Soot-Steeped Knight (LN)
The margrave’s manor.
Having found his upper-storey office too stifled, the lord had descended to the great hall where, for an aching while, he paced to and fro. No other soul was present in the echoing space. He had sent for certain persons, sure enough, but their arrival was overlate.
Oh, long indeed was the night prior. Bright beams now breathed through the towering windows, welcoming in the clean and clear mirth of morning. Yet such sweet air was ill-savoured; the margrave’s mien was most grim, pricked and prodded by impatience. The reason: his fief-burgh was forayed, his defences defeated. To this moment were the Nafílim invaders strutting through his streets, and he could do naught but let his city suffer their stains.
Two of his gates to the north were attacked, their defenders failing against the foe’s forces before allowing the latter into Arbel proper. Two more gates to the east were harried, as well, and though they thankfully held the line, such success served no solace, for doubtless the enemies there would wind about to the north and welcome themselves in.
The Nafílim, pressing into Arbel with numbers unanswerable—never had such a nightmare haunted the hills and homes of Ström till this day. Many generations of the margrave’s line had looked after these lands for the Crown, but now did so enduring a history stand to be hewn, upon whose generation but his.
The margrave stopped, grimacing at the foreboding boiling up from within.
His own death.
The end of House Ström.
Notions never once a visitor in his thoughts. But the present found them increasingly palpable, a cruel reality roaring louder and louder at his ears. Rattled and wroth, the margrave struck his heel against the marble floor. And as if on cue, a new echo sounded: double doors creaking open, through which then entered the Östberg siblings with Sigmund in tow.
“Excellency,” Viola addressed the lord, bowing. “Your bidding?”
“Late you are. And lacking a head…” remarked the margrave, looking suspiciously at his guests. Verily had he called for the leaders of the Zaharte Battalion to meet him here, though when last he met them, they numbered four. “That shaven-pate churl—where is he?”
“…Ulrik recuperates in the infirmary,” answered Viola. “An ill-turn he took. But not to worry; he plainly hungers for the soonest return to the fray.”
“And this fellow of yours, too, tumbled down the same turn, I take it?” the margrave pointed out, scowling at Sigmund.
“Tch…” clucked the swordsman’s tongue. On his cheek was pasted a cloth poultice, concealing a blade-wound. Hardly aught unmendable by magicks, but for whatever reason, he had chosen instead to eschew the enchanted treatment.
The margrave sucked his teeth. “…I suffer your boorish brood that you might serve a beacon in this darkest of hours. ‘Bid us battle and boons be upon you.’ Whose words were those, hm? Whose?”
Lines of lividness, but delivered without dynamism; it would seem the margrave was weary and well at the end of his wits. Viola cast her eyes down discerningly and offered an unresistant answer.
“…Ours, Excellency.”
Her own disappointment cut no less deep. In hopes of completely crushing the main enemy force had she deployed Ulrik and Sigmund to the northern front. But having met their seeming match, those very hopes were utterly dashed.
A disappointment, indeed. And a sore surprise.
“Yet never did we presume such power could be wielded by this Rolf Buckmann,” the Zaharte captain continued.
“‘Power’?” echoed the margrave, bending up a brow. “That ungraced? Taking sword in hand and hewing our men? I should sooner believe a bloodlusting hare did the deed.”
“He was heard clearly claiming the name of ‘Rolf’, Excellency,” Viola explained. “Eyes on the ground, too, attest to him matching the commandant’s mien.”
“Hmng…” the margrave heatedly groaned. This was not to be believed. And neither did he wish to. A mistake of a man, disavowed by the Deiva—an ungraced, vanquishing those wielding grace?
Impossible.
A heretic of a happening.
Whatever foreboding the margrave felt before, now ballooned into a morbid image, a future finding his flesh sundered by the sword of that selfsame ungraced. A lamb, ever loving of Yoná the shepherd, now set to be slain by some ragged wolf? What nightmare was this?
Why, none other than a vision veering far from all rightness and reason.
“Your Excellency,” said Viola. “The hostiles to the east have moved; they’ve entered the fief-burgh from the north, and regroup with the rest of their companions as we speak. Once rallied and reorganised, likely they shall march anew at the soonest.”
And so they would. Such was the Zaharte captain’s hard-gained conclusion: if the past two battles taught her aught, it was that the enemy was capable, and arrantly so, at that. They proved formidable enough when split in four… and now they meant to merge and set every blade loose upon the margrave’s neck. So dread a momentum must not be left unchecked.
“That I know,” snapped the lordly mark. “My men make no less haste to muster an answer.”
But too much haste and one hurries only to the grave. This the margrave learnt well, for the battle of Balasthea was a bitter teacher. Unbolstered by preparation and spurred on by false intelligence, there were his men struck a cunning blow.
Never again. Never.
One trap was more than enough for the margrave, and so was he easily content with reamassing for defence what little remained of his men, rather than having them spring zealously upon unrallied foes.
For her part, Viola was much relieved that, despite his dire plight, the margrave was yet sound of judgement. She had well-thought him fain for another fool offensive, and one straightway, no less. Not that any could blame her: long has the margrave waged war with the Nafílim, and fewer tongues were more swift to savour their misery than his.
“And so have we,” she echoed. “Our mobile detachments are returned and rallying presently, Lord. We shall be ready for fresh orders soon enough.”
“As you should,” returned the margrave, before facing Viola in full. “Captain. I bid some of your number accompany me.”
Ever so slightly did the elder Östberg narrowed her eyes at those words. “…You will depart the fief-burgh, Excellency?”
Viola was nothing if not sharp. To “flee” or “quit” the city—she dared no such diction before the fraught margrave.
“I shall. The whole of Ström sits upon my shoulders. And should I fall, it goes with me, deep into the dust… I must needs head to Tallien at once,” he clarified. Right to the east laid the viscounty of Tallien, a fitting shelter for a lord in flight. In fact, that was his very intention. “You know much of my neighbour, do you not? Zaharte’s deeds number many over in that land, I hear.”
“An honour, Lord,” answered Viola, bowing. “Indeed, the lay of Tallien is intimate to many of my men; you will find no better bodyguards than they.”
“Very well. Assign them to me all the sooner.”
The margrave then nodded to the Zaharte captain. At the same time, her brother also sent to her a gaze of his own. The remnant forces in Arbel—more must needs be known of their duties from here on, now that their master meant to leave them to the Nafílim wolves.
Viola returned a confirming look to Theodor.
“Lord Ström,” she began broaching. “Might I ask, what shall be our charge, henceforth?”
“The Fiefguard shall be ordered to stall the enemy till I have long cleared the city walls,” the margrave explained. “And you, Captain: you shall be the one to give them those very orders.”
He looked clothed enough in calm as he aired those words, but in the seams there seethed spouts of displeasure, for it full-punctured his pride to so willingly hand command over his Fiefguard to these sellsword scum. Yet the luxury of choice was long lost to him, gone with the many dead captains of his men.
It all fell to Viola, then, copiously practised in leadership and combat command as she was. Such was the situation at hand. Such was his sole choice.
But bending her brows was a look of confusion. “…I am to lead them, Excellency?”
Having her own men escort the margrave in his flight was not to be argued. After all, it was his coffers that contained their recompense, and not by his dead hand would the locks be undone.
No, what worried Viola was “risk”, for to stay in Arbel and make battle with broken numbers was a danger beyond daring.
“Correct. If I can hie me to safety, then you need only hold till Central’s reinforcements arrive. And then shall I requite you all the more handsomely,” the margrave assured her. “But you will not go unaided, Captain. I’ve designs enough for your defence.”
“…What might be those designs, if I may ask?”
“Hark. To break Arbel, our foe must needs capture three key points: this manor, the Fiefguard’s garrison, and…” to the windows his eyes turned, “…the concentration camp.”
Chapter 119: Volume 3 - CH 4.1
Having found his upper-storey office too stifled, the lord had descended to the great hall where, for an aching while, he paced to and fro. No other soul was present in the echoing space. He had sent for certain persons, sure enough, but their arrival was overlate.
Oh, long indeed was the night prior. Bright beams now breathed through the towering windows, welcoming in the clean and clear mirth of morning. Yet such sweet air was ill-savoured; the margrave’s mien was most grim, pricked and prodded by impatience. The reason: his fief-burgh was forayed, his defences defeated. To this moment were the Nafílim invaders strutting through his streets, and he could do naught but let his city suffer their stains.
Two of his gates to the north were attacked, their defenders failing against the foe’s forces before allowing the latter into Arbel proper. Two more gates to the east were harried, as well, and though they thankfully held the line, such success served no solace, for doubtless the enemies there would wind about to the north and welcome themselves in.
The Nafílim, pressing into Arbel with numbers unanswerable—never had such a nightmare haunted the hills and homes of Ström till this day. Many generations of the margrave’s line had looked after these lands for the Crown, but now did so enduring a history stand to be hewn, upon whose generation but his.
The margrave stopped, grimacing at the foreboding boiling up from within.
His own death.
The end of House Ström.
Notions never once a visitor in his thoughts. But the present found them increasingly palpable, a cruel reality roaring louder and louder at his ears. Rattled and wroth, the margrave struck his heel against the marble floor. And as if on cue, a new echo sounded: double doors creaking open, through which then entered the Östberg siblings with Sigmund in tow.
“Excellency,” Viola addressed the lord, bowing. “Your bidding?”
“Late you are. And lacking a head…” remarked the margrave, looking suspiciously at his guests. Verily had he called for the leaders of the Zaharte Battalion to meet him here, though when last he met them, they numbered four. “That shaven-pate churl—where is he?”
“…Ulrik recuperates in the infirmary,” answered Viola. “An ill-turn he took. But not to worry; he plainly hungers for the soonest return to the fray.”
“And this fellow of yours, too, tumbled down the same turn, I take it?” the margrave pointed out, scowling at Sigmund.
“Tch…” clucked the swordsman’s tongue. On his cheek was pasted a cloth poultice, concealing a blade-wound. Hardly aught unmendable by magicks, but for whatever reason, he had chosen instead to eschew the enchanted treatment.
The margrave sucked his teeth. “…I suffer your boorish brood that you might serve a beacon in this darkest of hours. ‘Bid us battle and boons be upon you.’ Whose words were those, hm? Whose?”
Lines of lividness, but delivered without dynamism; it would seem the margrave was weary and well at the end of his wits. Viola cast her eyes down discerningly and offered an unresistant answer.
“…Ours, Excellency.”
Her own disappointment cut no less deep. In hopes of completely crushing the main enemy force had she deployed Ulrik and Sigmund to the northern front. But having met their seeming match, those very hopes were utterly dashed.
A disappointment, indeed. And a sore surprise.
“Yet never did we presume such power could be wielded by this Rolf Buckmann,” the Zaharte captain continued.
“He was heard clearly claiming the name of ‘Rolf’, Excellency,” Viola explained. “Eyes on the ground, too, attest to him matching the commandant’s mien.”
“Hmng…” the margrave heatedly groaned. This was not to be believed. And neither did he wish to. A mistake of a man, disavowed by the Deiva—an ungraced, vanquishing those wielding grace?
Impossible.
A heretic of a happening.
Whatever foreboding the margrave felt before, now ballooned into a morbid image, a future finding his flesh sundered by the sword of that selfsame ungraced. A lamb, ever loving of Yoná the shepherd, now set to be slain by some ragged wolf? What nightmare was this?
Why, none other than a vision veering far from all rightness and reason.
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“…Be that as it may,” the margrave spoke at last, “at present does the enemy loiter in my city… The hour-sand empties—I must act.”“Your Excellency,” said Viola. “The hostiles to the east have moved; they’ve entered the fief-burgh from the north, and regroup with the rest of their companions as we speak. Once rallied and reorganised, likely they shall march anew at the soonest.”
And so they would. Such was the Zaharte captain’s hard-gained conclusion: if the past two battles taught her aught, it was that the enemy was capable, and arrantly so, at that. They proved formidable enough when split in four… and now they meant to merge and set every blade loose upon the margrave’s neck. So dread a momentum must not be left unchecked.
“That I know,” snapped the lordly mark. “My men make no less haste to muster an answer.”
But too much haste and one hurries only to the grave. This the margrave learnt well, for the battle of Balasthea was a bitter teacher. Unbolstered by preparation and spurred on by false intelligence, there were his men struck a cunning blow.
Never again. Never.
One trap was more than enough for the margrave, and so was he easily content with reamassing for defence what little remained of his men, rather than having them spring zealously upon unrallied foes.
For her part, Viola was much relieved that, despite his dire plight, the margrave was yet sound of judgement. She had well-thought him fain for another fool offensive, and one straightway, no less. Not that any could blame her: long has the margrave waged war with the Nafílim, and fewer tongues were more swift to savour their misery than his.
“And so have we,” she echoed. “Our mobile detachments are returned and rallying presently, Lord. We shall be ready for fresh orders soon enough.”
“As you should,” returned the margrave, before facing Viola in full. “Captain. I bid some of your number accompany me.”
Ever so slightly did the elder Östberg narrowed her eyes at those words. “…You will depart the fief-burgh, Excellency?”
Viola was nothing if not sharp. To “flee” or “quit” the city—she dared no such diction before the fraught margrave.
“I shall. The whole of Ström sits upon my shoulders. And should I fall, it goes with me, deep into the dust… I must needs head to Tallien at once,” he clarified. Right to the east laid the viscounty of Tallien, a fitting shelter for a lord in flight. In fact, that was his very intention. “You know much of my neighbour, do you not? Zaharte’s deeds number many over in that land, I hear.”
“Very well. Assign them to me all the sooner.”
The margrave then nodded to the Zaharte captain. At the same time, her brother also sent to her a gaze of his own. The remnant forces in Arbel—more must needs be known of their duties from here on, now that their master meant to leave them to the Nafílim wolves.
Viola returned a confirming look to Theodor.
“Lord Ström,” she began broaching. “Might I ask, what shall be our charge, henceforth?”
“The Fiefguard shall be ordered to stall the enemy till I have long cleared the city walls,” the margrave explained. “And you, Captain: you shall be the one to give them those very orders.”
He looked clothed enough in calm as he aired those words, but in the seams there seethed spouts of displeasure, for it full-punctured his pride to so willingly hand command over his Fiefguard to these sellsword scum. Yet the luxury of choice was long lost to him, gone with the many dead captains of his men.
It all fell to Viola, then, copiously practised in leadership and combat command as she was. Such was the situation at hand. Such was his sole choice.
But bending her brows was a look of confusion. “…I am to lead them, Excellency?”
Having her own men escort the margrave in his flight was not to be argued. After all, it was his coffers that contained their recompense, and not by his dead hand would the locks be undone.
No, what worried Viola was “risk”, for to stay in Arbel and make battle with broken numbers was a danger beyond daring.
“Correct. If I can hie me to safety, then you need only hold till Central’s reinforcements arrive. And then shall I requite you all the more handsomely,” the margrave assured her. “But you will not go unaided, Captain. I’ve designs enough for your defence.”
“…What might be those designs, if I may ask?”
“Hark. To break Arbel, our foe must needs capture three key points: this manor, the Fiefguard’s garrison, and…” to the windows his eyes turned, “…the concentration camp.”
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