Volume 3 - CH 5.9

“Holst” was his name.

Vílungen brave and able-armed Staffelhaupt, here upon the battle at Arbel’s concentration camp was he found not fighting amidst the fray, but accompanying Rolf Buckmann in breaking into the bastille, that they might rescue the Nafílim captives within. Only half a handful of other braves were bolstering their number, but that was just as well, for the bastille vicinity was vastly vacated of foes, who had long left their posts to join the battle.

One enemy, however, stood in wait. Taking it upon himself to deal with this lone opponent, Rolf bade Holst and the others hasten ahead and see their task to its end. They could but trust in his strength, and so obligingly entered the bastille without his further succour.

Inside, too, did they find little resistance. After making quick work of the few guards remaining within, Holst and his comrades wrested a ring of keys and swiftly set free all the captives they could find. Scarce more than a score were saved, each soul withered and weakened to a degree, the worst of whom were to be healed by the lǣċe amongst the liberators. It was during this lull that Holst then paid care to the faces of the freed.

Civilians. That was all they were. Meek and innocent folk. Men and women, young and old. A miracle! Holst inly rejoiced. Oh, a miracle, indeed. For how many more were already lost to waste and woe? How many more sent away with coin-lusting slavers? How many executions? Inexplicable sinnings? Unexplained corpses?

Too many. Far, far too many. That twenty and more yet lived, then, was truly a miracle. In this, Holst found some solace. Yet such solace ill-supported his sagging shoulders.

“Marko” was his name.

Younger brother to Holst, and just the same, a soldier to a Hensenite host. But half a winter prior, pale tidings were brought.

‘…Marko… is captured…’

So reported a brave to a dumbstruck Holst at that time.

Unlike his Staffelhaupt of a brother, Marko was ever a timid soul, sorting little with his pluckier and more proven peers. ‘…Were I only as strong as you, Brother…’ he would oft confess to Holst. And thus never could Marko have made a mighty stand against his Fiefguard captors as they cuffed him in chains at the end of an ill-starred skirmish.

That same Marko was not here.

Not amongst the captives. Not in the gaols, nor the dungeons—nowhere in the bastille.

Much can happen in half a year. Holst knew as much. Yet he held on to hope, however hopeless it might have seemed. But to see the gaols now all empty of his gentle brother proved a heavy weight upon his heart.

Would that Marko were simply sold away, and to this moment, was making the best of his lorn lot as a thrall. Perhaps upon a field cutting crops, or spading mounds of manure, or even serving some domestic household, setting tables or tending a garden. Such was Holst’s next hope. But more probable still was that Marko had indeed passed in this pitiful place.

At this, Holst frowned.

And Marko smiled.

…If only in the sombre mind of his elder brother.

“Marko…?” came a whisper. “Is it you, Marko…?”

Startled, Holst looked up from his dark thoughts. There he found afore him one of the captives: a frail yet summer-yeared fellow of a Nafíl. But almost as soon as their eyes met, the fellow himself was startled in turn before bowing down dejectedly.

“O… oh… f-forgive me,” he stammered. “Of course not. Of… of course not…”

“Marko is my brother,” Holst revealed. “You know of him?”

“His brother…? Ah… I-I see…” the fellow said, his voice slowed by some sudden hesitation. From it, Holst guessed the worst.

“…Tell me,” he nonetheless implored. “What became of him?”

After a heavy moment, “…Marko… has joined the winds.”

At the very least, Holst had half-steeled himself for such a revelation. Still, he could scarce stop his vision from vaulting, his legs from going limp, his heart from sinking to his stomach, when Marko’s fate had found his ears at last. But this was yet a battlefield, and he a soldier. And thus somehow did Holst manage to keep himself on his feet.

Oh, Marko.

Dear Marko.

My gentle, crybaby brother Marko.

How worried you made me when you followed in my footsteps.

How proud you made me when you revealed your resolve.

Marko…

Once more, Holst frowned and furrowed every corner of his face, that he might dam his tears before their coursing. But amidst the failing effort, he found himself surrounded asudden by not few of the captives.

“A kin…?” one said. “A kin of Marko…?”

“For true,” another whispered. “Lo—how alike be his eyes!”

“G-good Herr!” yet another spoke, now directly to Holst. “Your kin, Marko—I owe much to him! To dear, dear Marko…!”

“…Owe…?” Holst wondered aloud, puzzled by this development. He then looked to the fellow who had first approached him.

“Marko gave us hope,” was his explanation. “Saved us he has, each and every one.”

What followed were accounts of Holst’s humble brother. Of his life here at the concentration camp. Of his one simple, yet dauntless and enduring deed, undared by any other: that of giving hope when no hope was to be had.

‘…All right, a hundred points this time…!

…Should next to come ‘round

‘…Ah, I know your face…!

…From that village

three Meilen down from Hensen…!

Broke my heart you did once

when I was a wee boy…!’

‘…Not to worry…!

…We have our lives yet…!

…We have each other…!

…Things’ll look up

as long as we do…!’

‘…No no…! That can’t be the bald-pate…!

…Lo… he yet has a lawn on him…!

…Well… more a tangle of weeds…

…But still…!

Such things he had sunnily said to his cellmates, at any time he had guessed the turnkeys to be out of earshot. Oh, what mirth he had shown, unshaded by mirk or misery. What wideness of heart, to share his words even with those too coldened for conversation. But with time, those very words had begun to warm the ice in their spirits, till dawned the day his mirth was gladly returned.

Yet never long does any dawn go without gloam.

Eventually, to Marko came a quotidian malady. Unseen to, his strength began to wane day after day till his very last. But in that time, not once had his mirth quit his mien. Not once had he given up on giving hope.

“Long lost, left to quail in our corners—such was our sure lot, had Marko never helped us,” so concluded the Nafílim fellow.

In Holst’s ears, heard was every word. Welling up in his bosom were springs of emotion, each turning to tears he could no longer stay. He knew it then: Marko was strong. Stronger than he. Stronger than anyone could have ever known.

Not every battle bears meaning. Not every cause is commendable. But Marko’s was a worthy fight. Into that fray had he flung his whole being, and in so doing, saved his fellow sufferers. But not yet was the fight finished, for Holst swore anew to send safely home the very souls Marko had saved.

The deed of one brother, endeavoured till death.

A torch taken up by the other, to see it done to the very last.

“Herr Holst, the healing is finished!” reported the lǣċe.

Scrubbing away his tears, Holst exhaled deeply and turned to the huddled captives. “Now we must move. Come!” he commanded. Activity buzzed anew. Taking point, the braves began guiding the captives through the corridors. But then, the walls flashed. “Down, down!” Holst cried.

Heads cowered. Heat screamed. Shooting over them was a spitfire of a spear: the Lancea Calōris spell, bursting into brilliant flames as it crashed into the brickwork. The air gusted, the passage pealed, the captives wailed. Through the noise barked the voices of Men.

“Not so fast! It’s here or hell for you devils!”

“Let’s ‘ave ‘em bound, boys! Lop off ‘em limbs, if need be!”

“A… a fine sh-shield they’ll make! Heheh! H-hurry, lads! It’s home soon for us!”

Aface the fleeing Nafílim now was a file of Fiefguardsmen, few in number, but frantic all the more. From their words, these Men were come for hostage-taking—a final bid to quit this ill-fought battle with their lives.

Not amongst them did Holst sense a leader. Deserters they were, having severed themselves from command to cut their own course… but in the deed their dignity had decayed into desperation, their once-sound judgement now rotted down to an insanity, as made evident by their bulging, bloodshot eyes.

These Men were lost, then. And lost as they were, surely would they…

‘…seek solace above all… But allowed none… they will find it where they can… even from the death-wails of innocents… as though to crave companions on their way to hell…’

Rolf’s prophetic words, ringing clear now in Holst’s ears. A most-sound decision, then, to have endeavoured this rescue right in the midst of battle. Had he arrived but a moment later, surely would Holst have found the captives all slain out of delirium and desperation.

No. Best save such thoughts for later, when all swords are sheathed and the captives safe and sound.

Watch well, Marko! Your brother fights your battle now!!

So inly cried Holst, as with bared steel he flew into the Fiefguard ranks.

∵

“Hahh… hhah…”

Holst panted heavily amidst the sudden silence.

“Quick, now,” he urged the others, “to the east exit!”

They had numbered five, the Fiefguard foes, an equal count to Holst and his comrades. But having to fight with one hand, whilst protecting the captives with the other, surely should have found the braves direly disadvantaged. A solace, then, that they were as honed and cohesive as they were, hand-picked for this precarious mission, and thus unmatched by Mennish rabble in their madness.

Still, the victory left the braves spent and scathed. But comforted by nary a casualty on their part, they resumed their extraction of the captives from the bastille. The escape went apace; soon the escorts and their escortees emerged out into the open, and with speed and softness, stole through the camp towards the eastern service gate.

“Blessings upon you braves,” one amongst the file uttered; to wit, the fellow who had first heralded to Holst’s ears the fate of Marko. “We thought ourselves forgotten, fated to die deep in this Mennish place. Yet here we are…”

Indeed, that the captives had kept lit the candle of hope was much due to Marko’s good spirits. But never had any amongst them dared imagine that such a day as this would ever dawn. A woe well-warranted. This was Arbel, after all, a fief-burgh and fortress-defended fastness of Men. And where were they but deep in the dark crannies of a concentration camp, left locked and forever lost. Though they could scarce believe it, Marko truly did have the right of it: things were finally looking up.

Such disbelief was shared by Holst himself. Tell this tale to him a week prior and he would have passed it off as some pitiful fancy. But just five days—five—found that fancy bearing fruit, fostered by whose hands but those of a Man. In the course of their escape did Holst turn his mind to that selfsame soul.

Rolf—his was the semblance of an adversary but the sword of an ally. Recalling his duel against the Zaharte hireling, Holst reckoned that blackblade of his to be brandished with deep resolve, and to a mastery unreachable by common rigour.

Hatred was in Holst, to be sure. Hatred for the Fiefguard that gave Marko his death. Hatred for Men and their malignity. And shame was in him for nurturing such hatred, but it was little helped—not till the coming of Rolf, that is. In remembering this Man did Holst have new hope for Men, that perhaps all of their number need not be hated.

Yet it seemed irony was the fates’ favoured toy for this day, as appearing now were the very sort of Men that Holst so hated: Fiefguardsmen, lying in wait at the service gate itself.

“‘Ere come th’chickens! Flyin’ from th’coop!” one of them jeered.

Holst clenched his teeth. “Curses!”

Five, too, were the foes here. But advantage was now on the side of Men: all the combat had left Holst and his comrades drained, and out in the open as they were, there was neither shade nor shelter with which to shield their escortees.

A dire situation. Would that help were on the way. From beyond the service gate, some valiant souls, perhaps, who might avail them and pincer off these waylaying Men. So wished Holst. But wishes were just that: wishes.

But in wishing did Holst spy a happening—

—the service gate, breaking open with a bang!

Only, coming through it was yet another Man.

Why!? Holst howled inside. Why so foul a fate!?

He stood there, stunned and sapped of spirit. But as he kept watching the woe unfold, his eyes flickered at some familiarity in what they beheld.

That Man.

Once before had Holst seen his face.

“Hwogh!?”

A low, guttural groan from a Fiefguardsman. Blood splattered. Sharpness shimmered. Flashing in the sun: the sword of wild Sigmund.