Plains Duel (1)
In the heart of the Botmer army camp stood an open tent. Inside, a portable altar and holy scriptures had been set up, forming a makeshift chapel. It was a foggy winter morning. Two men in white robes knelt within.
One was a young man, the other a seasoned elder.
"Grant us the wisdom to choose rightly amid trials, and deliver justice upon us."
Rutger Joachim von Botmer. The young man's voice was low and devout. Beside him, the bishop clutched a rosary, wearing a mask-like smile.
"Lunch will be soon, Sir Rutger."
"Is that so."
Rutger opened his eyes. He smoothed his disheveled black hair and rose. As he stepped out of the chapel, two guards fell in behind him.
"No deaths last night?"
"We administered last rites to three."
The scent of earth and damp woodsmoke drifted faintly through the fog. Somewhere, a soldier's cough echoed. Sleet had fallen overnight, freezing the ground hard. Soldiers huddled against the cold here and there.
Tsk. Rutger clicked his tongue in displeasure and returned to his command tent.
A boy squire dressed him over his white tunic: first a gambeson, then chainmail, and finally a plated breastplate, securing it all with buckles and leather straps.
"A bit looser."
"Yes, sir."
The squire obeyed Rutger's command.
"Bishop, will you join us?"
"If you wish it."
The old bishop smiled faintly. The squire handed over the longsword with both hands, and Rutger belted it on. Just then, the clank of armor announced a knight's arrival at the command tent.
"You're here, Chevalier."
"Sir Rutger, Bishop Alquin."
The knight dipped his head lightly.
"All prepared?"
"Yes."
Rutger nodded. Five warhorses departed the camp, heading toward the Binvelt army encampment. Rutger and the bishop led, followed by the knight and two guards.
"What's your plan?"
Chevalier asked.
"First, I need to see that brat's face."
Rutger rubbed his dry face. The swan-emblazoned armor felt heavy. He needed an overwhelming victory. And he had to claim Binvelt legitimately. Only then would his father acknowledge him. Only then could he surpass his brother in the succession struggle.
"To other lords, the war with Baron Binvelt looks like mere soldier's play. But how it ends will decide the course of all future wars."
"I know that."
Rutger replied. He didn't show it, but Chevalier's point irked him. His father had assigned this capable knight. The man had taught him swordsmanship since childhood and stood by his side. Without him, crossing the Black Forest would have cost far more casualties. He'd rallied the troops against the beasts, cleaving the path at the forefront. Yet to a young noble overseeing his first war, every word grated—especially as a commander who'd already suffered losses before the fighting even began, due to his own misjudgment.
"Baron Binvelt must be eliminated. But the fight must be honorable. The Goethe collaterals and vassals are watching. If you're thinking of the aftermath, make sure to bind their hearts firmly to Botmer..."
"Heh heh, Chevalier, Sir Rutger knows full well. No malice intended, but you and he start from different points. He doesn't show it, but he sees much farther than you."
Bishop Alquin chided in a gentle voice—though thorns laced it. Chevalier had risen from commoner stock, kindling aura to earn knighthood. That was the bishop's jab.
"My apologies. I overstepped."
"No. Thanks for the reminder."
Rutger answered curtly. Chevalier was trustworthy, always speaking truth, but right now he just scratched at old wounds. Rutger's mind was tangled enough already.
Father plans to send my brother against Goethe in the main war.
Rutger's goal: seize Binvelt with minimal losses, establish a forward base against Goethe, and execute that freshly enfeoffed brat as an example. For arbitrarily hanging Botmer's servant Emil. The count seemed eager to avoid war, even sacrificing his bastard son and Binvelt. But if only the brat's head returned, the story changed. No father could stay idle after his blood was spilled—even a disowned son. From then on, it would threaten the count's prestige.
The question is how to take the brat's head.
Assassination was out. It had to be a legitimate execution after victory in war. Yet he needed to preserve his forces for the real war with Goethe. Crossing the Black Forest had sapped morale with beast attacks. Full battle now would mean heavy casualties, even against Binvelt's smaller numbers. The enemy would fight to the death.
"Bishop, lend me your wisdom."
"Gladly."
The bishop smiled. A simple meal lay on the table in the tent: smoked venison, herb-sprinkled salt pork warmed over fire, rye bread, roasted turnips and onions, dried fruits and nuts, cheese. Mulled wine spiced with cinnamon and cloves stood ready.
"I wondered when you'd show."
A boy in a black tunic sat at the table's center. Gray hair, blue eyes, noble yet somewhat feral. Twelve years old, they said, but he seemed far more mature.
The eyes are just like his.
Rutger recalled the Goethe count's face from childhood. Unmistakably the count's son at a glance. But arrogant, reckless, foolish—unlike his father. Obvious at first sight. Unarmed, with just one guard. A middle-aged man and a maid-like girl, oblivious to danger, tending a fire and a pot. Steam rose from the cauldron on a rickety tripod of branches as soup bubbled.
An unarmed greenhorn baron, a guard with just a sword, servants fixated on food. He could kill them on a whim. Only honor and legitimacy stayed his hand.
Rutger felt relieved, in a way. His opponent was exactly as expected. Luring him out as planned wouldn't be hard.
"You must be Baron Binvelt."
"Got it in one. You're Botmer's young master?"
Isaac looked up at Rutger, chin propped on the table.
"Yes."
"Sit. I'm starving."
Only two chairs at the table. One taken by Isaac, one empty.
"Just these chairs?"
"Yeah. Can't you see? Hans, when's the soup ready!?"
Isaac shouted. Rutger glanced at the elderly Bishop Alquin.
"I'm fine. Please, sit."
At the bishop's words, Rutger reluctantly sat.
"Why'd you bring the old geezer? To brag about your piety?"
"He's my advisor and field chaplain."
"What does a bible-thumper do on a battlefield? Hey, old priest. If I die, you gonna give me last rites?"
Isaac asked in a cheeky tone. Noble looks, but speech like a roadside bandit.
"Of course. The Lord embraces even lost sheep, so if you repent at the end, His grace will follow, Baron."
The bishop replied softly.
"If grace comes from repentance, heaven must be packed with thieves and killers. Me included."
Isaac grinned, downing his wine.
"That'd be a sight."
"We've exchanged pleasantries. Time for the point."
Rutger's displeasure showed.
"Already? Soup's not even out. Hans!"
"Coming now!"
Hans and Enet hurried over with wooden bowls of soup. Rutger frowned at Isaac's leisurely attitude, eyeing the soup before him. It smelled decent, but he had no appetite.
"Try it. My nanny taught the recipe—it's a treat. Mmm, good. Excellent, Hans, Enet."
Isaac blew on his soup and ate heartily, ignoring Rutger and his entourage.
"No poison. Eat, I said? Gets bad when cold."
"I'm not hungry. I came to make a proposal."
"Spit it out."
Isaac reached for bread and meat too. Unbelievably nonchalant for facing the enemy commander. Rutger's face stiffened at being underestimated by this punk.
"As you know, your forces are pitifully outnumbered. Victory is already ours."
"So? Ah, tough. Miss my nanny's white bread."
Isaac grumbled, tearing and chewing rye bread. Rutger barely restrained the urge to smash his fist into the brat's chewing face.
"I don't want needless blood spilled. Soldiers have families waiting."
Chomp chomp. Isaac half-listened, dipping bread in soup, tearing meat by hand and stuffing it in. No thought to manners—he chewed noisily like a glutton. Under the table, Rutger clenched his fist.
"You really not eating? We came early to prep. Rude."
"Who're you to..."
"Two options."
Isaac sucked grease from his fingers.
"First: surrender. I've got weapons you don't know about. Binvelt won't fall. You'll lose eventually."
"You count numbers, do you?"
Rutger finally raised his voice.
"Hey, I'm being nice. Forced through Black Forest, hit by beasts? Morale's rock bottom, casualties too. Supplies lost, right?"
"...How do you...?"
"Scouts saw. Or whatever. Don't wanna spill blood needlessly. Second: ah, won't tear."
Isaac muttered, crumbling rye bread.
"Second... forgot to bring it. Carlson, lend me your gauntlet. Hands are greasy, sorry."
Isaac's hands glistened with oil. He borrowed Carlson's gauntlet, pinched the edge with thumb and forefinger, and tossed it at Rutger.
Plop. It landed in Rutger's soup bowl.
"..."
A vein bulged on Rutger's forehead. For a moment, killing the brat himself seemed fine.
"Ah, sorry. Okay, right? Weren't eating anyway."
"Tell me the second."
Rutger ground his teeth.
"Fight me. You and me."
"Are you challenging me to a duel?"
"Threw the gauntlet. Not mine, but."
Isaac eyed Carlson's scowl.
"Just our blood spilled—enough, no?"
"..."
Rutger looked to Bishop Alquin, who nodded.
"There are conditions."
The next day, Binvelt and Botmer troops faced off across the open plain. A hundred paces apart, the numbers contrasted starkly.
"Ugh, overate."
Isaac rubbed his belly.
"Young master. Asking again—is this right?"
Hans asked anxiously. He'd queried it over ten times already.
"Yeah. Binvelt's on your shoulders. I trust only you, Hans."
"Why me...!"
Hans sighed, face crumpling. He was now clad in gambeson, chainmail, chain leggings, metal breastplate, vambraces, greaves, and boots.
"This right?"
The red-nosed veteran scratched his head while helping Hans into the armor.
"Do it proper. Kid's life on the line."
Bessimer grinned at the red-nose. He found this hilarious.
"Ow—too tight!"
"Yeah? Fuck, gotta have worn it sometime."
Red-nose sweated bullets. They'd pulled rotting armor from storage—never worn by Binvelt troops. Rusty in spots, impossible without help. Red-nose had been a knight's squire once, so they tasked him, but his memory was fuzzy; he fumbled constantly.
"Hans, right? See that tin can? He's scared shitless."
Bessimer slung an arm over Hans's shoulder, pointing to the enemy duelist, already armed and glaring.
A sturdy soldier in full plate armor.
"Gilliam, kill him!"
Hundreds cheered, voices rising. The foe's glare grew murderous.
"That's scared? He's gonna kill me."
"That's fear. Scared dogs bark fiercest."
"Looks like a hound eyeing prey."
"Your imagination."
Bessimer clapped Hans's back. Hans staggered.
"Ugh."
"Shit, hold still."
"Sorry."
Hans apologized amid red-nose's grumbles. Meanwhile, the full-plate foe received Rutger's encouragement and the priest's blessing. Here? Nothing. Isaac yawned boredly; Hans groaned, struggling with the armor.
"Phew, done."
Red-nose finished the plate coat's rear straps.
"Clumsy footwork. Aim for the side."
Carlson advised, eyeing the bow-legged opponent.
Hans swallowed, nodding.
"Surrender if you're dying. We've got backups."
Isaac waved.
"Haa."
Hans sighed, donning the iron helmet. It squeezed his head. He thumped it twice with his gauntlet.
"Don't show off and die. Focus on surviving over winning."
Red-nose handed over the longsword. Hans took it, nodding. Just armored and armed, he felt leaden. Seeing Hans ready, the full-plate opponent strode to the center. Hans advanced too.
"Haa, haa."
His back soaked with sweat already, breath ragged. Heart pounding wildly. He missed his wife and son Peter.