Farewell to the Lord's Kick
“Here’s to the trust between Britannia and us being as steadfast as this Noricum steel.”
“Thank you, Dominus Merowig.”
My Frankish friends had graciously attended my wedding, bless them. Those barbarian business partners had thrown themselves into our wars against the northern and western Caledonian and Hibernian savages far more aggressively than I’d expected. According to Beduerus, who’d carried out various operations with them in the island-dotted waters north of Manavia, it had been a tremendous help. Well, they were full-time merchant-pirates from way back, while we were only just launching our careers in “aggressive defense operations” against pirates. Naturally, those Frankish wild men were far more seasoned in sea battles, amphibious assaults from ship to shore, and quick retreats back to the waves from land.
I’d told them to observe and record those friends’ know-how as closely as possible, turning it into a valuable asset for our navy. Thanks to that one remark of mine, our brand-new Romano-British navy on Manavia Island had a packed training schedule even through this winter.
“A fine sword. Noricum steel, I take it?”
“There’s good steel aplenty in the world, but nothing beats Roman for reliability.”
[Shing—]
We’d already exchanged pleasantries with the guests and downed a few glasses of wine together. As the season brought chillier night air, the sun had swiftly dipped toward the western horizon. Twilight had yielded to a purple haze beneath a black curtain of sky. No moon or stars would pierce the gloom tonight—rain seemed imminent. But that was fine. We on the ground lit up the world in their stead, bright as day.
Torches hung and planted everywhere banished the darkness, boldly proclaiming humanity’s ancient triumph over the night.
[Yeeeaah!]
“Bene tibi!”
“Salus!!”
The lively Roman music, rich with metal instruments, rang out cheerfully. On one side, those feeling the wine’s warmth raised toasts and gulped it down. Food, drink, and song flowed without end amid laughter and chatter. The gleaming surface of the Noricum steel sword reflected it all slowly back to me—the whole happy scene. It struck me then: this blade symbolized the protector of all that joy.
“I hear the finest Roman steel hails from Noricum, Hispania... and far-off Antioch in the east...”
Noricum lay close to the Danube front under Eastern Roman control, Hispania was the massive peninsula jutting left from Gallia, and Antioch—well, a place I’d never see in this life—was a colossal city near the Eastern Empire’s eastern edge, the Far East from our Britannian vantage. It wasn’t exaggeration to say the steel from those three regions propped up the Roman legions; they brimmed with prime iron and master smiths. If I added a personal favorite—nothing SSS-grade, but solid A-rank—our own Britannia could claim the spot.
“If the Magister militum desires, I’ll procure a longsword from Hispania and Antioch on my next visit.”
“No, no—that wasn’t my meaning. What a truly fine gift. Be sure to convey my thanks to the Frankish king?”
“Hahaha! Seeing you so pleased, I’m sure my father—who prepared it—will be thrilled too!”
I had to stop Merowig, who’d misunderstood and was already scheming to scour the local German tribes for swords from distant Antioch or the nearer Hispania by next spring. Swords were consumables, after all—bent and dulled after a few uses. Regional iron varied in quality, but in the frenzy of battle, Britannic or Noricum steel wore out about the same. So it wasn’t surprising that Merlinus had joked the decisive factor in my past battlefields wasn’t commanders or legionaries’ skill, but raw regional iron output.
Me? I’d long surpassed such concerns—iron production, subordinate commanders, legionaries, even enemy ones. Victory or defeat barely hinged on them anymore. Once we met on the field, beating me would take colossal effort and a miracle.
Especially now, with my strength and senses even stronger...
Pre-wedding me was Artorius V1; post-Guinevere, Artorius Mk.2. And this Mk.2 packed far more power than the original. Hell, I didn’t even know my own limits anymore.
[Shing—clack!]
“Caius, take this sword and store it in my villa?”
“As you command, Dominus.”
I handed the ornate scabbard—housing the precious blade—to Caius, who’d insisted on playing wallflower behind me instead of mingling at the feast. Its hilt bore intricate Frankish engravings: a sinuous, tail-lashing form with a wide-open maw—a dragon, most likely. Maybe gift it to the lad, who was betrothing soon? Or buy up fine swords from across the realms and distribute them to my men. I had the gold for it.
...Or just ask Merowig here for a few.
[Glug-glug—]
At Caius’s glance, a servant hurried over to refill my cup and Merowig’s. Strict monthly silver wages for my villa’s part-timers, mostly war orphans. Caius managed them personally—some trained in Londinium as squires, others became his personal guards if he spotted talent.
Why all male servants? The women clustered around Guinevere yonder, bustling as female attendants should. She’d taken charge of the villa staff—once split between Caius and Brother Hector—with soldierly sharpness and discipline bred in her bones. No hitches; she commanded effortlessly.
Guinevere, lady of the Artorius house. The very thought warmed me deeper.
“Has Dominus Merowig married?”
“Mm—glug—”
Merowig, savoring his wine, drained his cup at my sudden question and answered hastily.
“Paha! Superb vintage. Avalonia’s own, eh?”
Imported, actually—from vineyards near Rotomagus.
“Ahh—marriage. Of course! A wise woman. Father chides me for no heirs yet, but we’re... working on it.”
“I see. Children, heirs...”
“Haha. Overstepping, but soon the Magister militum might face whispers too. Who’d dare? But heirs are a house’s core concern...”
The blue-eyed Frank trailed off wearily. That look echoed the gazes of Comes Lot, Eturnus, even Lord Uterius at the post-wedding feast’s start—like adults watching an innocent child wander a dark forest.
I glanced at Guinevere, beaming idiotically at her beauty. Old men’s needless frets, surely. Merowig chuckled, his fatigue easing as he shifted topics.
“Speaking of, I hear the Magister militum favors not swords, but another weapon. A spear? No—a massive club? Absurd from one half-Roman, half-barbarian like me, but they call it the ‘Barbarian Smasher’ or such.”
My bear-slaying club had earned nicknames galore: Avalonia’s Wrath, Key-Row’s Judgment, the Lord’s Fist, Hercules Reborn. Witnesses to its battlefield debut flung every word they knew to capture the shock. Merowig was curious about that terror. Somehow, Caius and my nearby officers’ shoulders tensed higher.
“Too grim for a joyous occasion, with its bloody history... but after drawing this Noricum blade for inspection...”
A club was nothing now. I nodded to Caius; the quick lad fetched it at once.
Meanwhile, Frankish, Gallic, and—somehow—even Hispanic merchants found our head table for toasts. Then Caius arrived, bearing the club aloft.
“Ooh—there! Jupiter’s Thunderbolt!”
“Hercules’ Envy! The Lord’s Forearm!”
“Bow down! Vanquisher of All Evil!”
“Dominus Artorius! Artorius Invictus!!”
“Artorius Invictus!!”
“Invictus” came out “In-vik-toos” in Romano-British or Gallic dialect, but wine-fueled revelers had cast off restraint, roaring in ecstasy. Among them, Comes Eturnus grinned; his son Cunedagius, supporting the beet-red excited father, wore a forced smile that cracked me up.
Warriors loved their drink. By my soul’s old homeland terms, everyone here was a hero. They’d staked lives defending this land when nation and legions abandoned it.
Elated, I knelt dramatically on one knee as Caius offered it, flicking his forehead with a finger.
“Foolishness.”
Laughing at his boyish remnants, I hefted the club. Cheers erupted.
[Yahoooo!]
Battle-roars, as if war brewed. Women nearby startled our way. Men? Pure glee.
[Whoosh—whoosh!]
I swung figure-eights through the air, then lowered it—but a sting pricked my palm.
[Crack!]
“Hm?”
Something snapped... no way?
[Snap-crack—]
Dread rising, I looked: after fifteen years bearing my might, the “Lord’s Kick” had cracked wide, splintering apart.
“Damn...”
Stunned and regretful at the unforeseen sight, I spotted a thorn embedded in my palm, blood trickling.
“D-Dominus!?”
To panicked Caius, I waved my other palm calmly. The feast hushed; all eyes on me. Mine fixed on crumbling wood and bleeding hand.
Like a mighty oak withering in seconds, the club disintegrated; beneath scattering shards, my palm wept a single crimson line.
Blood. My blood? In countless beast-and-man clashes, had I ever bled—even once?
“Heh, first blood like this?”
A rueful chuckle escaped amid absurdity.
“Darling! Gods! Are you all right?”
Guinevere bolted up, silken hair whipping, seizing my hand—already tearing her hem for a bandage. I stopped her.
“I’m fine. Really. Just a thorn prick.”
“Does it hurt? Look at this blood...!”
No pain. Barely a skin graze; blood welled just a drop or two more, then stopped. The crushed club grieved me more than the thorn’s jab.
Thanks for everything—should’ve polished you more, if I’d known you’d end so anticlimactically.
Too swift to credit; felt like losing a lifelong friend in a blink. Dazed, but before teary-eyed, worried Guinevere, I couldn’t show it. Smiling, I picked up the largest fallen chunk.
Then strolled to the lakeside.
“Really fine. See? Bleeding’s stopped. Just a thorn. Be right back after washing up.”
Reassured, her face softened amid servants rushing cloths at her gestures. I squatted by the rippling lake.
My garden was ample, but for 100+ guests, we’d tented the open ground between villa and shore—no long walk.
Relieved gasps swept the crowd at my unharmed form; Merowig, closest witness, sighed deepest.
[Splash—]
“Thanks for everything.”
Cradling the fragments in both hands, I eased them into the lake—the very spot it first surfaced. Felt right, somehow. Like a solemn priest, I farewelled my old companion.
Then, a long thorn slid from my palm; beaded blood bloomed, mingling with the water.
“...”
“...”
“...”
And soon, from that bloody spot, a soft glow rose.
“What in the...”
The entire lake ignited blue, gradually bathing all in azure light. We—and the crowd behind—watched it unfold.