Fiefguard eyes flickered with expectation. Swivelling to the voice’s source, there the Men found the Zaharte challenger strutting through their parting press, his simper steeped in pride.

“‘Air an’ eyes, dim as dusk—the ‘ulkin’ berk ‘imself!” he shouted above the boil of battle, before raising a swordpoint in my direction. “Rolf, the turn-ed wolf!”

To him I gave a narrowed gaze. “Who speaks?”

“You ungraced gudgeon, you!!” he shouted on disregardfully. “That there grubby fingers stain the fine art o’ swordplay, they does!! Time to school you in real slicery!” Quite the self-absorbed simian, this man—or a scullion soused from endless ale. Then, without ceremony: “Ssrryahh!”

A shriek, and off he shot straight my way, his sword swung from on high. I met him with one of my own, batting sharp silver away with black steel.

─Ghheen! Khaeen!

One, two more exchanges, each stinging our ears. Practice guided his swings. Power girded his sword. An adept of the blade he was, much more so than the Fiefguard rabble gathered about us—Zaharte’s fame truly feigned no fluke. On and on he thrashed as I guarded in turn, backing gradually away whilst measuring his mettle.

“Hyoh! Hyah!” he huffed along with every hew. “Better start bitin’ back, shag! ‘Fore I nip that there neck o’ yers right clean!”

No doubt, then: this dastard really was inebriated, but from bottles of a different brew—the cider of supremacy, the rotgut of renown as the ungraced’s slayer-to-be. Next did we each venture a spirited swing, and as our blades bit and locked:

“Rolf! Our swords are yours!”

There: a cry from my comrades as they rallied to me, arms ready.

With a heave, I pushed away my opponent. “Nay, keep them! They’ll serve you better soon enough!” I answered. Though their succour was full-appreciated, more pressing was the mission at hand. The bastille loomed a long way off yet, and here we were, hemmed in still from all sides, having hastened deep into hostile ground. Any mind taken from self-protection was a peril beyond the price of this silly duel.

“As you will,” one of my braves conceded. “But your back is ours to guard!”

“Then you have it,” I nodded. “My thanks.”

Off the five then flew to fend off the mobs of Fiefguardsmen, leaving me to dance with the Zaharte hellion unharried. Volker had chosen well: these braves were both capable and unclouded in scrying the course of this chaos. Comforted, I refocused upon my opponent, finding him snickering at the situation.

“Hyeheh! Warm chums with the witch-churls, ain’t ya? Eh, ungraced!?” he remarked, sword readied again.

Were I to fell him here now, the rest of the rabble should follow—a pinhole to sink the ship, as it were. Mulling the thought, I readied my own weapon, triggering a charge from my foe.

“Yeeaaagh!” he shrieked, letting fly his sword in flailing slashes. The crescendo of clashing metals continued along with my vigilant defence. As he pushed forth, so did I pace back, a detail not lost to the Fiefguard lookers-on:

“Lo! The Zaharte master’s got the higher hand, he does!”

“Yea, that’s it! Chop ‘im t’chunks, ser! Ehyeheh!”

Their jeering cheers seemed a wind in my foe’s sails, for as his ears drank their words, his eyes glimmered anew with battle-glee, his blade biting and barking with greater brutality. Dashing his weapon away with a sweep of the soot-steel, I shifted to the high guard for a reprisal.

─Ghosshr! Ghakh!

A one-two blast of banging blades—my twice-swung offence, foiled by my foe just in the nick of time. And it showed: sweat shone on his brows, his breaths heaved heavily. Though going by his up-curled smirk, that inflated pride of his remained unpunctured.

“‘E’s got th’book full-read, mates! It be over now!”

“They’re somethin’ else, innit? These Zaharte blokes!”

More applause from the Fiefguard grunts, each word further stoking my opponent’s spirits. Clear on his flustered face was a delight dancing more boldly than before.

“Heheh…” he smirked again. “…Well? Ready fer the checkmate, lad?”

Leisurely, he lifted his sword to the centre guard as a fisher looses his line into the depths. I bit the bait, bolting in just as he’d hoped. Grinning still, my foe slipped into a defensive stance, full-intent on a deft deflection and a deathblow following.

But this prey had humoured the predator for long enough.

Into the ground: a thunder-stamp of my foot, accelerating my charge to a speed beyond the sellsword’s answering. Wolfsteel then howled forth—

—shhdofh!—

—and hewed open my mark’s bosom, bone and breastplate both.

“Eah…?”

Hitherto had I feigned feeble-swordedness to this foe of mine, showing him swings and thrusts a mite milder than what his mettle could handle—a ploy oft played upon opponents of inferior skill not unlike he. Cast aside the cloak and reveal my full vehemence, however, and no longer could he keep up. Indeed, never did he seem a risk worth much regard, but this was a battlefield: all risks must be minded. For him, I merely obliged.

“W-wha…? O-ohhkh…” he gasped, utterly perplexed till his expiration. As his limp body spilt unto the dust, the surrounding Fiefguardsmen collectively recoiled.

There—our chance.

“The way’s open!” I cried, raising high the sword of soot. “Break through, break through!”

“Ooo───oouhh!!”

Heeding my call, the Nafílim ranks roared and rushed forth altogether. Sighting the change from far off, Volker answered with a cry of his own.

“Staffeln Two and Three! Retrieve the wounded and draw back!” thundered his timely command. “Staffel Six! Advance, advance!”

Like currents cutting new courses, a great bustle was roused as braves flowed to and fro. Knowing the gate vicinity was too narrow to host our forces in full, we had ourselves split into disparate Staffeln beforehand for this battle; now as some withdrew from the fray, others joined in…

“We’ve waited for this!”

…with Lise and her own braves being one of them. With lightning immediacy befitting their leader, Lise’s Staffel filled the void and broke out fighting. Forces, drawing back and joining in—such was our strategy, that we might never show our foe a faltering in our numbers, not even for a moment.

“Haa—ah!” cried Lise, gusting through like a whirlwind, her two longdaggers dancing and dicing through Fiefguard flesh. Hers was a flair for the offensive flurry, of swings and scythings carried out with fleet frequency—a performance proving frighteningly effective in such close-quarters chaos as we were.

“Uaagh!?”

The screams of Men resounded as bit by bit their number yielded dear ground. Discerning their new despair, I turned with fresh orders for my five braves.

“Ready up! This is it!” I cried. “We push through! All the way to the bastille!”

“Aye!” they returned in unison, and at once we charged straight into the enemy ranks. Lise’s longdaggers continued their lethal lashings, eating away at the Fiefguard line like a gouging gale.

“Tyah!”

“Sseh!”

My braves lacked naught in their own prowess. Their blades maimed and mowed down the unnerved Men, forcing forth the frontline like a steady and unstoppable tide.

“There, the left wing! Cut through! Now, now!!” so vaulted Volker’s orders. Indeed, the Fiefguard’s left flank was greatly thinned, having been eviscerated by Lise’s blades. Spying the opportunity, our forces washed in at once, but not before letting loose a mighty roar.

“Ooouuhh!!”

Another moment, and like a dam bursting open, the Fiefguard ranks gave against the weight of our offensive. The pinhole was now a gaping split, into which our number began to pour—a river, bristling with blades and bellowing voices; a torrent teasing out of the Men many a scream.

“Oaaggh!!”

“Fall back! Fall back an’ regroup!!”

Resistance was impossible against such a stampede; ill-able to maintain their line, the Fiefguardsmen broke ranks and scattered back. At last: the gate area was fully wrested. The way unbarred, our army of braves began storming the camp, where awaited new numbers of Fiefguard and Zaharte fighters alike. Horns blared to have them readied, but to our ears, it sooner sounded a heralding of the imminent end of this margravate of Ström.