Killing Intent from the Rampart
And so the ground was cleared for a match. The three companies drew back to make a space, and Viscount Cashew took up the referee's place.
Driven out by the baron's order, Chris walked to the center of the empty ground with a sour look on his face. From the far side came a big man whose beard stood stiff as hedgehog quills. He was looking down on Chris.
"Bruno."
Short, and blunt. A civil word earns a civil word back.
"Timothy."
Chris offered the alias with a perfunctory nod. It seemed to needle Bruno. The man glared and drew a two-handed sword as large as his own bulk, the sort of greatsword favored by men who trusted raw strength.
Chris drew as well. Beside that two-hander, his ordinary blade was not even half the length.
Viscount Cashew spoke.
"Closer."
They closed the distance.
"Begin!"
Bruno moved first. He took the greatsword in one hand and swung a horizontal cut at Chris's neck. Catch a blow like that, and a head would leave its shoulders and go flying.
Chris had no wish to drag it out. He met the blade coming for his throat with a short, hard slap. A sharp crack of steel shook the air, and the two-handed sword tore free of Bruno's grip and struck the ground.
For a moment Bruno wore a vacant look, as if he could not understand what had just happened. The cheers of the Calmer Manor soldiers snapped him back to himself. Shame and rage tangled together, and his face went a deep red.
He drew the short sword at his waist.
Chris gave ground and spoke.
"I believe this is already over."
Viscount Cashew shook his head.
"He hasn't yielded."
Watching Bruno thrash like an enraged boar, Chris could tell the man would not admit defeat until he was put on the ground. The instant Bruno came within arm's reach, Chris spun aside and slipped clear.
"Ah—!"
Bruno blew past him. In that same instant the top of Chris's foot cracked into his shin.
"Guh."
Balance gone, the man staggered, and Chris's fist dropped onto the back of his head. A dull thud. That was the end of it. Bruno went down with his face in the dirt.
When Viscount Cashew declared Chris the winner, the soldiers of Calmer Manor whistled and roared. Baron Rohan and the men under him wore the look of people chewing dung.
Chris lifted a hand and answered the cheers in a rough, offhand way. In that same moment he felt a gaze stabbing at the back of his head.
What was that?
He turned at once and looked up. A handsome young man stood on the rampart. Their eyes met, and the stranger sent Chris a strange little smile before vanishing back inside the wall.
Viscount Cashew's troops passed the gate, and Baron Calmer's followed. Chris climbed to his place atop the baggage wagon and sat there with a frown.
Who was that?
The smile nagged at him.
Bruno came to his senses late and looked around for Chris. When he saw the man seated on a wagon, his whole face twisted.
"I lost to some fellow who doesn't even own a horse?"
He could not believe it.
The Master, and a Curious Tale
The manor's troops moved first to the encampment and unslung their gear. The common soldiers stayed behind. Anyone of knightly rank or higher went on separately.
Nobles gathered in the hall of the lord's manor, the heart of Oltrin Castle. A knight was granted the courtesy of half a noble, so Chris had a seat — the lowest in the room. Bruno was near enough to make the chair uncomfortable.
Couldn't I have just stayed with the soldiers?
He grumbled to himself and crossed his legs. The steward saw it and made a noise like phlegm caught in the throat. Chris uncrossed them.
The man kept glaring all the same. The look seemed to scold him outright: how dare a knight who had not even been granted a keep cross his legs in the Count's house.
"The Count approaches!"
At the steward's call, everyone rose. Count Vernon Trent entered with two mages in his train — fierce eyes, a prominent nose, a square jaw, the whole of him giving off a hard, commanding presence. Every other gaze went to the count, who could boast the realm of a Sword Master. Chris's attention was fixed on the mages behind him.
Mages.
The first he had seen in four years.
9-Ring, maybe?
He wanted to know how a 9-Ring mage learned magic, and in what manner they cast it. He wanted to walk over and trade knowledge. He could not. His identity had to stay hidden.
Stifling. Enough to drive a man mad.
"Welcome to the count's castle."
The welcome was short.
"You have my thanks for answering the summons."
Food was laid on the tables. Before the lower knights there was no food, and no table either. Only chairs.
The nobles ate and drank and worked at their acquaintances. In the course of that talk, the sparring match before the gate came up.
Viscount Cashew said, "Baron Calmer flattened Baron Rohan's nose for him, that's what."
"Did he?"
Count Trent's interest put a triumphant look on Calmer's face and a sullen one on Rohan's. Cedric, captain of the knightly order of House Trent, spoke.
"I should like to see it."
Rohan brightened.
"Then let us have a rematch."
Bruno rose from his seat.
"If you will grant me one more chance, I will answer your expectations."
Cedric said, "Ho. Fine spirit."
Put on the spot, Chris hunched his shoulders. Drawing notice was the last thing he wanted. Had mana stones, gold, or a fief been hanging on it as a prize, he might have stepped forward. Trouble with nothing to gain was something he declined.
Bruno planted himself in front of Chris.
"Come out."
Guess I didn't hit him hard enough. Chris was privately weighing whether to beat the bastard to death when the man who had watched him from the wall came in alone, every line of him imposing.
"No need for a match."
Bruno flared at the words.
"Who are you!"
The steward barked, "He is the heir. Watch your tongue."
The color drained from Bruno's face.
"I beg your pardon."
"You didn't know, so there's nothing to pardon. What you ought to apologize for is that worthless eye of yours."
"My eye?"
"Didn't you feel how much Timothy went easy on you?"
"Impossible."
The heir shoved Bruno aside and stood before Chris.
"Betrand Trent."
"Timothy, knight of Calmer Manor."
"Care to have a go with me?"
Chris's eyes went wide.
"Pardon?"
"Let's fight."
"How could the likes of me dare."
Jerry stepped forward with bold enthusiasm.
"Then I'll take his place..."
Before the words were finished, Baron Calmer moved in and pressed a hand down on his son's head. He whispered.
"Shut up."
"Father, why are you doing this?"
"Sir Betrand is a genius who could step into the Sword Master realm at any moment. He is not a man you dare challenge to a duel."
"I'm a genius too..."
Jerry went pale mid-sentence and shut his mouth. Betrand had sent a single thread of killing intent to seal it. Then he looked at Chris.
"Let's fight."
The highborn heir of a count's house was picking a fight like some thug from a back alley.
Chris scratched his head.
"I'm a lacking man."
Jerry said, "He is. He's a fellow who loses to me."
Betrand said, "You let Jerry beat you, didn't you? Same as with Bruno. Why hide what you can do?"
The captain of the count's knights came closer as he spoke.
"A spy out of Grant Kingdom?"
Chris was from Grant Kingdom. He was not a spy. He was a fugitive.
"I'm not."
Betrand said, "If you're not, why hide your skill?"
Chris held out to the last.
"What makes you think I'm hiding it?"
"When I sent killing intent down from the wall, you glared straight at me. In this whole domain, only five have weathered my killing intent and shown me fight in return."
Now even the count was interested.
"Is that so? I'd like to see the two of you fight."
The count was the liege of Chris's own liege. His order could not be refused. And so, after the match before the gate, a second one was laid out in the hall of the lord's manor.
Chris stood facing Betrand.
Low rank, so they just keep forcing me.
It grated. It grated worse that he could not vent the irritation cleanly.
Betrand raised his sword straight, then lowered it.
"A pleasure."
Chris answered flatly.
"What's pleasant about it?"
"No one my age can match me."
"And how old would that be?"
"Thirty."
The same age, now that he thought of it.
"Younger than I expected."
"An old face, is that it? You trying to rile me?"
"The Count looks about forty, so I assumed his son was still a boy."
"Father looks young because he's a Master. Shall we begin?"
"Yes."
Chris lifted his sword in salute.
Betrand did not yield the first move.
"Coming!"
He declared it and charged at once.
"Come on, then!"
Chris had decided to show a measured portion of his skill. A Sword Master was watching. Hide too much, and they would brand him a spy for real.
Betrand's sword drove for the shoulder. Chris turned aside and let it pass. Betrand gave a sound of admiration and whipped the blade around.
"Fast."
The sword came after him, and Chris raised his own to check it.
"You flatter me."
A light chime. Their blades kissed and parted. Betrand was not spending his full strength; he was taking the measure of his opponent, so the shock of the clash stayed small.
"My eye wasn't wrong after all."
Betrand smiled.
"Let's do this properly."
His sword turned blindingly fast. Mana gathered along the edge as it cut the air. Metal mana.
Chris sprang well back. Meet that blade as things stood, and his own would be sheared through.
Putting mana on a sword is a problem.
He could. He must not. It would leap far past the level of skill he had decided to show.
Chris circled and circled without meeting the blade, and Betrand shouted.
"Stop dodging and come at me!"
"I only have the one sword."
"If it breaks, I'll buy you another."
Chris grumbled inwardly.
One, he says. One. As if a sword costs nothing. Tight-fisted brat.
He tested a clash. A hard crack, and the tip of Chris's sword sheared away.
"Cheap steel."
Betrand clicked his tongue as he said it, and never stopped the blade, coming in to split Chris's arm.
Chris dropped his sword to cover the arm. Steel rang, and the blade was cut again. They met once more, and once more it lost length. The sword kept shortening until it was a dagger.
Hard to hold without putting mana in.
Chris did not refine his mana and feed it in the way Betrand did. He shoved it in all at once, every kind jumbled together. The swords met. Wrapped in mana, Chris's blade held this time.
"Now this is worth doing."
Betrand swung with open delight. Blocking him again and again, Chris began to feel something familiar in the swordsmanship. It shared a thread with the Tiger's Breath Jerry used. The power, of course, was so far beyond that a comparison was almost rude.
The Calmer barony's sword art must have branched off from House Trent.
Right about here, the blade comes in low.
At exactly that moment the sword drove for the pit of his stomach. A straight thrust at close range was harder to stop than a cut falling from above or sweeping in from the side. But he had expected it, so it never turned dangerous.
Chris started to open the distance, then changed his mind and caught the point on the blunted, broken edge of his own sword. He angled the blade a fraction and pushed down along it.
Steel screamed. Chris's blade rode the length of Betrand's, throwing sparks. The metallic mana wrapped around Betrand's sword and the mishmash of every mana Chris had dumped into his own collided, churned, and ruptured. The mana in the air around them was dragged into it and heaved.