Chapter 37: Faust – Why Not?
Faust climbed down the Oltiens before the crossroads. The Baynardians would have to come this way to reach the Halls of Snow. The valley was covered in very thick fog. Faust made what was left of his men march. They needed to get to the crossroads, where the narrow path from Anuré met the road that connected the Halls of Snow to Beloú. The place was ideal for an ambush, with big rocks that had rolled down from the Oltiens and served as a hiding place for two hundred well-positioned soldiers.
Faust didn’t have two hundred soldiers anymore. Half of them had died on the mountain from exhaustion, cold, and storm. Even so, Faust could defeat the invaders with a good ambush and impress his father with his efficiency.
‘To lose a hundred men before the battle is not what I’d call efficient,’ said his little brother’s voice inside Faust’s head.
Frederico. Faust would have a word with him, do something about those crazy ideas of his. To form an alliance with the Frontier! The thought of it made Faust’s guts turn. What was the sense in all those plans, those laws of Sátiron, philosophy? True: Beloú had improved considerably since Faust, out of pity, followed some of his brother’s advice. But that was one thing, getting anywhere near the Frontier was something else.
A man stumbled and fell. Faust lifted him up. Normally, he would have threatened to cut off the man’s ear if he showed weakness again. Instead, he said:
‘Hang on. We’re almost there.’
Faust was becoming more like Frederico than like Fulbert. He didn’t care. Frederico wasn’t as weak as King Henrique of Baynard said. Faust’s brother didn’t fight, but neither did he give up. Frederico was his last brother. He wasn’t afraid of the Frontier and seemed to think Faust would make a good king.
Why not? thought Faust. The very thought was a betrayal to his father and Faust tried to push it away, but why not was already rooted in his brain.
The first rock at the crossroads loomed in the fog and Faust brought his mind back to the Baynardians he had to kill. He opened his mouth to give orders but was interrupted by a war cry that came from behind the rocks. The soldier beside him fell dead.
An ambush! Faust raised his sword in time to block a blow. How did the Baynardians get there before him? Faust killed one man, two, but he heard his own men falling all around. They were weak, weary after the Oltiens and the storms.
Faust killed another man, and another. He, too, was at his limit. The next man was as relentless as a war train. He used his shield to push Faust, who barely had the strength to block the constant strikes.
‘It’s too easy,’ cried the enemy.
That voice! Faust hesitated and the enemy saw a breach. He pierced fog and flesh with his sword.
‘Father?’ said Faust.
A snow flake whirled in the air, almost invisible in the fog. It landed on Faust’s face, stealing warmth that would never come back. Fulbert, still wielding the sword that had trespassed his son, dropped the shield and held Faust’s lifeless head.
‘Son?’