The body crumpled. Dust sprang. Redness seeped. Struck by the felling of one of their own, the four other Fiefguardsmen turned to the offender—and once-thought ally. Their voices vaulted.

“W… wot’s th’meanin’ o’ this!?”

“Ye’ve sold yer sword t’the wrong side, ‘ireling! A backstabbin’ this is! ‘Gainst Crown an’ Country both!”

Sigmund spat in response. “I ain’t the dagger-man ‘ere!” he thundered in defiance. Then, thumping his chest, “Your Crown an’ Country’s wot’s done the stabbin’! An’ they’ve stab’d the wrong back!”

The pinnacle of pride, to so brand one’s birthland the sooner knifer. Holst could but hang his jaw in disbelief as he witnessed the warring words… and the weapons that danced thereafter.

“Die, treacher!!”

Unto Sigmund then sprang the Fiefguardsmen, like hounds loosed upon a lone prey.

Holst jolted at the sight. “No…!”

They were close—too close! Five were encircling Sigmund the instant he had entered the scene; four now thanks to his ambush, but that was no comfort. Falchions next fell upon him from every direction. Too late, thought Holst, but his body judged otherwise as, against all prudence, it sped desperately to avail this sudden ally.

But in a blink—“Fwegh!?”—spewed a yelp, yielded by a Fiefguardsman. Hammering into the soldier’s face was the hilt of Sigmund’s sword; crushed was his nose, shattered were his teeth, as to the ground he fell and fainted. And yet the violence was hardly finished, for that same sword had already found new flesh for its feast.

“Khraagh!?” came the next scream from a now crumpling corpse.

He had been well-surrounded, Sigmund. But a mere second, and he had hewn the danger down to half. Such fleet fury affrighted the remnant foes, stopping them in their tracks. Sigmund seized the moment and let loose another lunge of his sword.

“Rrruaahh!” he roared, full-rending another Fiefguardsmen.

In desperation, or perhaps some half-hearted vengeance, the very last foe-blade plunged down upon Sigmund’s side. And so up soared his own to slap it away, before galing down to gore through his final mark.

“Khagh…!” Thus expired the last of the waylayers; thus ended the flash of a fight. Five Fiefguardsmen, made as meal for the worms in a wisp of a moment.

Frantically had Holst offered his succour, but it had proved a fool’s errand. So soon was the victory, so daunting the strength on display, that he was left standing speechless. Still, before he could blush from his blunder, Holst found himself pierced by an epiphany.

Indeed it was succour that he had offered.

Yet to whom but Sigmund.

A son of Man.

“Tch!” so struck that son’s tongue; pity—teetering on indignance—darkened his eyes. He looked all through the escapees, finding not few of them to be: “…Gammers an’ gaffers, innit…” he ruesomely muttered. “…Bloody ‘ell.”

Sigmund then pointed his thumb aback at the unbarred gate. Seeing his signal, the braves and captives both began moving at once. But as he watched them, the sword-for-hire noticed something amiss.

Stopping Holst amidst the fleeing file, he cried, “Oi! Where’s that Rolf Bug-muncher gone, ah?”

“B-bug…? H-he fights, if you wonder,” the Staffelhaupter answered, half-confused for a moment. “Mighty marks remain amongst the enemy yet. Rolf faces one of them as we speak.”

Marks mighty and more; in speaking of them did Holst recall the young sorceress who had been standing in wait outside the bastille. Her conduct, her confidence… a glimpse of her and he knew at once: she was not to be trifled with. Equally so with the Östberg siblings, who were as yet unencountered and uncontested. Indeed, upon this battlefield there still prowled foes most formidable, but whose living breaths were a barrier to the Nafílim cause.

“Hmph,” Sigmund scoffed, content. “Good.”

“You mean to aid him?” Holst asked in turn, and nigh-naturally, at that. But of course he did, for he now saw in Sigmund an ally—and as well, a saviour. Of the boy to be sacrificed, of the braves and captives here; a Man risking life and livelihood for whom but the nemeses of his realm—the same realm against which now burned his flame of rebellion.

“Hah! That bull o’ a blade needs no ‘and-’oldin’!” snorted Sigmund, recalling the ungraced. “Well, methinks, at least.”

“…I see.”

Holst felt then some relief. The reason: this same Sigmund had once measured swords with Rolf. And so surely must he know well of Rolf’s prowess. After all, songs of clashing steel oft reveal of the wielders what words cannot.

Regardless, Rolf’s battle with the sorceress was naught the Staffelhaupter himself could avail. But just as the wolfsteel warrior had his own task to tackle, so did Holst, one now nearing completion: with “help” from his late brother, the captives were secured and in tow. All that was left was to quit the camp and leave the rest of the battle to the Nafílim army.

Spurred by the thought, Holst then hurried after the others, but before a foot of his could fall, a stampede rumbled anew in the distance. His ears pricked, his stomach turned—more Fiefguardsmen were on the way.

“Come back ‘ere, ye curs!” This, and many like lines littered the air as filing fast from the bastille precinct were fresh pursuers. Eight was their count, each with eyes bloodshot from sheer foeship.

“They’re many, Herr Holst! Over-many!” warned a brave.

“Away at once! All of you!” Holst commanded.

To safety must these captives be escorted. Only, safety was nowhere in sight, not even in Sigmund’s shadow, not even far beyond the service gate where other allies stood in wait, ready to receive them. No, these chasers wanted the captives dead, and only dead, and seemed all too fain to follow it through to a bitter end. Even from afar, such intent was evident on their mad mien.

And so must they be stopped. Shouldering the shepherd’s charge, Holst turned away.

“I’ll hold them off,” he declared, and faced the fast-approaching Fiefguard. But as though to steal his thunder, now eclipsing his view of them was Sigmund, stepping brazenly forth.

“No you won’t,” said the mercenary. “Get shoggin’. These cullions’re mine to cut.”

Compelled by his conviction, the other braves quickly rounded up the cowed captives and began their way to the service gate. In their departure, not few from the group offered timid thanks to the thunderfall of a Man. Holst remained, watching Sigmund’s figure in silence.

Seeing their Staffelhaupt stolid, one of the braves pressed him, “Herr! We’ve no time!”

“Indeed we haven’t…” Holst said at last, before turning a glance to his comrades. “…The captives, I leave in your care.”

“…What!?”

The other braves gaped, but their leader was set. Holst ventured forth his own steps, and there stood beside Sigmund.

To which up bent a brow of the brute. “Mate. They’re mine, I said.”

“That you did. And that they are. Still…”

Still were the foes superior in number. Still was ill-faded the fates’ humour. And should their dice fall to Sigmund’s woe…

…then must I offer him the saving throw—my sword!

Something, somewhere deep in Holst’s heart, roused those very words.

He had thought of it mere moments before, that not all Men deserved disdain. Such Men as Rolf. Such Men… as Sigmund. Verily had the mercenary wagered his life for the braves and their charges. And verily had Holst hastened to aid him—to aid a Man.

In this very moment was something stirring in the Staffelhaupt’s soul. Something dear, something precious beyond all price. A sprout, neither to be neglected nor crushed afoot. No, it was to be cherished and nurtured strong. Holst knew this not. He saw this not. But he sensed it nonetheless. And that was enough.

Enough to spur his steps to the fray and unfurl his newfound resolve.

“…This sword might avail you yet, son of Man.”

Eyes and words unclouded. Blade and body unquivering. Met with such a mien, Sigmund could but grin.

“Hmph,” he huffed. “Big ballocks you’ve got, mate.”

‘That you do, Brother.’

So echoed a voice in Holst’s ears.

∵

A dozen laid dead about me.

Fiefguardsmen, mercenaries—their blood running off my blade.

This vicinity’s defences had proven dense enough. No doubt, then, that anear loomed their highest leaders. Thinking of them, I trained my eyes up to their possible perch: the top of the watchtower.

What wounds the Kōkūtós had wrought upon me yet remained, but were mended enough to endeavour combat. And so, trusting my braves with their duty in the bastille, I had taken it upon myself to steal further into this foe-den and seek out the Zaharte commanders.

Viola and Theodor Östberg—their undoing should serve the headstones to this battle, and by all means must I have them hewn. As though to answer my conviction, afore me appeared the siblings themselves: vernal in visage and vigour, descending the tower with leisurely steps. It seemed they meant to welcome my arrival—with spears glinting in their grips.

“Swift comes the storm, I see,” so resounded the sister’s voice. “Welcome, withersake. You behold afore you the twin heads of Zaharte: Viola myself, and my brother, Theodor. What say you before you are no more?”

“I say: a pleasure, this meeting,” I answered, “and an honour besides—to finally cross blades with you both.”

No lie was upon my lips. Any warfaring soul ought know of these two, and so was this momentous meeting truly a treasure to a wayside soldier as I.

A pity that it would be our last.