Revision – 2026.6.29
The night oldened on. But rather than retire to the tents as advised, I strode through the expectant garrison instead, and anear its outskirts, scaled a high and rocky hill. From the top, there swirled the sounds of wind, water, and war, for sprawling at some distance down below was the Erbelde and its bridge—a battlefield belaboured and befought for over two fortnights straight. This was what I came to see; after all, if I was to join this fray, then it wouldn’t hurt to have a good look before the fact.
Anyway, I stooped and inspected the Des Ailes’ span. Nearly a score passūs broad, just more than four-score long… well, it certainly fit the dame mareschal’s descriptions. But more outstanding than its tremendous timber bulk were the barriers, palisades, and stakes that’d been built and that now bristled at both its bridgeheads. Some bonfires also blazed there and yonder, dimly revealing companies of knights and Nafílim couching and scowling at one another from afar, as well as the skirmish that was breaking amidst the bridge.
For some time, I watched their ongoing contest. Of particular interest were the Nafílim braves themselves. Thinking on it, this would mark the very first time these Buckmann eyes laid on their kind. And they seemed precisely as the reports depicted: namely, that theirs was an appearance indistinguishable from that of us Men, save solely for their complexion, which was tawned like the colour of leather.
And that wasn’t all. Their fashion of warfare, too, differed little, being waged with weapons and spells, with contrivances and commanders, just like their Mennish enemies. And they fought well. Indeed, I wagered a thing or three could be learnt from these clever braves. But despite such deftness, the Nafílim remained ever a step behind their knightly rivals. In fact, between their tact, craft, and tacticality, the fighting knights of the 1st all but left me lost for words.
At any rate, the broad state of affairs was thus: Londosius assaying to secure the yonder banks, and the Nafílim battling to beat them off. Reason would compel the braves to blow the bridge altogether, and they well seemed inclined to agree, to judge by their materiel and manoeuvres. But, being quick and acute, ever would the mainful 1st forsake the wreaking of such ruin.
The key to this lay in unwillingness: the braves dared not destroy the Des Ailes so long as their brethren stood yet upon it. Thus did the knowing knights war in such a way as to keep the Nafílim ever leashed in the fray. Whensoever the latter dared withdraw, the 1st would quickly follow, forcing the frontlines forth whilst maintaining distance and formation. Or, if the Nafílim risked an onset, the 1st would yield, shields and palings rigidly raised. And ever as this veritable tug-of-war went on, the knights replenished themselves with mending magicks and relief parties from the garrison, thus sustaining their strength all throughout the long struggle.
Also, at whiles would the knights bring to bear a brilliant bombardment, purposed to breach the opposite bridgehead, at any moment the braves succeeded in pulling fully aback. Lest their resultant wounded be left to waste upon the deck, or the 1st be allowed to come flooding in, the Nafílim were thus pressed to return to the bridge and begin again the dire dance.
What cunning warcraft. Clear it was that even down at the echelon of field captains and lieutenants, the 1st boasted commanders keen and excellent. I daresay that by their hand were the Nafílim reminded anew of a certain truth: that retreat is oft the most travailing part of war.
“…’Ey up, who goes there…?”
Amidst my marvelling at the battle, I heard someone calling behind. Hither from further down the slope then trudged Raakel, accompanied by Gerd and Sheila.
“Why, iss Muscle-Pate, it is!” said Raakel. “Been cryin’ scared up ’ere, ain’t ye?”
“Nay, my Lady,” I answered, standing up. “I was merely observing the bridge.”
“To see for yourself the battle’s estate?” guessed Sheila. “O, silly Swain, gawp as you might, one such as you would glean little. Still, I must deem your diligence most admirable.”
“I am too honoured,” I humoured her. “Have you all come to watch, as well?”
“Why else?” snarled Gerd. “Unlike a certain good-for-naught, we Owlcranes must ever keep abreast of battles at hand.”
Fair enough, I supposed. Coming up, the Owlcranes perched themselves dutifully upon the hilltop. But no sooner had they begun gazing out than did a fifth voice echo from below.
“Oh? Well, well, what a pleasant surprise,” it spoke. Or rather, “he”, as emerging and joining us now was Erik Lindell. “How now, my fellow Owlcranes, have you not laboured enough?” said the lieutenant softly. “Pray take rest; the summer sun rises early.”
“Thank you. We shall, of course,” Sheila returned just as smoothly, “after glimpsing what awaits on the morrow. I bid you sweet slumber, as well, gentle Lieutenant.”
“With battle ever nearby, even slumber is elusive. But thank you,” said Lindell. “However, I should like a moment with this strapping lad, if possible.” A pair of sharp eyes then turned to me. “The fair Lady Emilie has vaunted you to high Heaven,” he smilingly revealed. “Indeed, she marks you the very saviour of your strenuous march. I do say: that is passing sterling, especially for a swain.”
“You humble me, sir,” I said, duly bowing.
Lindell chuckled. “You are wise in the ways of war, I take it? You must tell me of your tutour; doubtless he is distinguished.”
“My tutour was Literature, sir,” I answered. “It has for long been a fancy of mine.”
“Literature!” gasped Lindell. “Well, that is more astounding still, is that not!” Even in the veil of night, the lieutenant’s surprise was plain to see. “But oh, alas. To be flung from book and shelf to these bloody shores—how pitiless be the fates to our poor, fresh, and peach-cheeked swains.”
“Nay, sir. I have been pickling a while in this post,” I clarified. “For over two years, to be precise.”
“…What?” Lindell lipped.
I cleared my throat. “I am and have been, sir, not as you might expect,” I said, “but a swain inept and unblessed, shamefully enough.”
Despite my explanation, puzzlement lingered still on Lindell’s face. Sheila, however, had that sorted swiftly.
“My good Sir, that hapless soul you see was granted naught at the Rounic rites,” she said. “Yoná, Deiva Suprēma, hath spurned him; he is wholly hollow of odyl and Her holy love.”
“Upon my word…” sighed a now astounded Lindell, who slowly looked to me. “…Yes. Yes, it is certain. There have been whispers of such a pox in the 5th. I see… It was you, all along.” Read this novel at NovelPing for the best experience.
Then, after a moment of brewing in bewilderment, Lindell’s face flushed to a rumbling rage. And then, as with fire fuming from the earth, that rage erupted from his throat.
“Unholy hound,” he hissed hoarsely at me. “What dealings, what devilry, hast thou with our Order? Darest thou deem Knighthood some gnawing toy for thy black disport?” Seething, Lindell then thrust himself hither and seized me asudden by the collars. “Speak! Thou pocked and pus-plumped cur! How camest thou to our battlefield!? And why!? This is no place to prance and play!”
“Such wasn’t my intent, sir,” I assayed to answer calmly, even as Lindell shook me in his grasp.
“This business, this Battle, embroils the very Holy and the Profane!” he bawled on at me. “’Tis far beyond dregs undestined as thee!”
“With the greatest respect, sir,” I strained to return, “I should think otherwise.”
“Other…!? Why, thou!” thundered Lindell, before driving me down flop onto the dirt. Even were I allowed, I would be hard-put to resist, for as befits the first-rate knight that he was, Lindell possessed impressive strength. And wielding it, he swooped and bestrode me atop the torso as I lay; and grabbing my collars again, he jerked my face up towards his. “How comes it!?” he screamed into my eyes. “How comes it, that she should coo and coddle this… this Deiva-damned dog!?”
Ah. Well, that certainly cleared things up. Behind Lindell’s curtains of aching rage, his storm-like hostility for this ungraced, it seemed there beat a smitten heart for a certain maiden: one by the name of Emilie Mernesse.
Truth to tell, I’d suspected as much from his honeyed manner back there at camp. Between her sublime title, her teeming beauty, and her stature as a fellow Owlcrane lieutenant, Emilie the Aureola had fast become a queer fixation to this officer of the 1st. And having heard from her happy lips my name and merits, I suppose it was only a matter of time before this suitor came to size me up.
And yet, to only discover now that Emilie’s marvelled man had been the 5th’s infamous ungraced all along. To Erik Lindell, that was absolutely nothing to be brooked.
“Dog, no. But merely a swain, yes,” tried I to soothe the situation, “—and to the Lady Emilie, nothing more, I assure you.”
“Of damned course thou’rt!” Lindell spat into my face. “Do not for shame! wet these ears with drivel so obvious, thou dreg!”
And just like that, Lindell’s ire burst from its bonds, as he then hailed down unto my face one hammering fist after another. Indued in each was an undeniable desire to deal my death, to which I brought up my own arms in defence; but it was a little too late: blood had been shed, darkly bedaubing Lindell’s stone-hard hands.
“Thou heathen!” he pealed as he pummelled. “Thou gutter-begotten tyke!”
In spite of his spite, I must admit this Lindell fellow seemed quite the person of passions, whether in courting a maiden or killing a man. That latter bit, however, delighted me little, or on this occasion, not at all; for the next fist he raised glowed with grim odyl.
“S-sir! Stop, stop!” I heard from the side. “Do you mean to murder him!?”
Then, from beyond my crossed arms, I spied Gerd jumping and jostling into the tussle.
“I do!” roared Lindell, thrashing even as Gerd seized him from behind. “What matter, should he die this day!? This instant!? The leper’s been spared the pyre o’erlong!”
“Speak not madness! He’s one of ours! So shog… off, will you!?” cried Gerd; and with a frightful effort, he managed at last to tear the lieutenant away. Now leashed, Lindell panted viciously upon the dirt, his eyes filled with violence as they stayed staring upon mine.
“Dastardly, dag-eating dog…!” he growled on. “Begone with thee…! Gone, gone…!!”
Easier said, that. I was ungraced, not ghostly. And so rather than apologise and poof, I picked myself up whilst wiping the blood from my broken lips. For his part, Lindell slowly followed suit. And thankfully enough, as he started to clean his hands with a handkerchief, his fury seemed to fade, if even only faintly. At length, his eyes, still round but now not so red, then regarded the rest of us.
“…Apologies. That was rather quick of me,” he said, though more to the others than myself. “Good night.”
And with that, Lindell tossed his handkerchief, turned, and took his leave. The Owlcranes and I, lost for words, watched after him. And when he was out of sight, I spoke.
“Thank you, Lord Gerd,” I said, and with perfect honesty. For surely aface Lindell’s odyllic fist would I have started resisting, and so fanned his fury further. And then, I daresay he really might have made a ghost of me.
But Gerd groaned. “Swallow it,” he snarled quietly. “I didn’t do it for you.” And speaking no more, Gerd descended the hill.
“By gum! A blust’rin’ dafty, ain’t ’e, that Lindell?” noted Raakel. “Ah, well. Time I counted sheep meself.”
Stretching, Raakel started off down the height. Meanwhile, Sheila looked plainly at me. “O, you poor thing,” she sighed. “Do look after those bruises, if you may. It would not do to show up black and blue for the big battle, would it?”
And with a soft smile, the surgien passed and followed after her fellow Owlcranes to the tents below. Indeed, it seemed never to have occurred to her that this mauled ungraced could use her ministrations. Albeit she did heed my hurts, and that was something, I supposed. And she was right: I had better get my face washed and salved soon; a swollen eye or somesuch could prove bothersome tomorrow, to say the least. And so, after giving the war-like bridge one last gaze, I hoofed it to the healers’ tents. This story is hosted at novelping(.)com.
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“Why—Rolf! Your face!” gasped Emilie. “What on earth’s happened to you!?”
It was now high morning at Emilie’s tent. And her reception of my state of affairs, as it were, was none too unexpected.
“I’ve kissed the ground too lovingly, my Lady,” I said.
“Wh… you mean you’ve tripped?” said Emilie. “What ‘trip’ would wound you so!?”
One down the side of a rocky fist, as it happened. But of course not. In the end, there was no disguising it. And whilst I’d entirely anticipated this dismay of Emilie’s, I admit I hadn’t fully wondered what to say when the questions should come.
I sighed. It wouldn’t be good to give such news as might sow mistrust with the 1st, at least not with the battle for the Erbelde so close at hand. But knowing Emilie, if she could not get me to sing, then she’d surely turn to the Owlcranes next.
Well, nothing for it, then. It was time to talk.
“Very good, my Lady,” I said, keeping a low voice. “The Lieutenant Lindell, if you remember him; he seems not so… pleased with me.”
Emilie blinked. “Sir… Erik? But why?” she rasped.
“If I may guess,” I said, “he finds my ungracedness rather disagreeable.”
“What?” Emilie gasped again. “Just because of that…!?”
“And because he yearns for your heart, my Lady; so much as to give in to violent envy, and leave me the bruised plum that you see now,” I avoided revealing, of course. Else, Emilie would beat herself up about being party to this mess, if even unwittingly.
But really, now: envy? Ask me a few summers back, and I would’ve sensed nothing of the sort from Lindell’s advances, much less linked it to his violence. Not to pat my own back, but I daresay over these years, Rolf the “dog” had acquired quite the snout for flirtatious affairs and their finer pheromones. Never fails to surprise, a man’s growth does.
Though I could but wonder: had I so grown sooner, might I have been able to sue and serenade Emilie myself whilst we were yet betrothed? I mean, to be sure, that wouldn’t have changed in the least the chief course of things, our bond getting broken and all. But truth to tell, in a way I still smarted with shame for never having done for Emilie aught befitting her fiancé.
But at any rate, Emilie here seemed set on giving the 1st a piece of her mind about their lieutenant. Only, this was scarce the occasion for it. I had to stop her.
“I understand your ire, my Lady,” I said gravely, “but the big battle looms; we must join hands with the 1st, not lock horns.”
“I know, I know, but…” said Emilie, “—but you can’t expect me to sit on my hands, Rolf!”
“Then at the least, pray leave this till the battle’s ended,” I reasoned. “Matters more pressing demand your full mind, my Lady.”
Looking away, Emilie made no answer.
“Lady Emilie?” I stressed.
“…Fine, then,” she relented.
Too much hinged on this day. The operation certain to decide the belaboured battle; the lives of the knights who would fly or ford into the fray—indeed, this was nary the time to bicker about some bruises. And, thank the stars, Emilie herself understood this well enough.
At length, we left the tent and made for the middle of the garrison. There, knights were massively gathered, and the air rang clear with Tiselius’ voice as she briefed them for the last time on the fording operation to come. This was it. At last, after smouldering for fully a month, the battle for the Erbelde stood now over the cliff of Conclusion.
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Notes
Passus
(Language: Latin; 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.