The Pursuers, Once More (4)
Two groups of soldiers were locked in an unexpected standoff in front of the lord's manor.
"...Ha, this is absolutely impossible to reason with!" The one shouting, practically climbing onto his own words, was Doyle Mullin, the second son of Count Tristan.
He had roughly twenty guards in tow, most of them armed with chainmail and shields. The surcoats the soldiers wore bore the Mullin family crest—a white bird clutching a spear. They appeared to be the count's household troops.
"Bring me the Baroness! I'll speak with her myself!"
At Doyle's threats, his face scratched here and there, Chester, Longville's drillmaster, shook his head. "I've told you, my lady has not yet coughed."
"So what? A guest died within your domain, and the lady of the house won't even show her face? Is this truly proper conduct!"
"...My apologies, but my lady has not yet coughed."
When Chester offered nothing but the same parroted answer, Doyle erupted in fury. "This entire domain, top to bottom, is utterly incapable of conversation! As the son of the one who rules this region, I can no longer overlook this!"
With him, the Mullin soldiers took up stances as if ready to lunge at any moment. Longville's soldiers leveled their spears in return, and the chilly early-autumn wind swept through the yard.
"......Whew."
I had a rough idea of what was going on, so a sigh escaped me on its own. The atmosphere suggested the two groups might clash at any moment, so I quickly stepped forward.
"What is the meaning of this, Lord Doyle?" "...Ah, Sir Phoenix."
Doyle pulled his reins to calm his snorting horse, then stiffly raised his neck to look down at me. "Let me advise you in advance: don't think about interfering this time. This is not a matter for guests to face off over—it's something the host must answer for."
And then, a faint, forced smirk. Despite the content of his words, his tone and nuance were closer to a provocation: Go on, try something.
It was clearly a headache of a situation, but I had no choice but to step in. I could easily guess that the cause of this ruckus was me—or more precisely, Mungchi.
I quietly looked up at Doyle for a moment before tossing out a remark. "I hear you're saying some strange things."
"...Strange?"
"Do you truly consider yourself a guest of Longville, my lord?"
Doyle's chubby face twisted, and he soon burst into a hollow laugh. "Ha, so uninvited guests aren't guests at all, is that it?" "You catch on quickly."
"How dare... I came here representing Count Tristan himself!"
"Wasn't the Count's representative not you, my lord, but some messenger named Muffin or whatever?"
"It's Hefin, not Muffin. And I'm his superior."
I deliberately put on a surprised expression. "You keep the Count's own representative as your subordinate? How impressive. Isn't that essentially the same as ordering your father around?"
"...You're spouting sophistry, Sir Phoenix."
Doyle paused to choose his words, then suddenly lowered his voice. "That's not what matters now. What matters is that a guest was murdered within this domain, and the one who rules it doesn't seem to care one bit."
I furrowed my brow while mentally chanting expression management, expression management. "Murdered? Who, exactly?"
"My important collaborator was... hmm,"
At his backward glance, five men stepped forward from among the guards. Four of them were Nudein warriors clad in heavy lamellar armor, and standing before them was the elder Deltoto. The old man forced a smile, as if trying to hide his discomfort, and spoke.
"It's Maurio, my lord. One of the seven elders of the Al Kadari clan."
"Ah, right. Maurio."
Doyle nodded, then put on a deliberately grief-stricken face. "Strangled to death, horribly. He was not a man who deserved such an end. May he rest in the embrace of the light."
"...Well, I don't quite follow, but I offer my condolences as well."
Thinking about what Atalante and I did after tossing his corpse aside did prick my conscience a little, but regardless.
"Even so, I still don't understand. What does Maurio's death have to do with causing a ruckus in front of the lord's manor?"
"What does it have to do with it? When a guest is murdered, the host bears responsibility—that's simply how it works, if you have any sense of honor!"
"You keep going on about guests, but how exactly was this Maurio the Baroness's guest?"
"What? Well, that's..."
When Doyle trailed off, I pressed the question again. "Was this Maurio invited to this domain?"
"He wasn't invited, but as I said, he was my important collaborator."
"You weren't invited either, Lord Doyle."
"...What?"
"You and your party kicked the cozy lord's manor aside and stayed at a tavern near the gate. And you didn't even partake of salt and bread."
"...Salt and bread? How quaintly rustic of you to bring up such an ill-fitting custom."
"Even accounting for that rustic custom, the Baroness has no obligation to protect your party. If you truly must find the murderer, instead of carrying on here, you should be disciplining the soldiers who were guarding him."
"......Ha."
Doyle's hands, gripping the reins, trembled faintly before the corners of his mouth twisted upward. "They say the Silver Prince keeps a snake. Looks like he keeps two, not one."
"...I'll take that as a compliment."
Doyle wiped away even his forced smile and silently glared at me. This went on for a moment. Then, from the residential district, a group of riders came galloping toward us. Doyle, who had been maintaining silence, quickly broke into a triumphant smile.
"Sir Eselda!"
"My lord."
"The true knight and finest swordswoman has finally arrived." The ones who appeared on horseback were Sir Eselda, Atalante, and a handful of cavalry. Sir Eselda approached Doyle with a placid expression, snapping her reins.
"We've caught the culprit."
"...You caught the culprit?"
"It was a pimp from the red-light district. He was carrying Elder Maurio's belongings."
Just as Doyle's face began to twist, I had to struggle to hide my expression. Atalante, catching my eye, had secretly winked at me.
"...He died in the red-light district?"
"Several prostitutes came forward as witnesses. They heard arguing in the early hours, and say the pimp strangled Maurio with a rope."
Hearing her words, Doyle's expression turned savage, and he turned to look at Elder Deltoto. But Deltoto was also wearing a panicked look.
"Atilia, come here!"
Atilia dismounted with a flick and approached, and the elder whispered to her quietly. "Is what Sir Eselda said true?"
"Yes."
"The pendant?"
"Here."
Elder Deltoto received the shattered pendant and gritted his teeth. Then he suddenly swung his hand and delivered a sharp slap. Perhaps because of the ring Deltoto was wearing, blood trickled down Atalante's face as her head snapped to the side.
"Oh, you son of a—"
Just as I was about to charge forward with a roar, Atalante quickly raised a hand to stop me. Her cold, calm amber eyes seemed to say, We agreed not to interfere, remember?
When I ground my teeth and stopped, Doyle, whose eyes had been darting about, broke into a sly smile. "Ha, so that's how it is."
He looked back and forth between Atalante and me, then snickered sinisterly. "I was wondering why that Nudein wench was playing so hard to get. Turns out she already has an owner? The greatest warrior of the Nudein and a knight of Prince Ulkar. What a lovely match."
When Atalante and I showed no reaction, the startled Deltoto quickly stepped forward. "What are you saying, my lord? I understand you've had an unfortunate thought, but the Al Kadari clan has nothing to do with the Silver Prince."
"Oh, is that so?" Doyle continued with a smirk. "I suppose we'll see... I do hope you'll prove that my 'delusion' is unfounded."
"That's—"
The wrinkled face went pale in an instant. Deltoto, about to say something, shut his mouth at Sir Eselda's quiet cough.
"This disturbance has gone on long enough. Please leave, my lord."
"...Fine. Let's go, Sir Eselda."
Doyle, pulling his reins to turn away, suddenly looked back at me as if remembering something. "Ah. Might I ask you just one question?"
"...What question?"
"News of your lord has been coming from the border with Mettergeland quite frequently. Have you heard?"
The Mettergeland Empire bordered the Kingdom of Milanol to the west. Wars broke out constantly in the western highlands along that border, if I recalled.
"...I haven't heard. I'm not one for rumors."
"Really? I hear he repelled two prince-electors in a fortnight and is consolidating the front line... Ha, truly a remarkable fellow."
For a mere count's second son to speak that way about a prince—it was the height of insolence. But despite his considerable reputation, Ulkar was largely disregarded among the high nobility. Since the Thousand-Day War, he'd made enemies of several great nobles, and his siblings were riddled with jealousy and wariness toward him. Worst of all, even his father the king suspected he was a bastard—his treatment couldn't possibly be good...
"By the way, I've been hearing a curious rumor."
"What rumor?"
"About Margrave Landri. I knew he was on good terms with the Silver Prince, but lately I hear he's groveling like a devoted lackey."
"...They repelled an invasion together. It's only natural he'd feel goodwill."
"Heh, if it were just that, there'd be no problem."
Doyle slowly urged his horse closer and leaned forward, whispering. "As you know, the Margrave is famous for his... unconventional tastes, isn't he? And Prince Ulkar is a man more beautiful than the finest beauty in the kingdom."
This crazy bastard, what kind of bullshit is he spouting?
As if savoring my disgusted stare, Doyle's smile deepened. "Someone was saying Prince Ulkar buys loyalty with his own body. Oh, Lord. I'm praying it's nothing but idle gossip."
"...It is bullshit, so there's no need to waste your strength on prayers. Is that what you wanted to ask?"
"Ah, of course not."
At that languid smile, fire surged up inside me. I wanted to drag him off his horse right then, tear out his tongue, and gouge out his eyes.
"I've been wondering why knights of such renown—including you—keep flocking to Prince Ulkar's banner. But hearing that rumor gave me an amusing thought. Perhaps the prince offers his knights... hmm, a 'special gift' of some kind?"
"My lord."
Sir Eselda, watching my complexion, warned him in a heavy voice, but Doyle was still smirking. "I'd like to know that secret myself. Did you receive such a gift from the prince too? If so, I'm curious what it was. His mouth, or perhaps—"
I heard only that much before hurling my glove at him.
Thwack!
"Guhk—"
I must have put quite a bit of force into it—Doyle's nose bled from the heavy leather gauntlet.
"My lord!"
As Doyle swayed in his saddle, his guards panicked and erupted into chaos. I paid them no mind, glaring at him and growling. "Get down here, you bastard."
Despite being challenged by a knight known by every manner of epithet—Bloodstained Swordsman, Crimson Beacon, the Beheader, the Silver Prince's Black Knight—Doyle looked remarkably calm. With his nostrils stuffed with cloth, he sat in a chair his guards had fetched, sipping from a wine cup.
"That was useless restraint, Sir Eselda."
The reason Doyle could afford such composure was his champion, Eselda Horton.
"Fighting an unarmed opponent is dishonorable."
"...Heh. Protecting your honor is important, I suppose, but do think of mine as well. You don't intend to watch the son of Count Tristan take a slap from Ulkar's knight, do you?"
Eselda tightened the straps of her full plate and gazed across at her opponent. Her opponent, Phoenix, was donning his armor with the help of a bald runt and a square-jawed mercenary.
A magical chainmail topped with gray wolf pelt—Lupus. It was a familiar sight to Eselda. It was the armor a comrade who had proposed to her some twenty years ago used to favor.
The preparations would be finished soon. Eselda quietly studied Phoenix, then spoke. "That was a foolish thing to do."
"...What did you say?"
"Provoking Sir Phoenix was foolish. Even if I win, there's nothing to gain. And if I lose, it cracks the Count's dignity."
It was an obvious truth. Eselda was the most renowned of all the knights serving Count Tristan. Even at her words, Doyle merely flashed a brief smile.
"Ha, are you afraid you might lose?"
"I'm not afraid. I'm displeased."
"Displeased?"
"Yes. Because I have to draw my sword for your sake."
"...That's insolent, Sir Eselda."
"Is it more insolent than making someone who isn't your vassal fight as your champion?" At the middle-aged woman's sharp retort, Doyle fell silent for a moment. Then he smiled broadly and patted her shoulder.
"For that, I apologize. But don't be too angry. This is, after all, for the good of our domain."
"...For the good of our domain?"
"That's right."
Doyle glared at Phoenix as he strapped on his greaves, whispering to Eselda. "If you break that man beautifully, how delighted do you think Father will be? He'll feel you've washed away some of the humiliation Ulkar dealt us. And if you kill him, all the better. It doesn't matter if you lose, either. So what if you take three slaps? I'm not that petty a man."
Even as he wore that easy smile, Doyle's mind was constantly churning.
It's not that it doesn't matter, Sir Eselda. I'd prefer you lose. And if you die, even better.
What Doyle wanted wasn't just for Count Tristan but for the entire Mullin family to become Prince Ulkar's enemy. If his younger sister—who would become countess within a few years—was forced to look outward rather than inward at the domain, it would buy time to mine the gold veins and hire mercenaries.
When Doyle grinned, baring his teeth, Eselda walked forward without hiding her displeasure. Phoenix had finished preparing for the duel.
The two knights stood facing each other in an open clearing at the heart of Longville.
A duel between knights. By mutual agreement, the mounted lance had been omitted, but that didn't diminish the interest. That was thanks to the reputation both knights carried. In a mountain backwater like Longville, such a spectacle was rarely seen. So many soldiers and onlookers had formed a wall of bodies that the children had already climbed into the trees to secure their spots.
The middle-aged woman, armed with plate armor and a two-handed sword, lifted her visor. "Eselda of House Horton."
"...Phoenix."
The cold-featured young man tightened his steel helm with its elongated nasal guard and looked past Eselda. "Fighting a duel for a man like that must be a burden."
"I'm simply fulfilling my duty."
As if to say words were useless, Eselda raised her two-handed sword and took her stance. She covered her forehead with the crossguard, aimed her blade at her opponent's eyes, kept her chest and back straight, and bent both knees slightly, weighting her rear foot. At that flawless stance, gasps of admiration erupted from all around.
Phoenix drew his blade as well. Lowering his stance, he pulled his left arm close, covering from below his eyes to above his knees with the round shield, while his right arm extended long, pointing the sword forward.
After a brief standoff, Eselda suddenly stamped the ground.
"Hah—"
She exhaled sharply and launched a thrust. It looked like an ordinary thrust, but Eselda released her left hand from the pommel in that instant. Freed from her left hand, the two-handed sword stretched out long. Like a spear thrust, its reach doubled in an instant. Despite the lightning speed compounded by the sudden shift in grip, Eselda's blade was aimed precisely at Phoenix's eye. It was precision beyond common sense.
Clang!
Phoenix deflected the attack with his shield. It was fast, but not fast enough to escape his senses. As the thrust was batted away, Eselda naturally swung the hilt around. The sword, now gripped in both hands again, plunged downward with a chilling whoosh. Phoenix, tracking the sword's arc, slipped his blade in at precisely the right moment.
Krrk—
Eselda stepped back slightly. A flick of her wrist shook off the tangled blades. Almost simultaneously, she swung the hilt overhead and rained blows left and right.
KAKAKAKLANG!
As the two-handed sword hammered against shield and blade countless times, a ferocious metallic roar erupted. It was as if a dozen smiths were pounding an anvil without pause. Eselda's offensive didn't last long. Phoenix parried the sword forcefully while simultaneously striking her breastplate with the edge of his shield.
BAM
"Gh—"
The impact was like being struck by a siege ram, but Eselda shook off the shock with a short grunt and reset her stance. Her green eyes, flecked with brown, scanned her two-handed sword. Finding a couple of nicks in the edge, Eselda looked anew at Phoenix's blade.
A faint spiderweb pattern etched into the milky-white blade... Gazing at the sword that seemed almost alive, Eselda spoke. "A fine blade. Does it have a name?"
Looking at his opponent, whose breathing hadn't faltered despite the ferocious exchange, Phoenix grinned. "Hrunting."
"Hrunting. I see. And yours?"
"......Lily."
Phoenix studied Eselda's two-handed sword anew. It was a monstrous thing—over 160 centimeters long, with a parrying hook to boot. Somehow embarrassed by that gaze, Eselda added: "That's what they call it."
"Hm. A fine sword."
"Thank you."
That was the end of the exchange.
The battle that followed never paused for a single instant. A full twenty minutes. The Lily was a wreck, the round shield a rag. The plate armor was scored with countless lines, and the steel helm with its severed chin strap rolled on the ground.
"GRAAH!"
Eselda perfectly blocked Phoenix's descending Hrunting with a crown guard. Inhuman strength bore down on the Lily. Eselda sidestepped, bleeding off the force. It was the third time she'd used this pattern, so Phoenix moved boldly. In one motion, he reached out his right hand and grabbed the back of Eselda's thigh.
Eselda's response was even sharper. She twisted the two-handed sword, knocking Hrunting aside. As Phoenix, having lost his grip on the sword, bent at the waist to lift her, Eselda quickly drew a dagger from her belt.
Thunk!
"Ugh—"
A fresh wound was carved into Phoenix's body, already covered in gashes. The dagger, aimed below his shoulder blade, sank in about two finger-joints deep, and strength drained from his arm.
"Fuck—!"
But only briefly—when Phoenix gritted through it, Eselda's body floated into the air like a straw doll. Then came the fall.
CRASH!
"GHAH!"
Eselda, slammed down back-first, lost her grip on the dagger and gritted her teeth. Phoenix quickly pinned her down and swung his fist.
CRUNCH!
A blow that could split an ox's skull in one strike crushed the helm. Eselda, clenching her square jaw to endure, tried to roll free of the pin, but Phoenix's mount was far too solid.
"Hnngh—"
Phoenix, a long gash across his forehead leaving his face smeared with blood, pressed down on Eselda while breathing like a beast. His legs squeezed her waist, and he trapped her right arm under his armpit.
"GHHAAAH!"
Eselda spat blood-flecked foam, swinging her left fist wildly. The heavy gauntlet hammered into his jaw, chest, and shoulder. Phoenix gritted his teeth and twisted his shoulder.
POP!
"AAAAH!"
Her right elbow shattered, and Eselda let out a tearing scream. Then Phoenix's fist slammed into her face again.
BAM
Her helmeted head bounced off the ground like a ball, and Sir Eselda lost consciousness.
"Hnngh... hnngh..." After catching his breath for a moment, Phoenix rose unsteadily to his feet. The gashes had already healed. But the blood that had flowed from them still soaked his entire body.
"Haaah—"
As Phoenix exhaled a long breath, silence filled every direction. The duel was over, so someone should have cheered—but strangely, no one made a sound.
Phoenix picked up Hrunting, sheathed it, and walked toward the Mullin soldiers.
"...S-stop! Halt!"
A few soldiers shouted and drew their swords. The blood-soaked knight quietly furrowed his brow. "A promise is a promise. Move."
When the Mullin household troops hesitated, Phoenix shoved them roughly aside.
"...Wait, Sir Phoenix."
As the guards backed away, Doyle, his face ashen, forced a smile. "Fine, fine. You won, so I'll retract what I said. So—"
SLAP!
Phoenix's open palm sent Doyle tumbling violently. Three or four red molars flying through the air was a bonus.
"...Grrk."
"L-Lord Doyle!"
His opponent had already rolled his eyes back and passed out, but Phoenix showed no intention of going easy. He grabbed Doyle by the collar and backhanded the other cheek.
SLAP!
More molars spilled out, and blood sprayed. With just two slaps, the man they were supposed to protect was on death's door, and the soldiers could only stamp their feet helplessly.
"......Whew."
Phoenix, sweeping back his disheveled hair, tossed Doyle aside and looked at the soldiers. "When this bastard wakes up, tell him this."
"......Yes?" "Tell him I'm saving the last hit."
The knight smiled at the ashen-faced soldiers. "Can't very well kill him, can I?"
"...Y-yes, sir."
"Good. Now get lost."
Watching the soldiers gather up Doyle and Eselda and retreat, Phoenix let out a long sigh.