Chapter 123: Mortadella
Neville put Luc in charge of the archers; Pierre was in command of the cavalry, while Germon and Bojet led the infantry. The Frontier lancers flanked Chambert’s forces. Neville borrowed the Frontier archers and put them on board the red war train.
The first to chow up in the valley was a black woman with grey eyes, no iris. She held a man by the hand. He was old and his veins sprung up like ropes. He trembled and murmured:
‘But I have no fangs.’
‘We are going to kill,’ saidErla. ‘We’re going to win, and then be reborn. The world will be ours.’
‘A world with no fangs.’
*
In the Hidden Tower of Chambert, Fregósbor made tea.
‘I can’t make it as well as Yukari, you know? But I don’t like tea when it’s really well made. It’s too bitter. An unacquired taste, I’m afraid. I don’t make it strong. And I put honey in it. A lot of honey. I like honey. Do you?’
Erla’s death reached out and moved its fingers over the tea vapour. The immaterial fingers got mixed with the vapour and danced. Erla’s death tilted its head, somewhat delighted with the ballet. It wore a veil, which fell down from head to toes in a foggy cascade.
Fregósbor said he didn’t like to call her “Erla’s Death” because it was too impersonal. “Death” alone was too generic. He mumbled for a while, trying it in other languages. Morte de Erla. Mort D’Erla. Then he anounced with pomp that he would, from then on, call her:
‘Mortadella. Have some tea, Mortadella. Set your curiosity free.’
*
Marcus didn’t lead the march from Sananssau to the Mouth of War.
‘You know the ways better than me or any of my people,’ he said to the Frontier Messengers.
Menior and Fulion chose to avoid the Mouth and went around the darkness on the east, coming down farther from where Fabec once stood. Vivianne saw Farheim and Inlang emerge from the Mouth like a swarm.
Marcus positioned his men on the hill. Higher ground was a small comfort against the number of warriors the Mouth was vomiting, but Marcus didn’t think of defeat. He was the type of person who, even alone against fourteen thousand, would fight to win. On the other hand, he wasn’t blind, nor a fool. There were more enemies than space in front of him, and still the Mouth spit out warriors.
*
The red train soared once more over the enemy line. The Frontier archers killed without being hit. Every time the Eliana flew by, Farheim and Inlang were in chaos.
On the grouns, even the northern warrios, used to the bites of winter and darkness, were afraid of those two burnt men. Germon and Bojet were monsters with their teeth bared, as well as their skin. They wore no armour, not shirt. Dragon fire hadn’t killed them, they weren’t afraid of mortal weapons.
The Frontier advanced as a block. When the front line was spent, they moved back and gave room to another line of lancers, which moved on like a steamroller.
Pierre tore up the enemy army with Nakamura’s Chinese sword.
Then Erla dove alone into the Franish forces, causing a wave of death. Erla wielded darkness empunhava trevas. Her attacks were War’s jaws biting Franária. Olivier crawled with her, cluthing Erla’s waist, his eyes shut. But she moved with superhuman speed and power, sliding away from his fingers.
‘I have no fangs. I have no claws. All the women in my life belong to War.’
*
Vivianne saw Lucille at the crest of the hill. The mystery girl turned her face to Vivianne. A soft wind stirred the fox coloured hair, throwing locks over the honey coloured eyes.
‘I’ll not die today,’ Vivianne murmured.
Marcus took his sister’s hand. He turned to the warriors of Lune and the Frontier.
‘I will not die today,’ he told them.
He unsheathed his sword and the soldiers did the same. Vivianne thought her brother was going to make a speech, but he just stood on the stirrups, raised his sword and smiled a boyish smiles that reminded Vivianne of Pierre.
The soldiers raised their swords and laughed. It was laughing that they rode to battle. Vivianne moved to the back, to Lucille’s left, though Lucille stayed far from the battle. Vivianne regretted never learning to use a sword. Adelaide would have ridden in front of her soldiers, but Vivianne had to stay behind.
She could feel the enemy hesitating when they saw that bunch of laughing people descending upon them.
The battle began. Laughs became cries of war, then cries of death.
*
‘And cake,’ said Fregósbor. ‘You can’t have tea without cake. These are almond cake, these are pistachio and those are raspberry cakes.’
Mortadella held a pistachio cake with the tip of all five fingers. Neither she nor the mage found it strange that the little death now had solid.
*
Black wooden tentacles caged the creature of darkness. Erla thrashed about, breaking, tearing and killing the tree with darkness. The tree twriled away from the Franish army, tearing Erla from the battle, but it lost nearly all its branches and its roots began to wither.
The tree fell to the ground, its trunk split in two. Erla got rid of the last twigs and threw herself back into battle.
A black arrow pierced her shoulder. Erla tried to take another step, another arrow hit her chest.
*
The Deranians fought bravely. Fulion’s Frontierpeiple seemed to wield death instead of swords. Fast, efficient, merciless. And the Mouth puked more and more equally merciless enemies over them. Fulion kept her fighters close to Marcus’ but their lines faded quickly.
Vivianne, paid close attention to the horizon. She expected Pierre at any moment. Where was he? Lucille seemed unworried in the distance, but she was a Mystery. She wasn’t going to die.
*
‘It’s strange, isn’t it, Mortadella?’ asked Fregósbor. ‘You are a death without a dead and I am a dead without a death. But I can’t complete you and you can’t show me the way.’
*
Neville had five arrows left. From where he was, far from the battle, holding darkness away with arrows — four arrows — he saw the man who ran away from the fight.
Three arrows.
The man who had no fangs.
Two arrows.
The poisonous man with no fangs.
One arrow.
Neville turned his bow.
Erla jumped on Neville.
Olivier once said that bows and arrows are for cowards.
And thus a coward died with Neville’s last arrow.
Erla was mid jump when Olivier fell. He didn’t make a sound. Just fell down like a used rag. Erla, with twelve arrows on her body, was in the air. Olivier was on the ground. With a snap of black wood, Neville’s tree spun and hit Erla with its split trunk. Erla rolled away. She did not come back.
A victory cry rose in Anuré Valley.
A Franish cry of victory.
*
Vivianne’s horse was restless. She saw Menior in a sea of enemies, fighting alone, his blade was pure blood, wach strike a death, but Menior was swallowed in a quicksand of steel. His horse fell and the messenger was gnawed by enemy swrods.
And the South remained silent, the horizon quiet.
Vivianne wanted to cry for Lucille to help; didn’t she see Deran dying right under her nose? Only then she noticed, even in the distance she notice, that Lucille was crying.
*
With her new fingers, Mortadella dug into the cake and picked a raspberry. She removed all the cake from around the rspberry and brought the little red berry close to her mouth.
Mortadella had a mouth. And a tongue. The strawberry was sweet and sour. It tickled against her teeth.
‘Here.’ Fregósbor gave her a bowl full of ripe raspberries.
*
Lucille cried. She had no pwer. She wasn’t Nuille.
That man, Marcus. Lucille knew she had met him. He should survive, but not everything that should be is. She also knew that in some point of her life she had loved that man. How she loved him, she couldn’t remember. So much time had passed since she started travelling with Nuille, that Lucille had forgotten Marcus’ features, that she loved him, that he existed.
How many others had she forgotten?
*
Mortadella reached out to the window and tasted the sun.
*
Help didn’t come from the South, it came form the Rock. With a formation of na arrow, the Rock soldiers pierced the enemy’s flank and, before the norhterners knew what was going on, the base of the arrow expanded and shaped itself into a half moon. One ot the corners reached Marcus, uniting the two armies.
If Vivianne hadn’t seen it, she wouldn’t have believed how fast it all happened. She recognized the royal armor and allowed herself a moment to be impressed. She had never thought Clément capable of commanding an army. The enemy got confused with Clément’s manouver, and Lune’s soldiers got a chance to regroup with the Frontier messengers. The attacked before the northerners had time to react. Vivianne clutched her horse’s hair. They had a chance of winning this.
*
Mortadella opened her mouth and drank in the wind. It tasted like grass, sun and bees. Raspberries.
*
Because they were pirates, Vivianne had always imagined Farheim and Inlang were chaotic, but they were experienced soldiers. They recovered and forced the Rock to retreat, then they surrounded it.
Deran fell back, the northerners managed to break them in smaller groups and surround them. They were like waves kitting rock. Each wave bit away a piece of the rock. Vivianne saw Fulion joining Marcus and Clément, the three of them fighting ferociously. People dying.
Dying.
Dying.
A rider’s silhouette appeared in the South.
The horse reared, the rider rose his double bladed sword, which caught the sun.
‘Pierre,’ whispered Vivianne.
Behind him, the red train rose up in the sky, flying over Pierre’s head. He charged. A warcry followed Pierre and the war train, Chambert’s warriors flooded the road.
A black tree emerged. It was split and it seemed to limp, but it was hungry for death.
The enemy had not expected na attack from the South, na attack from the air, a tree. Their rear had to turn around to defend themselves, pushing the front too fast to the Deranian swords. Farheim and Inlang were now outnumbered, disorganized and confused. Pierre’s troops methodically advanced, arrows rained down from the train. The northerners fell.
Vivianne closed her eyes. They were saved.
The wind changed direction, a shadow ripped the sky, and Vivianne heard the rumbling of na igneous throat. Soldiers from every army scattered like dust; waves of people and steel.
The dragon landed.
Vivianne recognized her own death beside one of the red dragon’s claws. It wasn’t the first time she saw her death, or the dragon. She had survived it all once, and it hadn’t been luck that protected her: it was Sáeril.
‘Wraith, where are you?’
‘I’m here, little one.’
Marcus tried to organized his fleeing soldiers, sending them in Vivianne’s direction. He looked back, at the dragon. Many minutes had passed, why didn’t it attack? Maybe it was waiting for Farheim and Inlang to retreat, then it would spit death only on Franish warriors.
Marcus saw a bubble in the human chaos, like the eye of a storm. The bubble went closer to the dragon. Its center was a black wraith.
Darkness formed a wall around the dragon. Sáeril Quepentorne went straight to it. He was wielding — what was that? Na acorn?
War had already been singed with the power in that seed. This time, it was prepared.
Marcus of how small the Wraith looked. How frail. Vivianne and Marcus had already lost so much. Were they to lose another father?
The armies retreated but didn’t go away. They stopped at a distance they thought sace to look, hypnotized by dragon and Mystery mage. Magic, death and Mysteries have this power of attracting even though fear pushes us away.
Everything happened very slowly before Vivianne’s eyes. Her Wraith so close to danger, and now Marcus. What was her brother doing? Why did he turn his horse away from her?
Then she understood: he was going to help the Wraith.
No!
Vivianne rode to her brother, even knowing that she would never reach him in time. With the corner of her eye she noticed something swift, a fox tail whipping in the air.
The dragon pounced. The ground shook. Something slow whirled around Vivianne and got stuck to her hair. It was the wind. It blew absurdly slow; flags and clothes stretched and stayed stretched. Marcus’ horse neighed and the sound hovered over the beast’s head. Magic and darkness surrounded one another like old tigers. Vivianne couldn’t control her horse as well as Marcus. She desmounted and followed her brother on foot.
Black fog covered the dragon like a cloak while he opened his mouth exposing the fire inside his throat. Suddenly, he closed his mouth with a clack of giant teeth. He stepped back. In the folds of the Wraith’s cloak there was brief flash of purple.
Sáeril urged the wind, hurled his magic like a spear against the darkness. At the tip of the spear was Líran, confident with her little ink bottle. She had Nuille’s power in her hands.
But Líran was only human, with the poor speed and strength of a mortal body.
She had Nuille’s power in her hands.
She had no time to use it. Even if she had managed to open the bottle, she would have understood her limited mortality and she would have shattered against the power in the ink.
The War commanded the dragon. It recognized in Líran’s hand the same stench that stood over the Wave; the stench of nightmares. The dragon leapt in the air, but didn’t take flight: he threw himself over Líran, Attacking her with his fire, claws and everything War had.
Mortal Líran.
Sáeril understood his mistake. His and Líran’s. To Líran, the Mystery, a dragon, a war, magic and darkness were no menace. To Líran, the mortal, it all meant death.
The Wraith cloaked Líran with his magic and the dragon claws didn’t touch her, but the mere shock of all that power knocked her unconscious. The little bottle, unopened, rolled out of her hand. The purple light died.
Sáeril used all of his power, plus the acorn, to keep Líran alive under the dragon’s attacks, but he couldn’t do anything else. If he used even a hint of his power to counter-attack, Líran would die.
The dragon opened his mouth and spit at the same time fire and darkness. The clouds swirled over him; the grass dried up and died; bodies, armours, swords that looked like pins, remains of the battle all rolled away. Marcus’ horse ran away terrified. Marcus jumped off and kept on running because, by the grey wolf, he wouldn’t lose the Wraith as well!
Vivianne tried to reach her brother, so far from her, so close to death. Somebody ran with her, ran past her, a red tear, a fox.
War sunk its dragon’s claws into the very fire it still spit. It pushed Sáeril down with the physical weight of the red dragon. Had Sáeril been alone, if he didn’t have to defend anyone, he could focus on fighting. Darkness claws hit him and he let them tear him.
He couldn’t allow Líran to die. Such a beautiful, facinating Mystery, adorable and mortal at his feet. He tried to reach the ink bottle with his magic, but the power in there was unbearable. Nuille’s raw voice was in it. Sáeril couldn’t manipulate it like he had manipulated the washed down power in Neville’s memory that time.
And the claws tore him down.
Marcus, sword in hand, shouted as loud as he could to shut down the fear inside his chest. Sáeril heard the shout. Don’t come! He tried for the bottle again, but he couldn’t use it and hold darkness away at the same time. Marcus dove into the hurricane of magic, death and darkness.
Marcus and something else.
Lucille didn’t have power of her own, but she was covered in Nuille’s power and she knew what Sáeril was capable of. If he was still alive, that was. That small parcel of Nuille’s power had been so long with Lucille that it had melted in her personality. It was less pure, more volatile, infinitely lighter than the brute force inside the bottle, though considerably more intense than Neville’s memory. She dove in with Marcus and hoped Sáeril could save them all.
Sáeril was down, possibly dead. Lucille felt like a silly mosquito trying to fight a tornado. In the middle of the way between jumping and dying, Lucille, in spite of her fear, found space to feel sad for Sáeril’s and Líran’s deaths. Sad and surprised. She had grown used to them. Even Sáeril sometimes seemed eternal to her. He had, after all, survived the death of the elves.
She also thought it interesting that, while diving into her own death, she managed to think all that.
Suddenly, Lucille felt light, like she was floating. Above her there was fire, dragon and darkness. She felt something carressing her, like her skin had turned to dust and something was sucking it away from her.
It wasn’t her skin, it was Nuille’s power. It was sliding toward a black figure of ragged wool. Sáeril was alive, a haunting wraith in rags, rising against all those powers.
He summone Nuille’s power to himself, wileded it like a sword and stroke the War.
Everything stopped. The wind, the darkness, death. They froze. Vivianne felt the ground rumbling like the purr of a giant cat. Not the purr: the roar. Through the tear the Wraith made in the wall of darkness, Vivianne saw a bright, green, gigantic and furious eye.
The dragon Chelag’Ren took flight, threw himself against that tear, spitting fire, exploding magic. The War wrapped its wound with tongues of darkness and fled to the Mouth of War, dragging Chelag’Ren with it.
Silence. quiet. Yellow grass, still corpses, sun, blue sky, silence. Lucille felt Nuille’s stare pierce the distance and land on her nape. All right, all right. It was time to leave this story alone.
A few steps in front of her, Marcus had fallen beside a pile of black rags. Lucille remembered why she had loved that man. His raw courage, his honest love. She felt his pulse. Marcus was alive.
Lucille went searching for her horse. She met Vivianne at the base of the hill.
‘You saved them,’ said disse Vivianne.
‘Nuille forbid me to act on my own on someone else’s story. I can only follow where someone else acts. It was Marcus who saved them. I wouldn’t have been able to help if he hadn’t moved.
‘You saved them,’ said Vivianne, hugging Lucille. ‘Are you leaving?’
‘I’m afraid Nuille is no happy with me right now.’
‘Are you in danger?’
Lucille felt something tickle inside her chest, on the left side.
‘Thank you for worrying. Nuille would never... Nuille is... He won’t harm me.’
‘Will I see you again?’
‘You will.’ But I will be too young to remember you.
Lucille then left the story and sat beside Nuille at the threshold of happenings. He gave her a stern look, then he covered his eyes with his hat and napped.
*
Mortadella turned her face to the sun and raised her hands to the setting sun. She went to the window, wanting to look the sun in the eyes. Then she stopped and lowered her head. Behind her, inside the tower, was the woman who had escaped her a few days ago.
‘This is rare,’ said Fregósbor. ‘You coming after your death and not the other way around.’
Erla ame to Mortadella, who gave her back to the sun and offered a hand to the black woman. Before her solid fingers met those dead fingers, Mortadella took one last raspberry from the bowl.
She had met her death.