but not the odyl wreathing it. My shin paid with a shallow wound, a fair price for what could’ve been a lost leg.
The swordsman scowled. “Oi, wot’s up with this wanker, ah? ‘E should’ve peg’d it ten times by now!”
“‘Ere I were thinkin’ I shear’d off ‘is shanks. Bugger,” said the halberdier, sucking his teeth.
The duo’s faces furrowed with fresh caution. I answered with a reassumed centre guard, keeping them both in my sight as we slowly circled each other.
“Mismannered much?” I asked them sharply. “You had me spit out my name. Why not return the favour?”
“Hah!” the swordsman scoffed. “You fancy us knights prim an’ proper-like!? Well, a fico for you, Bitch-moose! Names be nothin’ on the battlefield!”
“Yea,” the halberdier sneered threateningly. “If ye be so keen fer court’sy, why not wring us names out o’ us throats, then, eh?”
These two were quickly proving a pair of barbs, deep on the prick. But the halberdier—he could be laid low sooner. Rush in, cut him down in close quarters… a valid gambit. Decided, I began biding for the ripe moment.
Only, there was a rub: the halberdier hardly seemed the one-trick churl. His thrusts, I could evade. Their imbued odyl, as well. But doubtless he’d garnish his wicked menu from here on—likely with post-thrust swings sent straight to my neck.
That halberd of his looked the heftier of its varied brethren. Dauntingly so. Its axe-blade boasted both broadness and thickness, an unmaker of armour; wielding so top-heavy a weapon much seemed like leashing a livid lion. Yet this halberdier was handling that exact feat, to much finesse… and my peril.
But in my hands was a lion of my own, one with no less heft.
A match of mighty arms it is, then. I’ll not avoid his next attack—I’ll stop it, instead.
Just as the thought finished, a weighty whoosh sounded: the halberd, charging in. I answered. Metals clashed and groaned.
“Khrraaahh!!” the other foe roared, rushing in with a down-cleave from the high guard. I broke to the side, skirting it by a wide margin. Distancing myself further from the halberdier, I next trained my eyes to the swordsman, who returned the look.
“Come on, mate! Pretendin’ the turtle? That your play, Rolf Bint-milker!?” he taunted. “Even turtles know to bite back!”
“Do they, now? Cunning creatures, turtles,” I humoured him.
But his point pierced the mark: I had to strike back, lest “Rolf the timid terrapin” be full-writ on my headstone. That said, dancing with so deadly a duo demanded all caution. A careless step, and I’d be left a long smear on these streets.
Steadying my breaths, I stared at them anew, seeking the ever-elusive opening.
It was then that a comrade called to me.
“Commander! The other gate’s breached!”
Good news to my ears, but hardly so for the duo.
“Bloody ‘ell!” the swordsman cried with a strike of his tongue. “Flaccid Fief-cocks, the lot o’ them!”
“This is sour,” said the halberdier. “They’ll be peltin’ in soon fer th’pincer, they will.”
He had the right of it. Lise and her braves were most certainly making their way here. And once they arrive, any defenders yet lagging would find all escape severed.
“Then best we clean ‘ouse an’ shog off, innit?” said the swordsman, readying himself anew.
“Music t’me ears,” the halberdier echoed.
“The pincer comes, and still you tarry to tussle…” I remarked lowly. “You both bleat for battle as wasters pine for poppy.”
Laughter belched and boomed. “Aha hahahh! Says the priest puffin’ the same pipe!” the swordsman retorted, before straightway rushing in to resume our fight. His diction lingering bitterly in my ears, I resteeled my stance and gripped the soot-steel all the more tightly.
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