Revision – 2026.6.29
Perched at the peak of a weathered bluff, the Owlcranes, myself, and our mareschal Tallien watched over the battle broiling far below. The scuffed and scorched Des Ailes Greatbridge; the drought-drunken Erbelde; the four appointed places along the hither banks whence the knightly waders were to embark—all were fully in view. Meanwhile, upon the Des Ailes itself was the Mareschal Tiselius posted, that she might more closely command the bridgetop battle; and in her tow were a contingent of her own Owlcranes.
But in looking distantly upon them and perceiving in their midst their lieutenant Erik Lindell, Emilie who was beside me darkened with distaste. Yet at once she shook it off, knowing better, it seemed, than to oblige her bitter heart with all the battle so much at hand.
Below our overlook, the forders were already arrayed at the riverbanks, their columns going far aback. Knights from the 1st composed one of these; the 5th manned the rest. Small boats were also berthed, but these being few, the forders were left to fare afoot. But so much the better to bring their brimming number to bear. Still, the way ahead of them was long: nigh-on seventy passūs of wading it was till their feet would find dry, enemy shores.
The general idea was not so alien to us Londosians. Rural folk there were who lived by bridgeless banks, fording river and ravine when the flow allowed. And of them, some even bought their daily bread by bearing persons across such drifts, whether on shoulder or made-shift board.
The weakened Erbelde itself seemed such a waterway: quietly it coursed, and lowly besides, that even its deepest scarce reached up to the waist. Indeed, to ford the Broadrun now did not appear so impossible as it had done in our heads.
Still, this was no bucolic backwater, but a battlefield. Shaft and spell were sure to fly from the Nafílim banks, to strike down our forders as they strove. In mitigation thereof, the forders were to depend on their palings and greatshields—and most of all, on the bridgetop battle itself, whence by the 1st’s focused offensive, the Nafílim aggression was to be drawn off as much as could be managed.
The keystone to this stratagem, therefore, sat entirely upon Tiselius’ shoulders. One ill command, and the whole river could run red as wine. But from my vantage, neither nervousness nor thrill were to be found on her face. A living legend she was, of whose swordcraft and command were sung at every court and corner; not even so decisive a battle as this could dare dent her adamant mien.
For his part, however, our own mareschal shared not in Tiselius’ steel, even from the safe height of this bluff, or even still from within his circle of Owlcranes. There Tallien stood and stared, tense as a thread pulled tight. But naught could be done about that. It was the 5th that he looked after: his blissful band of knights that saw nary a skirmish throughout a year. And now must they endure flowing water and open war. Worse still, the toll of the miserable march remained yet upon them. And even worse than that, some amongst them began to tremble in their boots, being unmanned by their maiden sight of the Nafílim foe.
I pondered the plight of these forders of ours; how no few of them must be wondering why oh why their lives’d led up to this evil reckoning, when all they’d enlisted for was an accolade, a quiet career, and a happy homecoming. Nevertheless, there was a silver lining: prove ourselves the key to clinching the victory that’d evaded even the 1st for so long, and that’d be a golden glory to our name, indeed. Just the prospect alone made this a battle not to be passed up, peril and all.
At the blowing of a horn, those who thought as much, and withal those who thought not of it at all, started off into the river, thus beginning the fate-fraught fording.
♰
The dame mareschal’s command mystified to behold. Upon the bridge, her knights’ unceasing assault, like a clawing cascade, scoured away at the enemy’s strength, leaving the latter with fewer and fewer to offend our forders below. All was proceeding to plan.
There from the belly of the bridge-deck did Tiselius dictate the battle, not far at all from the frontline as it broiled and bled. No commander of common sense would even dare feign such a feat, but that might explain partly, if not precisely, why this one was so deemed the Hero-Dame of Londosius.
Indeed, there Tiselius sprang, flying to the fray in a red wind; and with a brazen swing of her fire-ensorcelled sword, she slipped forth a stampede of infernal flame. Those of the frontmost foes not trampled by the pyre panicked aback, leaving behind them a smoky, blackened breach.
But for fear of giving ground, the other braves rallied and raced to stop up the dire void, all whilst their wounded were swiftly retrieved for treatment. Foes though they were, these Nafílim fascinated with their fighting efficiency. Yet things were getting grim for them, for as with ours, their surgiens scantled in count. And of these, none seemed able to salvage the severely injured, at least not in time to send back into the fray.
In light of this, the Nafílim could but stock their defence with fresh braves from elsewhere—including from the artillery that so harried our forders. Arrows that’d once rained thick were now reduced to a sporadic sprinkle. The forders’ greatshields did well to ward this off, allowing for unimpeded progress over the running river. Even the ensorcelled of the missiles helped the enemy little, for the greatshields, though wrought of iron, were well-redoubted with odyl by their vanguard wielders. And supported further by bolt-repellant palings, nary a forder there was who felt the bite of Nafílim bodkins.
In time, all four river-crossing columns arrived at the midmost waters. So far, so good, as they say.
“Well, thass a win if I’ve seen one,” yawned Raakel. “Right shame we’ll not taste a lick o’ the action, ey Owlcranes?”
“Quite,” echoed Sheila. “We shall see the far banks flying with Londosian colours ere long, Yoná willing.”
Sheila and Raakel were right enough about our clear advantage. But as for victory, well…
“And then ’tis laurels for our first big battle, isn’t it Rolf?” whispered an excited Emilie.
Staring sternly at the proceedings below, I had to shake my head. “I shouldn’t count on that yet, my Lady.”
“O-oh? How do you mean?”
“To start, no victory is certain, not till the winning cries fill our ears, at the least,” I explained. The source of this chapter is g.com.
“What? Say that ’gain!” grutched an overhearing Raakel. “By gum, Muscle-Pate! Done us a li’l favour on that maftin’ march, an’ now look at ye: spoutin’ like a prig with the prize. Get o’er yerself!”
“I but ‘spouted’ an old wisdom, my Lady,” I returned to the red-haired dame. “And lo: it has been slow going for our forders—slower than the Mareschal Tiselius had foreseen, no doubt.”
The evidence was undeniable: the 1st’s forders were, and had been, paces ahead of the rest. As I’d feared, Belithas’ burden yet haunted the heaving and haggard 5th.
Looking back to the bridge, I saw Tiselius, even as she governed the grim battle, peering down over both parapets. And after ascertaining the state of the forder-columns below, and noting the lagging 5th, she hastened orders back to Behrmann at the bridgehead. The old under-mareschal acted at once, commanding the 1st’s forders to stall till the other columns caught them up.
“…Slow going,” Tallien snarled at me, “on account of weariness, you wish to say?”
Our mareschal must’ve been beating himself up over Belithas, if he’d heard my words that way.
“Precisely so, sir,” I answered—or might’ve done, had I scratched the itch. Nay, thinking better of it, I rather said: “There is that, maybe. But also, sir: many of ours have not till this day faced a single Nafíl. To meet the 1st’s expectations was never in our cards, therefore.”
Well, to my credit, that wasn’t a lie. Tallien himself took it well enough with a conceding, though still annoyed snort. Turning back to Emilie, I continued.
“But more than anything, there is the enemy,” I said. “For fully a month have they fended the 1st, of all Orders, never once allowing a sabaton over their lines. Even as things are, I cannot see them yielding so easily—”
—Dommfh!
At that moment, a great noise thrummed through the air. It’d come from the bridge-deck, whence, amidst a new glut of glowing red smoke, knights were scattering. This time, it was the 1st’s turn to be breached. And by what but, if in irony or revenge or both, a battery of Nafílim fire.
There: at the opposite bridgehead could be seen many a staff held ahigh. So it was that the enemy had brought to bear their wiċċan, and withal the fire-magick Sċīmæsċ, conjured and pelted in explosive multitude. The timing was conspicuous: if I must guess, they’d waited till Tiselius had momentarily backed off the fray, lest her fury forsake their sudden salvo.
Consequently, the 1st’s forward press stood halted. Meanwhile, the enemy chose not to charge in, but rather to regroup. A smart move: as after speedily redisposing their bridge-defenders, the Nafílim dispatched braves to bolster the forder-fending efforts at the banks. This was evil, for at this point, the forders themselves, being now beyond the middle of the Erbelde, had entered into the mercy of Nafílim magicks. Hence, added to the drizzling arrows was now the thunder of fearsome spellfire.
“Gngh!” groaned our mareschal, as he witnessed one forder founder in a bloody splash. Straining my own eyes, I perceived large, icy spikes protruding from that stricken knight’s stomach: the work of another magick, the Hrīmhorn, one that’d been cunningly loosed through a seam in the column’s palings—that column belonging to whom but the 5th.
The river sloshed as the surrounding forders then scrambled to board the wounded soul onto a skiff. But though the craft was paled as it was pulled aback, given its so-gruesomely pierced passenger, the effort seemed ill-fated.
The reckoning continued elsewhere, this time, too, at another of the 5th’s columns. There, the Erbelde’s surface sprayed wildly as from the enemy banks swooped and swept the whip-like Brimbil, thrashing through three unfortunate forders. And as the splash and spray subsided, a body was soon seen drifting down the waters—beheaded. Doubtless was it a swift-dealt death.
“That blasted Tiselius!” barked a livid Tallien. “What’s the matter with her!? A massacre’s upon us, can’t she see!? Stop them!!”
So spoke the spectator. Nay, even considering the casualties, Tiselius’ martial mastery was an utter marvel to my eyes. On one hand did she befight the perilous fray, keeping as much of the enemy’s ire away from our vulnerable numbers as was possible. And on the other was she deftly dictating the entire bridge offensive, wresting from the Nafílim what by rights ought be theirs: the defender’s advantage.
Up from the bridge next rose battlecries, followed by a spirited push from the 1st. The knights had rallied, and step by precious step, were advancing the frontline once more. Elsewhere in the same moment, three Nafílim tumbled down the far banks, their persons sliced asunder by what seemed like blades unseen. The magick Hildewiða had been wielded, and by whom but one amongst the forders themselves: my own sister—
“—Felicia!” cried Emilie in delight. “That was her’s! She’s done it!”
Indeed, Felicia, living up to her post as lieutenant of our 1st Sorcery Brigade, was soonest amongst the forders to score a kill. And she did not tarry to take it in: with her staff lit and yet aloft, Felicia slung forth a second shrill of sword-sharp winds, mastering her odyl even as her body wavered over the waist-deep waters. But now alarmed, her marks ducked and dodged her scythes by the skin of their teeth. Yet the spell was not vain, as fearing for their lives, they drew back to bring up their palings. Thus, with fewer magicks and missiles to molest them, our forders began again their agonising advance.
Felicia’s face was not to be seen from so high, but clear as day was her determination. Perhaps out of enmity for the Nafílim foe, she dithered little to deal them death.
From the side, I heard Gerd scoffing. “Well, well, well,” he sneered at me. “All that bell-tolling, and for what? Just to sound as hollow as a limping doomsoother, eh Ungraced?”
“Why, that was your sister, was it not?” Sheila noted, smiling softly as ever. “O silly Swain, be glad; for Yoná Almighty hath given you so exquisite a sibling as would comfort those fears of yours.”
“…”
Fear. At that moment, I felt exactly that: a fear all too sudden. For something had changed. Something subtle, and yet sitting in plain sight. Suspicious, I peered through the scene below. The Erbelde, the bridge, the battle, the… the banks?
“Come now, silly Swain, be not so silent.”
…No! It couldn’t be!
“Lady Emilie, Mareschal!” I burst out yelling. “Pray pull back the forders! Quick!”
“Wha—R-Rolf? What’s this all of a sudden?” asked a startled Emilie.
“The river! It rises!”
───────── ♰ ─────────
Notes
Brimbil
(Language: Old English; original name: “Slam Whip”) “Sea-sword”. Water-elemental battle magick. A spell in the form of a long tendril of pressurised water, made to lash through several targets. Rends and dismembers on impact.
Ensorcell
(Original name: “Enchant”) The act or state of being enchanted by magicks.
Hildewiða
(Language: Old English; original name: “Breeze Glint”) “Battle-breeze”. Wind-elemental battle magick. A spell in the form of a shrieking galeburst, directed towards a target at high speeds. Slices and dismembers on impact. The ð consonant is pronounced with a voiced th, as in “this” or “then”.
Hrīmhorn
(Language: Old English; original name: “Frost Gravel”) “Hoar-horn”. Ice-elemental battle magick. A spell in the form of shards and/or stumps of ice, directed towards a target at high speeds. Pierces and/or pummels on impact.
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.
Sċīmæsċ
(Language: Latin; original name: “Heat Lance”) “Bright-spear”. Fire-elemental battle magick. A spell in the form of a long spire of flames, shot towards a target at high speeds. Pierces and explodes on impact. The sċ consonant is pronounced with a sh sound, as in the words “shield” and “shine”. The æ vowel is pronounced with an a sound, as in “apple” or “angry”.
Wiċċa / Wiċċe
(Language: Old English; plural: wiċċan) A witch. In Soot-Steeped Knight, the Nafílim equivalent of a sorcerer. Wiċċa and wiċċe are masculine and feminine respectively; wiċċan is the plural form, used for both genders. The ċċ consonant is pronounced ch, as in “chair” or “charge”.