Chapter 8: Knights and Their Titles
Even knights of the same caliber were called by different names depending on their specialization. Scouts and rangers needed swift bodies and keen eyesight. The knight who ambushed Strekl was one such scout.
No sooner had Marhal spoken than the scout knight beside Strekl drew a dagger from his sleeve and swung it. It was an attack Strekl would have easily parried under normal circumstances. But his body and mind were exhausted. The demon with the body of a horse had the strength to match. Strekl had single-handedly blocked its charges several times to create openings, and that had taken its toll. His body ached with fatigue, his mind reeled from the battles ahead, and his eyes were still dazzled from the sudden sunlight.
Strekl pressed his back against the wall, relying on his ears instead of his sight to gauge his surroundings.
'Not quite fatal.'
His throat had been slashed, but the high collar of his full plate armor had saved him from a deeper wound. Still, it wasn't a minor cut. In the wilds without priests or potions, any open wound meant death. Even applying herbs right now would be a close call. He regretted not bringing his helmet. Regret always came too late.
From the side came the sound of a sword slicing through the air—a noise he'd heard hundreds of times a day, a lifetime's companion. From the sound alone, he could visualize the blade's arc and its target. Instead of blocking, he swung at the sword's wielder.
A shock hit his side. His own swing connected with a solid thunk. A few drops of liquid splattered his face. Then, amid shouts and more sword whistles, the sound of a body crumpling.
The immediate threat was over, but the crisis wasn't.
'What in the world is happening?'
It was the prince's order: Kill Strekl. The words had come from one man's mouth, and in response, knights from both the Empire and the Duchy had drawn their blades as one. It defied everything he knew.
Humans feared the incomprehensible. It was the instinct screaming to flee mortal danger. In the corner of the secret passage, Strekl felt utter terror. Not from the knights' screams or their blades, but from the voice that might erupt again. Trembling, he gripped his sword tighter. His vision was slowly returning.
Rebella stood protectively over the fallen Bayola, drawing her sword. Its tip pointed at Marhal.
"Who are you?"
"To survive in the West, you pick up all sorts of skills."
"One more unrelated word, and I'll cut your throat."
Rebella glared at Marhal with fury, hostility, and wariness. She felt like a fool for pitying him even briefly. The most dangerous person had been right beside her, and she'd missed it. Fluent in two languages, a mage, appearing as if he'd foreseen everything. There were plenty of reasons to suspect him. She'd ignored them all herself.
"I've got a brother-like figure. Real jack-of-all-trades. Slices clouds with his sword, subdues thirty thousand troops without killing a soul... you know, that kind of legend."
"Lies like..."
Rebella trailed off. Slicing clouds? Facing thirty thousand? Someone who could do that existed—the greatest feat in human history. Stronger than anyone, stronger than a nation. Known more by epithet than name. The Hero.
She swallowed. If true, this man knew the Hero. An Imperial most-wanted's acquaintance. On the surface, the Hero was the savior of the world, honorary duke of the Muet Empire. But the emperor had quietly declared he'd grant the wish of anyone who bound or killed him. The Hero was too strong. What could stop a man who subdued armies if he turned against a nation? So the emperor had put a bounty on him.
"He told me once: 'Even when mouths lie, bodies tell the truth.' In the fight earlier, the Duchy and Imperial knights were eyeing each other oddly, so I took a shot. Worked better than expected."
"Eyeing each other?"
"Duchy knights and Imperial knights. Enemy demons. Risky joint fight. Who's the biggest threat?"
"Duchy knights."
The two-headed demon fight had been brutal. No room to stab backs. That very intensity had been a blessing. A sloppier brawl might've sparked a massacre midway. The demon was strong, forcing reluctant cooperation.
"From their view, enemy knights."
"Fair enough."
"So they'd watch enemy knights, not their own."
"We vetted our escorts thoroughly. No spies."
"Nothing's absolute. Pre-Demon King, saying demons existed would've gotten you labeled mad. Pre-Hero, claiming one man could topple a nation? No one would've believed it. But now? Heaven knows, earth knows, everyone under the sky knows."
Demons existed. They had a king. A man felled him.
"One more time: Are you sure?"
Her family had overseen every escort selection. She wanted to say absolutely not... but the results spoke.
Rebella lowered her sword. Blood trickled from her bitten lip.
Land races meant camping. If they'd drawn blades at night, could she have stopped it? As Bayola's direct guard, she outshone others, but two or more? No confidence.
"Wrapping up. Do you know how to swing a sword?"
"...Do it yourself."
"I know a few spells, but my combat's lousy. Spare Strekl if you can."
Lousy fighter? Now? But she couldn't refuse. Everything was in his hands. Behind her lay Bayola, her liege, whom she must protect with her life. No wonder she'd fainted seeing arterial blood—her blood phobia.
Fine. Dance once to earn his favor? Worth it.
She plunged into the near-finished melee. Indiscriminate chaos; all bore wounds. She parried upward, severing one wrist, then arced to graze a throat. Duchy knights thrust from both sides. She leaped, dodging, kicked off the wall, spun midair. Upside-down, her eyes met the thrusting knight's. Their bulging eyes; silver lines traced their throats.
If not a guard, she'd have joined an Imperial order as a tracker. Swift feet, tracking knowledge, survival skill against quarry. She had it all.
All eyes turned to Rebella. She shouted in Duchy tongue:
"Strekl! Keep your promise!"
First Duchy words from prideful lips—calling him. Distrustful knights couldn't dismiss it as bluff. As eyes scattered, her blade drew more silver lines. Head-on, she could block two guards max. But fights weren't just sword arms. That high knight, cornered and choking despite strength enough to fell them all, proved it.
Rebella outperformed Marhal's expectations. He approached the fainted Bayola.
"Enough acting."
"I'm fainted. Don't talk to me, magic peasant."
Bayola rolled over like a sulky child burrowing into blankets.
"Sleepwalkers talk these days, huh."
"Yeah, sleepwalking. Explains the out-of-character stuff. How long you known?"
"Bodies tell the truth."
"Handy excuse. But the faint was real. Woke up fast, that's all."
Bayola hadn't conquered her hemophobia. But she hadn't quit trying. Her fallback: wake from faints as quick as possible.
"Wish it were that easy. Born advantages are enviable."
"Don't talk like you know."
"No, I will. Must be nice, coasting through life."
Descending the passage, Bayola had leaped with Rebella from a height Marhal feared leg injury from, roping down. No bone-grinding training like knights. No scars of discipline.
History was power. A farmer's son? At best, ancestral farming sped learning plows. Great farmer, maybe societal boon—but world-changer? No.
Yet birth alone granted history sometimes. Like royalty. Bayola Muesilrigo's bio would start:
[Bayola Muesilrigo was born the emperor's daughter.]
Chapter 1, verse 1. One line. That line piled Empire's history on her. Surpassing lifetimes of common toil. History was power. Born the emperor's daughter, she matched knights sans effort. Some slaved to superhumanity. Some slaved, failed. Some born superhuman.
"Waking fast? Easy words. Know there are hundreds of knockout techniques? If willpower alone sufficed, they'd be obsolete. But they're not—impossible. What others can't despite lifetimes, you did with effort."
"You talk big 'cause you've never seen real monsters! What do you know!"
"Nothing. Don't need to, don't want to, worthless to know."
Bayola rose. Bone-chilling cold raced her spine to skull. Marhal walked to the cleared field.
'Hallucination?'
She shuddered, recalling the freeze.
Rebella slew all knights but Strekl. She wasn't unscathed: long gash on arm, chainmail shattered beneath torn cloth.
"Didn't seem battle-hardened, but you've got a knack for it."
"Not thrilled by your praise."
"Pity. Ah, skip pricey potions—come here."
Marhal neared Strekl. Rebella, curious and wary, stuck close.
Strekl clutched his throat with one hand, nearly strangling it, blood still seeping. Back to wall, pool at feet.
"Watch this trick."
Marhal palmed Rebella's wound. Horrid touch; she gritted teeth. Pain brief. Odd warmth, then swept—wound gone, pale new flesh.
She touched it. "...Priest's miracle?"
"Magic, not miracle. Can't fix organs, but vessels and muscle? Manageable. Strekl, Duchy high knight. War hero, spurned by homeland, discarded. Want to live? Achieve anything?"
Hope reignited Strekl's eyes. Middle-aged, nearing twilight—yet passion burned eternal. No ambition, no abandoning all for West.
He nodded.
"Drop the sword. I believe you retain knightly honor."
Dropping blade: surrender. Ambushing after? Honor suicide.
Strekl released it. Marhal approached. Strekl offered palm: four fingers.
"Four seconds max?"
Nod.
"Faster."
Hand off—blood sprayed. Marhal reached in, fingers caressed. Near-fatal knit. Wound healed, but blood loss lingered. Finally, knees buckled.
"...This grace, I'll repay."
Strekl collapsed.
"Finally over. Glad it ended well. Help move him? I'll head up."
Ignoring Rebella's reply, Marhal climbed. Kicked corpses tumbled down. Torches drowned in blood, extinguished. Dusk's crimson crept in. Dead knights and bloodbath faded in stair shadows.