Plains Duel (2) – Eve of the Duel
The day before the duel. Though the meal with the Baron of Binvelt had ended, Rutger once again summoned the head chef to prepare lunch. He hadn't touched a single spoonful during the baron's feast.
"I never expected the baron to accept so readily."
"Heh, he's just a twelve-year-old boy who can't tell heaven from earth, no matter how much his body has grown. A notorious wastrel, isn't he? Where there's no fire, there's no smoke."
"Still, what he said felt like he'd peered right into our camp."
"No need to worry. As the saying goes, he must have recited reports from his patrols."
Bishop Alquin flashed a generous smile at Rutger, who still looked unconvinced. The bishop was in high spirits. Rutger had moved exactly as he wished, and Isaac's reaction was precisely what he'd hoped for.
When Rutger had asked to borrow his wisdom, the bishop proposed a 10-on-10 duel. Isaac might have a knight or warrior or two, but this was a direct matchup of ten against ten. Each side selects ten fighters for one-on-one duels, with winners advancing to face the next opponent.
This format overwhelmingly favored Rutger's side. Not only did he have knights like Chevalier, but he'd also brought fifty elite soldiers. Among them were men whose skills rivaled knights, even if they weren't aura users.
The foolish wastrel, oblivious to these calculations, had accepted the duel.
"Chevalier, what do you think?"
Rutger turned to his guard knight, who was quietly eating.
"We should advance."
Chevalier replied without pausing his meal.
"You're suggesting we ignore the path that spills less blood and force a full-scale battle?"
The bishop scowled.
"Trying to spill less blood might cost Young Master his head."
"What nonsense is this!?"
"Bishop, calm down. Let's hear what he has to say."
Rutger soothed the bishop's outburst and pressed him.
"Do you remember the guard standing behind the Baron of Binvelt?"
"The black-haired man?"
"Yes. Do you know who he is?"
"He looked familiar. But I can't place him."
"He's Cayenne's son, Kyle."
"...!"
Rutger's relaxed expression darkened.
"Who's got you so rattled? Someone you know?"
"A man entangled with bad blood from our house. I saw him once before my grand tour, and when I returned home, I heard he'd died..."
Rutger answered the bishop's question.
"Do you remember the additional condition the Baron of Binvelt proposed?"
"He said we'd stake our necks on it. So then..."
Rutger's face shifted through shades of unease—all bad.
A 10-on-10 duel. And Isaac had added one more condition: the losing side would be executed before both camps.
Rutger had dismissed it as the whim of a wastrel and accepted. It was exactly what he'd wanted to propose himself. Honorable victory. The pretext for inevitable war, gained by executing the count's firstborn. He could have it all.
Defeat, on the other hand, meant offering his own head. But that wouldn't happen. He was certain.
"From what I see, Kyle came intent on revenge."
"Then the Baron of Binvelt is... just a puppet?"
"That's a possibility."
Chevalier finished the bowl before him and replied.
Two fully armored soldiers clashed. Calling it a clash was almost embarrassing. One side was utterly overwhelmed.
Every time Binvelt's soldier blocked Botmer's soldier's longsword, he staggered. He looked on the verge of collapse.
"Sending a kitchen hand who boils soup to a duel—looks like they really are short on talent."
The bishop's face was one of satisfaction. But Rutger remained troubled throughout.
"Don't take Chevalier's words too seriously. He isn't of noble blood. He's limited by his birth."
The bishop spoke freely, even with Chevalier at his side.
"Aren't all men equal in value before God?"
"He established order to maintain harmony in the world. Those who pray, those who fight, those who labor. Each must fulfill their role. Rejecting that disrupts His order."
"I'm not here for doctrinal debate. Chevalier, are you confident you'll win?"
Rutger glanced at Isaac's group, standing a hundred paces away. Their expressions were hard to make out.
"I never crossed paths with Kyle. But he's skilled—that much is certain. I can't guarantee the outcome."
Chevalier answered flatly.
"The first duel seems about to end. As expected, Gilliam dominates."
Gilliam relentlessly pressed Binvelt's soldier but occasionally held back with feigned leisure. He could have ended it in one stroke but toyed with him instead—to crush Binvelt's morale and sow fear.
Yet Rutger's gaze lingered not on the duel, but on the withered bushes and yellowed clumps of grass. A biting wind grazed his cheek like a blade's edge.
Compared to Binvelt's camp—gambesons thrown on like spectators, weapons grabbed haphazardly—Botmer's soldiers were fully equipped. Behind their lines, at the base of the hill, twenty cavalry waited. On Rutger's orders.
Whatever the duel's outcome, victory was Botmer's. The moment Binvelt's forces carelessly ventured into the open plain, the tide had turned.
Isaac's eyes gleamed gold.
"Why send Hans out first?"
Carlson's black hair tousled in the cold wind. To him, Isaac seemed disinterested in the duel, staring blankly into the distance.
"Lowest chance of dying first. Atmosphere isn't heated yet, and the enemy has the leisure to show mercy."
"He could be made an example."
"Hans will surrender before that. If it looks dangerous, you go save him."
"That starts a full battle."
"It's a full battle anyway. See their armor?"
At Isaac's question, Carlson glanced at Botmer's lines. He'd noticed long ago. Botmer's fully armed troops simmered with intent to charge if needed.
Binvelt's soldiers, by contrast, showed no tension.
"Uwooooh! Hans, kill him! Kill!"
Excited battle tribesmen roared, while soldiers shouted jeers or cheers indistinguishable.
"Hans, fight back, you moron!"
"Surrender and we'll cut your dick off, bastard!"
They were simply enthralled by the spectacle.
"You think Hans will win?"
"No, I sent him to lose."
"Why?"
"This experience will make him feel his limits keenly. Maybe he'll give up and return to the manor. Better than half-measures. Death surrounds me, after all."
Isaac's voice was somber. But the chill in his golden-glowing eyes was piercing.
Carlson watched Hans and the enemy clash. Their longswords rang with a metallic screech. Hans's grip weakened; he dropped his sword.
"Stupid fuck! How do you drop your sword!?"
Bessimer bellowed. Isaac grimaced and rubbed one ear.
"I haven't seen those two hellhounds we spotted before."
Carlson suddenly remarked.
"Oh? You noticed?"
"One had a burn on its right forepaw, the other a knife scar on its muzzle."
"Good eye."
"Rutger's always harbored an inferiority complex toward his brother. That impatience probably led to his reckless march through the Black Forest to Binvelt. It's the faster route."
"You know your stuff."
"I served Botmer. So I ask: Were the beasts that ambushed Rutger's army in the Black Forest hellhounds?"
"Spot on."
Isaac admitted readily.
The Botmer house was noble, but originally a merchant family from the republic. Thus, Bernsi's mayor Benders knew them well too. Isaac had leveraged info extracted from him: Rutger craved paternal recognition through feats.
"Not just hellhounds. The beasts herded by them contributed too."
"Then those two are dead."
"Three, actually. They had some skilled ones over there. Unexpected losses."
"Bessimer won't like that."
Hellhounds were Baitur tribesmen transformed by shamanism—once comrades to Bessimer.
"He knows already. He'll demand blood price soon enough."
Isaac scratched his cheek. The duel neared its end.
Hans, barely recovering his longsword by rolling, dropped it again. Jeers erupted from Binvelt's soldiers. He couldn't hear them anyway. His life hung by a thread.
Finally, Hans abandoned retrieving the sword. Swordplay couldn't win. Small mercy: stamina favored him slightly or equally. His plate-armored foe tired as the duel dragged, movements sluggish. Hans's lighter gear left him room to maneuver—thanks to his training.
Now, the enemy couldn't kill Hans easily. Overconfidence bit back. Harsh breaths leaked from his visor. His sweeping longsword missed Hans, carving the dirt instead.
Hans recalled Carlson's advice: Poor footwork. Aim for the side.
As the foe raised his sword, Hans lunged into his flank and tackled. Exhausted, the soldier couldn't bear the plate's weight plus Hans's, losing balance. They tumbled entangled.
The enemy still gripped his longsword, trying to shove or slash, but too close. No power or acceleration; it failed to pierce Hans's chainmail. Fists in gauntlets hammered each other until exhaustion forced a stalemate—a dog's brawl.
Still, Hans held the edge, mounted and pinning with body weight. But his strength waned too. He had to end it. Empty-handed. Both longswords lay discarded far off.
But a spare blade remained: the enemy's sidearm dagger at his belt.
Restraining the thrashing foe, Hans drew it. The soldier bucked wildly. Hans panicked equally. Every stab glanced off armor. No gaps at neck and helm—iron gorget blocked the blade.
The enemy tried flipping. Hans pressed with all his might. Desperate, he jabbed the visor slit—for vision clearance.
"Gaaahhh—fuck you!"
A horrific scream echoed. The dagger slipped diagonally. Not lethal. Hans yanked and thrust anew.
"Gaaahhh!"
Straight this time. The thrashing slowed, screams faded. The soldier shuddered violently. Fearing counterattack, Hans stabbed again.
No reaction.
"Hahk, hahk, hahk—"
Only then did Hans hear his own gasps. Feel his heart pounding to burst.
Waaaaah—!
Binvelt's cheers rang out. But Hans still didn't grasp what he'd done. He slumped dazed, staring at the corpse. Blood oozed steadily from the helm.
Compared to that long first duel, the next flew by.
Whoosh—Bessimer swung his axe.
Splat!
The second foe cleaved in half, helm and armor alike.
Whoosh—Bessimer swung.
The third shattered with shield and plate.
The fourth Botmer soldier, the fifth—same fate.
Rutger felt it. Fear spreading like plague among his men.
He had to decide.