Revision – 2026.6.29
But defeated or no, we were most of us yet alive. Albeit for hundreds or maybe thousands might that change soon, if something wasn’t done. And now that I was here, deep behind enemy lines, that something had fallen to me.
Like curtains closing, the evil vista then vanished. All was turbid, brown, and blind with burning dust again. But I must move immediately before the dust got any other ideas, or the wind did, for that matter.
With the ringing in my ears slowly lessening, I glanced about for some necessities I’d got in mind: namely, the Des Ailes’ demolitionists. They ought be hereabouts still, somewhere nearer the bridgehead, maybe. Sneaking unsteadily thus towards the sounds of swelling water and splashing despair, I soon glimpsed a group of Nafílim faintly through the ash and dust. Curved shapes they held; must be bowmen, I thought, some of the many that’d shot and set off the ordnance earlier. But as if the explosion’s power had far exceeded their expectations, they were merely scrambling amidst the mirk, struggling to ascertain the situation and find leaders to report to; which must mean their chain of command had been cut, if just for the time being.
Lo! a Nafíl there was, lone and tottering behind his company, as if still dazed. At once, I dashed unto him. No need now for stealth, what with the air choked with dust and churning with cries; and coming close, I pounced upon his back.
“Gungh…!?” he yelped, falling face-down onto the ground. Quickly, I pinned his arms under my knees and wrapped my own right arm about his neck. And grabbing the back of his collar with my free hand, I altogether wrenched and wrung him tight. His neck was wholly pinched; at this rate, his senses would starve for blood.
“…kh…!? …gk… dh…!”
Tried as he might, no sound would leave his lips. Slowly but surely then, his body slackened; and in a moment, he swooned silent. Straightway, I unbelted and embezzled just what I’d needed from him: an arrow-quiver. But I required one more item yet.
Equipping the quiver, I glanced hurriedly about. It must be here somewhere. Nearer again to the bridge it was, maybe?
“…There you are.”
Through the dust, I spied it: a wooden crate. Or, that is, a veritable pile of them. These Nafílim had come prepared; one can never reckon so surely the powder needed to get the right “spark”, after all. At any rate, I dragged and hid the Nafíl’s insensate person behind the pile, before hauling one of the crates onto my shoulder. Quite heavy it was, and big, to boot: no smaller than a third of a passus to a side. Certainly not something for a man to lug alone, if only because it bites into the shoulder like it was doing now. But no time to complain: I needed next a steed.
Just then, I remembered the battle as it’d been before the blast, when horsed heralds had been riding up and down these banks and delivering orders to the artillery as to the dealing-with of our forders. It hadn’t been long since then; some of them ought still be here somewhere.
I strained my ears, listening through the throes of the battle. And then…
—Dumfh-dun-dumfh.
That was it: hoofs walking from behind the dust, and quite cautiously, at that. Couldn’t blame them, horse or rider, with things being so blind.
Thither then I crept, approaching from the side; and peering through hollows in the dust as I went, I spied the rider not riding, but pulling his horse along on foot. All or nothing now: bursting into a sprint, I careered and crashed unto him, crate and all. Visit NovelPing for the full chapter.
“Waagh!?” he cried, spilling sideways.
Swiftly now, I mastered the neighing horse and hoist myself onto its saddle. And wresting its reins with my free hand—“Yah, yah!”—I kicked the creature to a mad gallop. Off we raced, leaving its livid rider in the literal dust as we soon burst out into sudden, sunlit clarity. But relief was far off yet; jerking the reins, I drave the horse desperately upstream. My destination now: that dratted tributary.
In the meanwhile, I worked my thoughts. Emerging immediately to mind again was the map at yesternight’s war council. Thereupon, the tributary turned away from the main Erbelde and into hostile lands, the fork whereof lay not three mīllia from the bridge proper. That’s none too far; given this haste, I could make it soon yet.
But as for the tributary itself: it paled in comparison to its mother-stream, sure, but it was no mere trickle itself, either. Indeed, dam it, and its erstwhile waters really could, and would, swell the Erbelde to a washing white-water, in spite of the drought. Question is: why on earth hadn’t I heeded this before? From playing out the operation in my mind over and again, to sitting in on the very war council itself; the bedevilled detail had been staring at me in the face all along, but alas!
Nay, why hadn’t I considered the wit of our foes, to begin with? If even my dull pate could foresee the 1st sending an army over the waters, then surely had some Nafílim strategist done the same. Of course they’d answer our scheme with another.
Cursing my own stupidity, I spurred the steed to its fullest speed. Sweat ran. Worries mounted. Felicia, the forders… were they all yet holding tight? Yes, they were. They must be. Believe otherwise, and I might drown in despair myself.
There remained hope enough for it, gladly. The bridge was gone, and so no longer could the foe’s vehemence be diverted this way or that as before; but there was no need to, not with their chain of command now broken along its links by a confusion of their own making. If the forders could therefore be given back some footing, some bit of freedom, then they might be able to escape the waters yet, be it by pulling aback to the home banks, or pushing onwards to the enemy’s.
Newly resolved, I saw now the tributary coming into view, and withal the Nafílim earthworkers. Sparsely protected they were; doubtless had even the prescient strategists foreseen a swain, of all enemies, making this far into their turf.
—Ffeew, ffeew!
Arrows were whistling past; bow in hand, the earthworkers weren’t going to make this easy. No taking it easy for me either, then: stooping my head, I maintained both speed and course, till—
“Hnggrrh…!”
—my left shoulder jerked back, having taken a shaft straight on. Pain exploded. Vision shivered. But even as both of my shoulders agonised for one reason or another, still I pressed onwards.
Onwards, onwards—just a little further now! So thundered my thoughts, till the horse itself shrieked and shuddered, and blood spat in my face—a direct arrow had bored through the beast’s neck. With whipping violence, the poor animal then pitched forth and fell, casting its body unto the line of shooting earthworkers and scattering them. I was no better off: flung from the saddle, I crashed unto the dirt, spilling my quiver and crate. But with heart pounding, I pulled myself up, grabbed both a bolt and the box off the ground, and charged towards the tributary.
All my body boiled and bit with pain. The sudden unhorsing must have broken some bones. But that mattered not, as soon enough, I arrived at the steep banks overlooking the mouth of the tributary. Three or so passūs below me would its waters’ve been running, but for the countless sacks of sand now piled high all along its width. This was it: the accursed dam.
Swords next rang. The earthworkers were coming fast behind. Bracing both myself and the crate upon my shoulder, I leapt down unto the damming mound.
“Ernggh!” I groaned as I landed—or fell and fumbled, more like, being too beaten and battered for finesse. But what rather filled my mind was Felicia and her fellow forders holding themselves in fright against the fury of the river. Bear with me, everyone! Bear the Erbelde! Find the original chapter at novelping . com.
Struggling a bit further along, I dropped the crate plop down and glanced at my arrow. Fire-paper bound the base of its head, whilst a paint of phosphore yellowed its striker. Having “steeped deeply” in the books, such Nafílim weaponry proved easy enough to grasp: a bit of friction, and poof. And so straight along my sole I struck it, and fwomh! did the arrow flare aflame.
Good. Now, the crate. There’s no telling how packed it was therein. Were it stuffed to the gills, I might well end up blowing myself to bits directly upon jabbing this arrow in. But given even a small void, I might be allowed a moment’s mercy. Quickly then, I recalled the blast at the bridge, trying to reckon the time between arrow-strike and explosion. But at the last, I could not. Drat it, how useless could I be?
Anyway, no matter. Full or no, this arrow was going in; and if I must go with it… then very well.
Behind me up at the banks, the earthworkers had arrived. They shouted at me and between themselves; but upon spotting the flaming shaft in my hand and the crate at my feet, they shut up at once.
“Fancy some fireworks?” I’d thought to utter, when I did some shutting up myself. It’s one thing to gloat about blowing up some braves, but it’s another when I’m the one sooner to be seared steak.
Fearing any second thoughts, I brought the arrow stabbing down. Thump! it went, thrusting into the crate. And not a blink later, I plugged my ears and threw myself down into the diminished water. And right as I splashed in—
—Bworrng!!
A force fierce and fiery pushed all the water away. I remembered heat and wetness fighting, splashes and sparks rushing. I remembered being beaten down the riverbed by a shock of the air. I remembered roaring waters swallowing me again, its great swirls thrashing me as with a helpless hare in a hound’s hungry jaws.
What I saw next was greyness and graininess; the sacks of sand, being blown apart as I could only guess, had filled the frenetic flow with its muddy innards and came vomiting forth as something of an underwater landslide. Further swallowed into this turmoil, I continued careering along the rocking currents, flailing about like a leaf in a storm, and being rammed in the back over and again as if at the mercy of some bull gone mad. Or was it my belly that was being battered? I didn’t know. I couldn’t know. I knew not even where my limbs, my head, were, much less if they were attached still. All I felt was my body being wrung in one moment, and stretched every which way in another.
And I couldn’t breathe. And lest my eyes be gouged from their sockets, I dared neither to look any longer. Not that seeing would’ve done any good: no doubt was everything blinder than all the dust and smoke before.
Thus, breathless and sightless, I endured the spinning spate, as down, down, down the twisting tributary I tumbled, truly like a pebble amidst a sea of hoofs and feet. But I, the pebble, had now got one accomplishment to his name: despite all pain and peril, I had destroyed the tributary dam.
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Notes
Mīlle
(Language: Latin; plural: mīllia) Shortening of mīlle passūs. A unit of measure used by the ancient Romans; known as the “Roman mile”, it spanned 1,000 passūs in length. 1 kilometre is equal to 0.6757 of a mīlle. A mīlle, therefore, can be roughly equated to 1 and a half kilometres.
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.