Revision – 2026.6.29
“‘Rises’…?” echoed Raakel. “Where, what? Ach, ye’re bletherin’ ’gain, ain’t ye, ye twiny-twonk!”
“Nay, I’m certain!” I shot back. “We cannot delay! They must quit the river at once! Else—”
“Rolf, Rolf! Patience!” pleaded Emilie, taking my arm. “None here may give such an order, have you forgotten?”
Forgotten? But these Owlcranes, our mareschal… nay, Emilie was right. Blast it; to lose my head now, of all times! No wonder you’re yet a bumbling swain, Rolf Buckmann!
Intaking a lungful and cooling my veins, I began again: “My Lady, the Erbelde, it’s risen for certain. I reckon… by half a digitus, maybe more. But it won’t stop there. No, it’ll only further swell, and so ensnare our forders soon, if not wash them away.”
Given vigour enough, even waters but knee-deep may endanger a crossing man. Our forders, who by this point were wholly deployed into the Erbelde, faced now that very peril, with the forward half already up to their waists, and those behind wet at knee and thigh. At this rate, they would be rooted down by the new-rousing river, and before they knew it, swallowed utterly into its muddy rapids—they, and Felicia besides.
“Prove it, Swain,” Tallien hissed at me, “or be hushed.”
“Sir, our banks: lo! see how the waters’ve crept up to the banner-staves stuck thereat,” I explained quickly. “It’s the tributary—the enemy’ve dammed it up.”
Tallien glared. “…Dammed?”
“I must away!”
“Ah, wa-wait! Rolf—”
Prising myself from Emilie, I bolted off. No time to take the winding way down; bracing myself, I descended the steep slope in a hasty slide-and-tumble. And alighting at the banks below scuffed and bruised, I broke directly for the bridge.
The war council, the map… I ought’ve heeded it then: namely, the Erbelde’s tributary drawn thereupon. Cutting away upstream, it flowed eastwards into Nafílim territory. And were it dammed, it would bloat the Erbelde, enough to sweep Felicia and all the forders away in one fell swoop… and so end this day with our resounding defeat.
Racing along, I saw now the bristling, bustling bridgehead. Behrmann was there, too. But an under-mareschal wouldn’t do. I needed Tiselius herself. With just her word, the forders would all fall back, no questions asked.
That settled it. Hurrying along, I arrived at the bridgehead proper in all its smoke, clamour, and commotion. Possessed by death and desperation, the knights here fought as warriors at some world’s end. For an instant, I stopped and stood, being stunned by the heat and horror of it all. Voices commanding; voices reporting; voices requesting—voices screaming over bloodied, fallen friends. Only moments before, from my high and protected perch, had I been opining upon them as one watching ants scurry to and fro. “Bell-tolling”, indeed! Gerd was ever one to say much, but in that moment, those words of his stung with truth. The shame of me!
Nevertheless, I could not linger. Coursing through the confusion, I flew to the fray at the bridge. And there, I threw myself unto the veritable wall of warring knights, forcing my way through jostling limbs and grinding armour. It pained me to intrude upon their mortal struggle, truly. But with the fate of the forders and all the battle itself at stake, that was nothing I could help.
“Make way! Make way!” I wailed over the tumult. “The mareschal! I must speak with the mareschal! It’s urgent!”
Pulling and shoving, I fought for every step across the battling bridge. If the way was shut, I had to wedge myself in most impolitely and part the knights even to their peril. Never in my life did I so begrudge this burly body of mine as I did upon this day. But at the last, after being squeezed and scathed and scolded every which way, I made it to the mareschal.
Behind a barricade was the belle of rosen-blonde bent, having just stepped away from the frantic frontline. Other knight-captains were stooped beside her, giving ear as she guided them as to the next move; meanwhile, messengers speeded from her side to send orders back to the rearguard.
“Thou dog!” cried one of the knight-captains as he saw me. “Why camest thou hither!?”
“Mareschal!” I shouted, running near. “Mareschal Tiselius!”
“Why, ’tis you…!” she uttered in amazement as I quickly knelt afore her. “That swain of Tallien’s! Nay, leave it for later!”
Washing away her wonder, Tiselius turned back to the others. There was no blaming her for that: with combat broiling all about, and life and death decided by mere seconds, this was no time to coddle a sudden swain. But in this case, it was coddle now or be vanquished.
“Later’s too late!” I persisted, pointing over the nearby parapet. “Lo, Mareschal! The river!”
Tiselius looked at me again. “…What?”
“It swells!”
At once, her golden eyes gaped.
“Quit gabbling and begone!” Lindell growled at me again. “Or I’ll cut thee, I will!”
Lindell, too, seemed oblivious to the Erbelde’s bulging. For by “bulging”, it’d since merely climbed another digitus. Scant few could’ve discerned the change, therefore; not these battling knights, nor even the forders themselves, possibly. But no time was left till “bulging” became all too apt. Water is fickle, and a river even more so. Look away, and what is once a rill is now a white, earth-rending rush. Such seemed not lost to Tiselius: standing and peering over the parapet, her face then lit up with alarm—finally, she saw and knew.
“The tributary, madame!” I pleaded again. “It’s been dammed up! Pray do not wait! Withcall the forders!”
At that, Tiselius’ sword answered. Up she held it, up high for all the host to see, shining under the smoky sun. And then, in a voice more vast than her slender frame could seemingly conceive, she thundered:
“Forders! Ye forders all! I command you: withdraw at once! I repeat: withdraw at once!”
This did the trick, if at least to stop the river-crossers. Indeed, all four columns now stalled with eyes baffled at the abrupt command. But the urgency injected therein was plain enough. Quickly then, the 1st’s forders began wading aback. Seeing them, the other three columns followed suit in a mad scramble.
“6th Centuria, to the front! 4th Centuria, quit and recover!” Tiselius next cried. “Sorcerers, 3rd Brigade! Make ready! The next shift’ll need your palings!”
So dictated the Hero-Dame, returning her attention to the battlefront with not a grain in the hourglass wasted. Still, though subtly, she then bit her lip, as one rueing a momentary but monumental lapse. But mockingly unbeknownst to her, to me, and indeed to all our knightly host, the hour-sand had already ceased: the forders below, despite the exigency, then stalled again, as the Erbelde’s swiftly waking waters threatened to throw them off their feet. No longer could they move; not even those further back at the shallows, for such shallows were shallow no more.
Just mere minutes before had they all been marching. Now were these forders thrusting sword and staff into the riverbed, enduring the deceitful swell however they could. Panick passed over their every face; but the tide, heeding them not, only teemed and teemed all the more.
All hope of escape seemed now stolen. Bear the Erbelde as they might, so long as they could not budge, the forders’ dragging and drowning fate was sealed. But nay: another end then visited upon them, as the Nafílim, perceiving their plight, readied both magick and missile like scythes for a harvest. Yet, ill-able to raise shield or staff, the forders found themselves as naked wheat.
The Erbelde’s offering proved bountiful and bloody. All at once, the river splashed and swirled as missiles shrilled, forders shrieked, and violence hunted after vain struggle. And in beholding friend and fellow fall one after another, the 1st’s knights here upon the bridge all halted in horror.
For half a minute did they do so, I reckoned. But for these knights of the 1st, who’d hitherto been valiant and so unwavering in befighting this warfront, merely half an amazed minute was a mistake most tremendous—as their suspense gave way to a grave opening.
Time seemed then to slow. Ahead, I glimpsed the Nafílim falling aback. About, I saw no knights responding. And whereupon the enemy had been, there appeared, as though dropped behind, crates strangely marked… and numerously arrayed. Filled with dread, I then drave myself through the throng of unnerved knights, and raced straight to the now-fallowed frontline.
“Sorcerers, water, water!” I heard echoing. “Drench the deck ahead!”
It was Tiselius, sprinting too behind me, and desperately, desperately screaming orders all the while. But too late. Our foes had all departed the deck, making way for arrows that now rained. And each was tipped with flame—flame, and an intent for the oaken crates besides.
Danger blared in my head. But I neither halted nor turned. Rather I rushed ever onwards, leaping over the crates as I came upon them, and dashing under the eerie red shine of the arrows flying above. You are reading on novelping.com, the official source.
Desolate now was the enemy bridgehead. But not so behind me: others were running in tow. Tiselius I knew was one. But of the others, I knew not. There was no time to look. Also, the crates: to ponder their purpose was pointless. Powder it was that filled them. Black powder. Serpentine. Quickfire.
—Thup! Thup-thup!
So thudded the air. So found their mark the flaming arrows. And so fell our hearts into the pit of Despair.
Pondering the fate to follow, too, was pointless. And so, after what seemed an instance and an eternity both, Doom tolled.
—Bwaaang!!
And from behind, there beset me an ear-splitting noise, a skin-scorching heat, and a bone-battering gust.
♰
“Gwagh!?”
Helpless as a wind-whisked rag, I vaulted through the air and crashed upon solid dirt. And as I lay moaning, there pelted upon my person a shower of shivered timbers—the very pieces of the great Des Ailes.
Pain next bit and gnawed my entire body like a vermin famished, yet reminding me also that I was not yet dead. And that meant only one thing: I had to act whilst life yet lasted in me.
Whipping my body to action, I assayed to stand even as I trembled all about. This was the opposite bank, the very lair of our foes; lie and play dead, and I shall truly end up a corpse. But looking around, I found little to see, and heard even less, for I was lost amidst a mire of smoke and dust, and in my ear, there thronged a thunderous ringing.
Frantically but finally, I got on my feet, wiping the blood draping my eyes. My head swam; my vision shook; I wobbled, knowing not left from right. But scanning around as I could, it caught my eye: a brief cleft in the all-occluding cloud. And revealed therethrough was the vista I most dreaded.
The Des Ailes. It was destroyed. Shivered. Scattered into the river in a huge, eddying vomit of debris. Its remnant stump yonder sagged, before shedding off and falling to crash unto the river. And the knights of the 1st that once fought upon its deck were entirely gone, whether cast into the wasted waters below or lying wounded at the bewildered bridgehead yonder. And as for the forders, therebelow did they endure the Erbelde still, even as the flotsam engulfed half their number. But it seemed only a matter of time till either rousing current or foesome fire ended their misery.
Thus were the knights of Londosius soundly defeated. Such did the terrible scene describe; such did none doubt who did behold it.
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Notes
Centuria
(Language: Latin; plural: centuriae) In military organisation, a division of a Roman legion, at first consisting of 100 soldiers, but later varying between 60 and 160. In Soot-Steeped Knight, it is much the same for the Londosian Orders: a division of 100 knights as part of a greater knightly legion.
Digitus
(Language: Latin; plural: digitī) A unit of measure used by the ancient Romans, taken from the width of a finger. 1 centimetre is equal to 0.5405 of a digitus. A digitus, therefore, can be roughly equated to 2 centimetres.