Chapter 31
Chapter 31
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Who the Hell Said I'm Useless on Foot? (3)
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Knights had a duty to accept a proper duel challenge from another knight, unless there were special circumstances like being injured or it conflicting with their beliefs.
Otto von Bauer had a valid pretext. I didn't.
"Haa."
In the end, the duel was set.
The time: noon in ten days. The place: the open field outside the south gate.
It didn't seem like he'd given me time out of consideration for my situation. More likely, he needed time to find a witness.
"Is the rumor true? You're dueling a wild boar?"
"I heard the winner gets command. That right?"
Word had spread like wildfire, and everyone who saw me asked about it.
I wanted to ignore them all, but I had to at least stop the misinformation from taking root.
"What is this, a gambling den? Think the guy who draws the winning hand walks off with the pot? Command rights? Give me a break."
"Huh? But that's what I heard."
"You idiots. If a single duel could snag you a command position, why bother with ranks and assignments?"
It was all annoying, but I had to correct the facts at least.
In other countries, nobles and knights dueled over every little thing, wagering all sorts of stakes. But Thracia had no such idiotic customs.
Thracia had something ten times crazier than duels.
Why bother with duels when you had the far more thrilling and brutal option of a power struggle?
The kingdom didn't encourage duels anyway.
Thracia was surrounded by conflict on all sides, a land where war never ceased.
In such a place, power struggles erupted frequently too, which meant nobles died off faster than elsewhere.
Fewer nobles who could read, write, and fight translated to a chronic shortage of officers.
If duels became commonplace on top of that, who'd lead the troops? How would the army even function?
Even our legion was desperately short on officers.
That was why a mere senior NCO like Jamal was stuck playing aide to me.
"So Baron Otto just shot his mouth off on his own?"
"Old habits die hard."
He probably didn't know Thracia's realities and challenged me like he would back in Astoria.
It might've flown there.
But in Thracia, duels were legal—wagering anything on them wasn't.
Point was, all you could win was honor.
"But why accept it?"
"The law says so."
"Law's a joke."
"It is."
To be precise, it wasn't the law that was broken—it was that the higher-ups saw no need to change it right now.
Simple math.
The king or landed nobles appointed knights.
The former had no reason to grant land and titles to swell the ranks of already loyal soldiers.
The latter were too busy preventing their estates from splintering under equal inheritance laws to appoint more.
Bottom line: no headache-inducing reforms for positions that would vanish on their own.
"What're you gonna do?"
"No offense to you, Lieutenant, but he's a knight who swings a sword from dawn till dusk."
"Might be different on horseback. On foot? No contest."
Everyone looked worried.
They asked if there was any way to cancel now, all convinced I'd lose.
"You bastards. Who the hell said I'm useless on foot?"
"We didn't say it that way..."
Heavy cavalrymen were usually worthless dismounted.
I was the exception.
"Anyway, I've got plans."
The Bluecoats shrugged.
Sure, sure. Whatever you say.
Handle it yourself.
That was the vibe.
I planned to anyway.
Time flew, and duel day arrived.
I headed to the south gate rendezvous with Jamal, who'd temporarily taken squire duties.
Chatter filled the air.
We arrived to find the crowd packed in tight, even though it wasn't noon yet.
"It's bursting. Totally."
"Looks like every off-duty guy showed up."
Jamal sounded exasperated, and he was right—all the non-essential personnel had swarmed in.
"Hey! It's Lieutenant Yannick!"
"Where? Where!"
"Lieutenant!"
The soldiers spotting me erupted in cheers.
What a commotion.
"Lieutenant's coming through. Move it! Damn idiots can't take a hint!"
Jamal, half-assing the squire act, lost his temper and kicked the asses of soldiers blocking the way.
We shoved through the throng toward the gate, and that's when I spotted a familiar face.
"...Asha?"
It was her.
I'd figured she'd be lounging in some warm southern spot by now, but she was still in Schrelgrad.
"Can't you tell? I'm collecting bets."
Her answer to what she was doing was a sight.
"How about it? Wanna bet, Lieutenant? No rule against parties wagering. Odds are about 1.5 to 3 right now."
"The high side is...?"
"Obviously."
From the odds, I could gauge the expected win rates.
Seven out of ten backed Otto von Bauer; three bet on me.
Ridiculous.
"Lieutenant! Show 'em what a field soldier can do!"
"Don't lose!"
"We believe you'll pull off another miracle!"
These cheering supporters around me had probably bet on Otto too, right?
Shameless lot.
"Anyway, you in or out? Credit's fine."
"...Fine. Put three months' pay on me winning. How's that change the odds?"
"Won't budge. Lieutenant pay? Pocket change. This pot's massive."
A lieutenant's three months' salary dumped in, and the odds didn't twitch?
How huge was this pot?
"...What're you doing?"
"Ah. Coming! Here!"
Jamal pulled something from his pocket—money, probably—handed it to Asha with a whisper, then hustled back to me.
"...I bet on you, Lieutenant."
Jamal, you bastard.
Volunteering info I didn't ask for? Yeah, he bet on the other guy.
"Hoo."
We squeezed through the crowd and finally passed the gate.
Outside the south gate, Otto von Bauer sat mounted, eyeing us.
"You're here."
The commander—who'd appeared out of nowhere draped in some fur—scanned me up and down.
It felt less like checking a duelist's condition and more like something else, so I had to ask.
"...Commander, you place a bet too?"
"I did, but nothing that compromises neutrality. Just for fun. Fun."
Ha. What a mess.
"And Major Sanov? What's he doing here?"
"Personally tutoring Baron Otto in Thracian. Here as witness today."
That explained Otto's sudden fluency. The major's handiwork.
"Then, did the major...?"
Evgen Sanov cleared his throat at my look.
"We're family, after all."
"Same here. This is cheering you on, not gambling."
Both bet on me.
Everyone I meet bets on me, yet those odds?
"Now, you two, come here."
Sanov stood by Otto; Jamal, now witness from squire, by me.
"Otto von Bauer claims his treatment is grossly unjust and seeks to correct it via duel. Do you agree?"
"I do."
"Yannick Schrelgriff accepts Otto von Bauer's challenge per knightly rights and duties. Do you agree?"
"I do."
The commander, as witness, questioned each side in turn.
His fumbling delivery—glancing at some mystery paper—and the strained voice aware of soldiers peering from the walls were all pathetic.
Procedure went smoothly enough, though.
"Both sides hold unshakeable faith in their justice, yet truth is singular. Thus, we gathered here trust the Goddess of Victory to discern it, granting triumph only to the true. Do both agree?"
Why drag justice and truth into this farce?
"I do."
"I agree."
We answered earnestly enough.
"I declare the duel established. Witnessed by Evgen Sanov and Jamal, affirmed by me, Marek Drpov, commander of the 8th Legion and Schrelgrad, no one may contest the outcome."
With formalities done, the commander gave final objection chance before starting.
"Objection."
Otto jumped in like he'd been waiting.
"My noble steed is spooked. Your horse. Not ordinary. For fair duel. Must switch."
He'd played ancient honor-bound knight earlier; now griping about my royal gift horse? Pathetic.
"Refuse. Cannot fight mounted."
Unreasonable nonsense, utter bullshit.
Apparently, only I thought so.
"His point is valid. If you refuse, as wise and impartial witness, I must skip mounted combat and start on foot."
Assenting voices rose from the crowd.
The royal gift horse, though.
Similar reactions everywhere.
Damn. Thought it'd be easy.
No charging full-tilt to unhorse him and claim quick victory.
"Ugh. Fine."
I inwardly cursed his pettiness—mountain of a man nitpicking my horse.
I switched to a standard courser breed warhorse common for cavalry. Only then did Otto look satisfied.
"Duel ends when one cannot continue or concedes. Victor shows mercy to vanquished; loser pays proper respect. Both sides, withdraw thirty paces."
Commander spoke; we backed off thirty steps each.
Clank.
Visors down.
"Begin the duel!"
The commander's tense, mangled shout echoed as he added:
"May fortune favor both!"
Thud.
I was already charging.
Lance tucked under arm, shield hand to shoulder.
Body low.
Thud thud thud.
Otto charged back.
Too late—he was still accelerating as I crossed the field's center.
Whoooosh.
Deep breath in.
Otto flailed, shield up, lance out.
Crack.
Splintered wood flew everywhere.
Through his narrow visor slit, I saw the purebred knight's waist buckle backward from unabsorbed impact. I blew past him.
Braked sharply, wheeled like a trick rider.
There was Otto.
Body fully tilted, dangling from the stirrup.
Dragged dozens of paces with one foot caught, he finally tumbled off.
So, what about the royal gift horse?
Soldiers leaning perilously from the walls roared in unison.
"Yannick! Yannick! Yannick!"
Basking in the thunderous cheers, I elegantly circled once.
"Waaaaah!"
Cheers swelled louder.
Already like this? What if it goes south later?
Duel just started.
Unless his neck snapped—unlikely for such a trained knight—a fall wouldn't end him.
As expected.
Shake shake.
Otto staggered up, shook his head fiercely.
Limbs all seemed fine.
Whoosh.
He tossed the shattered lance, drew his bastard sword from the saddle scabbard.
"Hiyah!"
Horse took off again.
Otto belatedly looked my way, scanned for his mount.
Wobbled to the nearby halted horse, yanked his sword free in a panic.
Turned to stance—
Bam!
The charging horse's momentum slammed the sword into his helmet's back.
Head struck, he reeled like he'd drop any second.
But he held.
Steady.
Gripped sword two-handed, lowered stance.
Obvious ploy.
Thrust at my approach, then retreat.
What'd the horse ever do to you?
No intention of sacrificing a fine warhorse to this farce.
"Huh? Wha?"
"Why...?"
Soldiers murmured as I dismounted.
Whatever.
Thud.
Sheathed the sword, unslung shield to saddle.
Turned.
"Hand it over."
"You're really doing this?"
"You want fake?"
Jamal grumbled, unstrapped the massive sword from his back.
Imperial two-hander, Zweihänder—same as Doppelzoltner war clowns used.
Grip.
Near full extension.
Right hand anchor just below guard; swung left around pommel.
Whoosh, whoosh.
Blade carved huge arcs.
"Good."
Satisfied with the hefty feel, I slung it over my shoulder.
Walked toward Otto.
"Clown imitation? Ten days won't cut it."
Otto sneered.
"Imitation, huh."
I laughed.
Despite the name, my nine years in the Hermit Convent—overly worldly for hermits—included eight with the Silent Brotherhood.
HQ old-timers once summed my past:
'Nine years in the Silent Brotherhood, trained in mounted combat and swordplay.'
Half right, half wrong.
Monks don't ride.
Walking is penance, training.
True I'd learned mounted combat—but only in the last two of those eight years, during a power struggle.
So what'd I do the other six? What'd I learn?
Alright, showtime.
Grit those teeth.
It's gonna hurt. A lot.
