Your Honorable Head Chef (8)
The knights swaggered out of the castle gate, leaning cockily as they eyed me up and down. Anyone would mistake them for local thugs rather than knights. A foul stench wafted from their sweat- and dust-caked clothes. Don't these bastards ever wash?
"What the fuck are you?" Sure enough, one knight spat out a clichéd line straight out of a street punk's playbook.
"I'm here to see your lord. I got no business with you lot, so step aside. Don't get hurt for nothing."
The knights glanced at each other and snickered at my response.
"Business is already shit these days, and now some worthless fly comes buzzing around to piss us off."
"That 'business' of yours—robbing travelers on the highway? With Rosens open, looks like the good times are over."
"Ha! What a clown."
With nothing more to say, the knights slowly circled me, surrounding me. Outnumbered, they didn't even bother drawing their swords.
"I'll say it one more time. Step aside, and we'll let it slide. But if you keep this up..."
"Your head must be fucked. Nothing cures crazy like a good shock."
Cutting me off, a burly knight stepped forward. Towering a full head above the others, he clearly fancied himself strong.
"I'll fix that head of yours."
"Do your worst."
I shrugged indifferently, as if to say whatever. The giant beckoned me with a hooked finger, and I obliged, stepping forward and thrusting my hand blade straight into his solar plexus. My fingers sank two knuckles deep.
"Gurk...!"
As I yanked my hand free, he pitched forward, slamming face-first into the ground with a crash. He curled up, trembling violently, unable to make a sound.
A chilling silence fell over the knights at the shocking sight. They exchanged glances, none daring to step up.
"Anyone else? Or fuck off, all of you."
"D-Draw swords! Kill him!"
At the shout, the knights whipped out their blades and charged wildly. Fine by me—I'd never planned on letting this slide quietly anyway. Light fractures might've subdued them, but to instill real shock and terror in the other lords, that wouldn't cut it. I'd decided to make an example of them, so best to clean house thoroughly.
I crouched low, dodging the blades, drew my Holy Sword, and swung it in a wide arc from left to right.
"Aaaaaargh!!!"
As the Holy Sword passed, the knights' torsos—severed like wheat stalks to a scythe—floated briefly before thudding down. Their legs followed, collapsing atop the mess. Half the knights dropped in one blow, shattering the survivors' will. They turned tail, fleeing into the castle.
Fake knights, as expected. Real ones don't draw or sheathe so easily.
I strolled after them leisurely. As the last knight ducked inside, the gate slammed shut. Crossbowmen swarmed the ramparts, loosing quarrels at random.
I slipped the bolts with minimal upper-body shifts and reached the gate. The thick timber gate was barred from within. I wedged the Holy Sword between the doors, using it as a lever to wrench sideways. With a boom, the gate tore free, twisting to leave space for one person.
Ducking my head, I slipped inside.
"Uwaaak!"
An ambusher swung a massive mace. Too close to dodge fully, I caught the head in my palm. The knight struggled to wrench it free, but I smashed the mace head into his face. His skull crumpled as he toppled backward.
"To the keep! Everyone fall back! Into the keep!"
Screams and shouts erupted as soldiers retreated to the central manor. Those inside forced the doors shut despite stragglers outside.
"Open up! Fuck! Open the goddamn door!!"
The latecomers pounded frantically, glancing back at me in terror.
"I'll open it—just step aside."
Appearing right behind them, one soldier rolled his eyes back and fainted. The rest scattered without helping their comrade.
I kicked the keep door; the bar and hinges flew off. Stepping over the fallen door amid a volley of quarrels, I fanned the Holy Sword before me, deflecting them all, and pressed on.
The crossbowmen, seeing me close in, ditched their weapons and fled down the stairs.
"Outta the way! Move!"
"Don't pull me, you bastard!"
Benson knights and soldiers filled the gap, though their faces screamed they knew they couldn't stop me.
"Halt! What the hell do you want from us?!"
Finally, one attempted something like negotiation.
"I told you. I'm here for your lord."
"The lord's not here! Come back later! Please!"
"Doesn't matter. I'll handle you first, then find him."
The knight stammered on. "Th-Then we'll clear the way—let us go!"
I eyed them silently before speaking. "You kill without hesitation when it's convenient, then beg like dogs when it's not."
"Listen..."
"That means if things turn after I show mercy, you'll stab me in the back without a second thought."
Despair etched their faces indelibly. No retreat left, they charged.
"All charge!"
"Waaaaah!"
The narrow corridor filled with their roars. I slashed the Holy Sword diagonally from low left to high right. A crescent shockwave raced along its path, engulfing them.
"Uwaaak!"
"Aaaak!"
Bodies cleaved cleanly where the wave hit. It streaked straight down the hall, slicing the lined-up knights like boiled leeks. In seconds, the charging mass carpeted the floor in meat chunks. I stepped over them and ascended the stairs.
Baron Benson's office looked different from my last visit. The door caught my eye—once plain wood, now reinforced iron. That incident must've rattled him.
I smashed through casually and entered.
"Uwaaaah...!"
Baron Benson stood behind his desk, gripping a sword before a yellow shield emblazoned with his house crest, staring at me in horror.
"Long time no see, Baron."
"Y-You... you...!"
"Remember me?"
"U-Uwaaak!"
Losing it, he hurled his sword. I snatched it midair between thumb and forefinger, chuckling.
"I said I'd come back if you kept slinking around. And not empty-handed."
I flung it back like a dagger. It spun and buried deep in his shoulder.
"Kaaaaak! Fuck!"
Shield clattering, he clutched the hilt, howling in agony, frozen.
I approached slowly. "Any guess why I'm back?"
"I don't know...! Don't know, you bastard!"
He grabbed a glass ashtray from the desk and chucked it. As I caught it, he bolted around the desk. Passing me, his head met the ashtray—thick glass shattered, staggering him to the floor.
I stomped the hilt in his shoulder. Bloodcurdling scream erupted.
"Kaaaaaaaak!!!!"
"Benson. Are you one of the six lords hiring mages to block Rosens' north road?"
"Hngiiiik...!"
"No answer? Kick per silence. That's one."
Rearing back, he shrieked madly. "Einart...! Earl Einart's the ringleader! He forced us minor nobles to chip in! We joined 'cause we feared him!"
"So you're innocent?"
"Yes! Kill that Einart bastard! He got the mage and paid most!"
I stared silently. Seeing no kick coming, hope flickered in his eyes.
"But if another Einart stirs trouble, you'd cave again?"
"N-No... never!"
"Bullshit. You did it once; what's stopping round two?"
I planted my foot on the hilt, slowly shoving it toward his neck. The blade sawed like a guillotine, ripping shoulder muscles upward amid his guttural howls. Pain pinned him; foam bubbled from his mouth as I pressed on.
"Grk...!"
Blade slicing his throat, weird gurgles escaped. Half his neck severed, the blade tore free upward.
"Piiiik... piiiik..."
A flute-like wheeze from the incomplete cut. Blood pooled, spreading. I left him and exited.
Serf Grichiye of Baron Benson's domain led a wretched life. Born a serf, like all in this era, he'd never left the fief, toiling fields, hard labor, heavy taxes.
Benson, of bandit stock, ruled tyrannically; his knights were thug scum. But Grichiye, raised under it, saw no wrong—just life as endless toil.
Today, sweating under the blazing sun, a boom straightened his back. Benson's keep entrance seemed crumbling.
What now...? More conscripted repairs? Hope it's not me...
He bent back to work. Soon, another sight forced him up: Benson's soldiers fleeing weaponless across ridges.
What's this? Battle? Draft? Pray it skips my age.
Refocusing, a ear-splitting crash dropped him. Frantic, he scanned.
"The keep...!"
A fellow serf pointed, trembling. The keep tilted amid dust clouds.
"Heavens...!"
As they gaped, it toppled fully, collapsing.
Grichiye sighed. Rebuild means hell for us folk.
I brushed dust from my clothes, surveying the rubble. That ought to deter other nobles' schemes. If the nobility rises against me? My answer: "Dare you?"
Benson's done. Five left: Daisley to Audrion. Time to head west?
To bypass Rosens to the kingdom's north, one must skirt the Vurn Mountains' west. East is impassable terrain.
Stay overnight in crown-held Bue south of Rosens, then hug the mountains' south end westward. North from the western tip to destination.
Simple, but grueling: detour fiefs. Travelers pay tolls, inflated inn rates, occasional shakedowns by knights.
Early fiefs post-Bue are notorious thugs—pockets still full at detour start.
Rosens' north road opening gutted their illicit gains. From Benson onward: Daisley, Briock, Grancis, Einart... to Audrion barony near mountains' taper.
Midnight, Audrion keep's second-floor door creaked open. Barefoot Francois Audrion, the baron's daughter, padded into the hall. Tall, with lush chestnut semi-curls, sharp eyes hinting intelligence.
She paused, listening. Only summer crickets; all asleep. Downstairs to outbuilding kitchen.
Servants abed late-night; empty. She lit a small candelabrum. Worktables, hearth, tools emerged from dark.
Audrion finances strained by baron's vanity; kitchen meager vs. nobles'. Francois didn't care. Entering thrilled her—though sneaking.
She rolled sleeves, beaming. "Now, what to cook tonight?"
