Arcane Mercenaries: Insurrection, page 22
Amidst the revelry, Grant remained watchful. A concealed blade hidden within these luxurious garments could quickly bring a tragic end to this hopeful uprising. His gaze never strayed far from Dominick, scrutinizing every interaction, every gesture. Ez, too, kept a sharp eye on the crowd, her watchfulness a constant, silent guard against any unseen threat.
Dominick beckoned for the evening's entertainment before the dessert. Servants scurried alongside the sprawling tables, their hands expertly refilling glasses and leaving behind jugs of ale and bottles of wine. Musicians attended to their instruments, fine-tuning strings and moistening reeds, their voices softly rehearsing familiar melodies.
Grant found himself wondering at the efficiency of it all. Where had Dominick managed to summon a troupe of musicians at such short notice? Undoubtedly, the resourceful steward had a network of connections, a hidden web that knew where to gather the finest entertainment.
As the first tentative notes wafted through the hall, silencing the conversations, an air of anticipation swept the crowd. Grant's vigilance remained unbroken, his gaze sharp and alert.
The sudden pounding at the main entrance shattered the serene moment. Grant pivoted towards the sound, his heart pounding with the heavy knocks. As the guards pulled open the broad door, three figures stepped into the grandeur of the hall, their entrance a stark disruption to the festive mood.
"We demand the rights of travelers."
The proclamation echoed throughout the hall. The Knights of the Star had returned, chilling the ongoing festivities.
They wore battle attire, their black tunics hanging to their knees, and gleaming mail shimmered as they moved. Emblazoned on their chests was a five-sided star, a symbol of their allegiance, its red hue a stark contrast against the dark fabric.
Grant sprung into action. Ez was on his heels as they rushed to the hall’s entrance. Dominick's soldiers swiftly filled the entryway, forming a barrier between the intruders and the great hall.
"It is the custom in these lands for all nobles to honor the rights of travelers," the leader of the Knights proclaimed, his helmet tucked under his arm. His smile was a cruel curve, his words laced with a venomous undercurrent that sent a chill down Grant's spine. "The custom dates back centuries, or is the prince about changing everything from the past?"
Before Grant could throw them out, Prince Dominick's command carried from the far end of the room. He stood by his grand chair, flanked by his senior commanders, and issued orders. "Allow them entry. We honor our ancient traditions and have seats for travelers. Offer them the meal." His voice echoed through the hall, a command wrapped in the guise of courtesy.
The knights shouldered their way past Grant and Ez and moved toward the prince. Grant surged his power, ready to pounce on any of them that reached for a weapon as they approached Dominick. He wouldn’t embarrass the prince by striking first.
“I wonder who offered prayers of grace for such a splendid meal,” the female knight said loud enough for her voice to carry along the walls.
“Where is your chaplain?” the second knight asked Dominick, only steps away from the young man.
“Please take your seats and enjoy the drink and food,” Dominick said. “We were about to start the evening’s entertainment.”
“We care not for the lies told by minstrels or the fables sung by bards,” the knight leader said. “But we will take our meal with you in this magnificent hall stolen from its rightful ruler.”
Unease rippled through the nobles, their shared glances echoing a silent prediction of a turbulent night. Dominick stood resolute amid the tension, his adherence to tradition unwavering. Dominick’s handling of this intrusion would be etched into the nobles' memories.
"I would remind the esteemed knights that the right of travelers ends at dawn," Dominick declared, his voice laced with cordiality, his smile benign yet firm. "However, my decree remains. With the morning light, you will face charges."
A heavy silence descended on the room, broken only by the echo of Dominick's words. Grant subtly adjusted his stance, his muscles coiled like a spring, ready for any threat to the prince. The knights, seated and seemingly at ease, would not clear a sword from their sheaths.
"Then we invoke the right of challenge," the lead knight retorted, his proclamation coinciding with the arrival of servers bearing plates of bread and meats.
Grant's heart plummeted.
"What is the challenge?" Dominick asked, his youthful curiosity overriding his regal posture.
Grant felt a surge of dread. Despite his quick reflexes and years of experience, he was powerless to prevent the prince from stepping into the well-laid snare.
Catrin had to recover to help the young man.
“We request single combat to revoke our banishment and contest your claim to the crown."
The gathering waited for the response. Dominick, bound by tradition and watched by the aristocrats rallying behind him, was caught in a precarious position. To accept was absurd; he held the upper hand, the crown within arm's reach. Engaging in single combat was reckless, a gamble too great to risk.
Yet, in the presence of this assembly, denial wasn't an option.
"I accept," Prince Dominick declared.
A groan escaped Grant’s lips, echoing his mounting dread. Across the room, the lead knight's smile widened, a triumphant glint in his eyes.
40
DUELING
Nobles, decked in their finest silks and velvets, bore witness to the knights' voracious feast. The musicians melted away into the evening’s embrace, leaving behind the sounds of the order’s knives and forks assaulting their meal. The knight challengers paid no heed to the mercenary duo keeping vigil at their flanks.
Dominick, weary of the tension coiling in the air around him, retreated to his place at the lavishly adorned table. Curious eyes trailed his departure, their thoughts tangled in a web of anticipation and dread. The fate of the insurrection swayed in the hushed silence.
Grant frowned as he watched the knights gorge themselves on the meal and wondered why Dominick would accept the obvious ploy. But the answer whispered itself in the recesses of his mind - Dominick had no other option.
The knights wiped the remnants of their feast from their hands and mouths. They lifted their gaze, a predator's challenge burning in their eyes. One by one, the nobles recoiled from the intensity of their stare. The Knights of the Star sent ripples of intimidation coursing through the room. Only the prince and his mercenaries stood unfazed, a bastion of resilience.
The lead knight’s piercing gaze drifted away from the murmuring assembly, settling with a dangerous intensity on the prince.
"As dawn breaks, I propose we execute our right of challenge," the lead knight's voice rang out, as resolute as iron.
Dominick, ever stoic, offered a nonchalant nod of agreement.
"Single combat, swords only,” the knight elaborated, a predatory smile on his lips. “We fight to the death.”
The clatter of a dropped plate echoed through the room, a dissonant note amid the rising chorus of confusion. Nobles sprang to their feet, their whispers growing into a frenzy of shock and disbelief. Amid the turmoil, Dominick remained seated and showed no glimmers of the emotions undoubtedly raging within his mind.
Grant's mind raced to recall the intricacies of the right of challenge, lessons imparted by his father that Grant had dismissed as vanity-fueled folly. He had scoffed at the thought of duels, of fighting to the first blood or squaring off with pistols at dawn. But now, he wished desperately for his father's guidance, his dismissiveness replaced with a gnawing regret.
“I will champion the prince,” Grant declared, the words spilling forth before his mind could catch up. His voice echoed in the grand hall, but he wasn’t sure if the nobles heard him in the chaos. He repeated them louder, clearer. A sudden hush fell over the crowd, the murmurs fading into a stunned silence.
The lead knight swiveled, rising to his full stature to confront Grant. His chiseled and hardened features bore the mark of a man in his prime, his youth still aflame yet tempered by the confidence of experience. His eyes, void of fear, locked onto Grant's, challenging the battle-hardened resolve of the Arcane Mercenary captain.
If it had been a contest of pistols, Ez would have been the ideal choice. But in the dance of blades, Grant was unmatched. He could not let Dominick cross swords with the church or take the risk against this confident knight. The young prince needed distance, and Grant was willing to be the shield.
"Nothing more than a sell-sword," the lead knight sneered, his words heavy with contempt.
"I am an Ismorian citizen," Grant retorted calmly. "I have the right to stand for the prince if he accepts me as his champion."
For a fleeting moment, Grant noticed a crack in the knight's façade. Their meticulous research into Ismore's customs had not accounted for this unexpected twist.
Prince Dominick's voice rang out then, "I accept Grant Gwydian as my champion."
A playful grin curled up on Ez's lips, "And I, his second." Unshouldering her musket, she held it in the crook of her elbow, a silent vow of support.
A nod of approval from Grant sealed the decision. Who better to have at his side?
"Hope you enjoyed your last supper," Grant tossed casually at the lead knight, igniting a spark of defiance in his eyes.
“Courting death?" the second knight questioned in Alenann, positioning himself between the soon-to-be combatants.
"I'll be his second," the female knight announced, her declaration punctuated by her silverware knife slamming into the table.
Unfazed by the Order of the Star’s grandstanding, Grant dismissed their bluster with a nonchalant shrug.
"Why delay till dawn?" Ez questioned, a spark of challenge flickering in her eyes.
"We must respect the right of travelers," Dominick interjected, his voice laced with a firm resolve. "They sought shelter, and I provided. I won't have my champions undermine my decisions or the duties I owe to this assembly."
The prince's words resonated with Grant. Dominick demonstrated his authority over the assembly and solidified his position as the future ruler of Ismore. Grant was more than willing to cross blades with the knight. But if the man desired to wait for the dawn's first light, he'd oblige.
"Courtyard, at sunrise," Grant proposed, his voice echoing in the silent hall.
"Agreed," the lead knight responded, a grim satisfaction lining his features. "And the prince must bear witness."
41
SINGLE COMBAT
The first rays of dawn arrived too soon after a pensive night. Grant's battle gear lay sprawled before him - his chainmail, weapons, and shield all polished to a mirror sheen. Ez found someone to repaint the shield in the hues of Dominick's sigil. As the champion, Grant’s allegiance needed to be clear, his colors an unmistakable symbol amid the frenzy of the duel.
“Nervous?” Ez asked, her fingers deftly adjusting his tunic as he moved to fasten his belt.
Unfamiliar anxiety stirred within Grant this morning, prompting him to forgo his usual breakfast with the soldiers. Ez must have noticed his absence, and he couldn’t fool her with fake smiles or military bravado.
"He recognized me, but showed no concern when I stepped forward as champion.” Grant turned back to his weaponry, his fingers tracing the edge of his sword, searching for any imperfections. The keep’s blacksmith had scrutinized his blade throughout the night, and it was as fine a weapon as any.
"Do you think it's part of their scheme?" Ez probed further, her gaze never leaving his face. "To target us instead of the prince?"
“Wouldn't add up," Grant countered, his brow furrowing. "Without the prince, we're merely a band of mercenaries. With Dominick, we pose a threat."
“It’s the Order of the Star, Grant..." Ez's voice trailed off, a touch of concern creeping into her tone. "Catrin is still recovering from their last assault, and I have scars. We have no idea what else Gornick has prepared for this group."
Ez's usual light-hearted demeanor had faded, replaced by a tangible tension. They were dancing to Wallner's tune and knew the man was never without a strategy. Grant drew in a breath and nodded his readiness.
“Thank you, Ez.”
“Don’t get killed.”
Grant stepped into the courtyard and plunged into a sea of anxious anticipation. Noble spectators crammed the battlements. The joyous smiles worn so easily at a banquet were replaced with apprehension. Additional stands had been erected against the castle walls, accommodating even more aristocracy. Even the grand entrance to the palace had been transformed into a canopy for Prince Dominick to observe the fateful duel for his birthright. Grant couldn't help but wonder whether the steward had meticulously arranged the seating according to courtly protocol.
The knights were poised in a triangular formation, their helms already donned, a fortress of steel and determination. The lead knight was a dark figure, his shield mirroring the somber tones of his tunic, save for the conspicuous red star emblazoned upon it. They stood, statuesque and unyielding, as Grant made his way towards the designated battleground, a circle marked out in stark white lime.
The moment Grant crossed the threshold into the arena, the atmosphere tightened. There was no cheer, no applause. This wasn't a spectacle, despite the crowds of onlookers. There were no bookies collecting wagers, no whispers of odds in the crowd. Instead, the aristocrats remained seated, their eyes riveted on the two combatants closing the distance, waiting for the dance of blades to commence.
“Rules?” Ez asked her opposing second.
“To the death. That too hard for you to understand?” she asked.
“Let’s hope this goes to seconds,” Ez said, not backing down. “We understand the terms.”
Grant's hand slipped into the worn leather straps of his shield as he unsheathed his sword, the cool morning air sliding across the exposed steel. The shield was an excellent choice - lightweight yet sturdy enough to withstand a barrage of blows. Grant's preference leaned towards a heavier blade than most, a preference that he could counterbalance with a mere flicker of his StarTouched power when required.
For a moment, he contemplated overpowering his opponent in a swift, resounding victory, sparing the spectators the spectacle of a prolonged fight. Dominick needed a win, and Grant's reputation as a formidable StarTouched warrior was already well-established. He had to be cautious; the lead knight was too confident.
The beginning of the duel wasn't marked by a verbal command or blast of a horn. The swords lifted in a silent salute, their glinting edges catching the first rays of sunlight, and the dance of steel commenced.
As their swords clashed, the initial exchange of blows served as a revelation of their respective skills. Grant's opponent was no novice with his blade as he shifted through practiced movements. His defensive strategy leaned heavily on his shield, held high and outstretched, as if it were a holy emblem in a sacred rite.
The knight launched himself into a sequence of attacks straight out of a combat manual, each striking against Grant's defense of shield and sword. The order trained its warrior well. But the knight, like many religious comrades, lacked the raw, unfiltered experience of a real battlefield. Training grounds were a poor substitute for the chaotic dance of war.
Grant calmly weathered the onslaught, letting the knight exhaust his catalog of perfectly executed strikes. Each blow was deflected by either his shield or his sword, carefully avoiding any prolonged contact that might dull Grant’s blade. His feet moved in an intricate pattern across the yard, a constant shuffle that kept his opponent on his toes, struggling to maintain the rhythm of his assault.
As the duel progressed, a question nagged at the back of Grant's mind: was this all the knight had to offer?
Grant adjusted his grip on the sword, shifting it to a position he liked. He knew he was showcasing this change to his opponent, but he was curious to see how the knight would react. The knight continued his bashing attacks, chipping the paint off Grant’s shield.
With a sudden burst of speed, Grant became the aggressor. His shield and sword transformed into a whirlwind of offense. He led with his shield colliding with the knight's with a resounding crash as his blade sought a breach in the man's guard. Just as their swords threatened to lock at the crossguards, Grant withdrew, stepping back from the brink of engagement.
The preliminary dance of honor had run its course, and Grant decided it was time to draw the curtain on this theatrical duel. The very notion of determining the fate of a war through a single contest seemed absurd to him.
Grant sought to summon his power, to make his armor lighter and blade quicker, but was met with an eerie void. A chilling emptiness gnawed at him from within, and for a moment, his defenses faltered, nearly crumbling under the knight's relentless charge.
The knight had waited for this moment. Grant couldn’t see the man’s face, but he imagined the grin as the knight showcased his true mastery over his weapon.
Desperation clawed at Grant as he labored to parry each thrust, to retaliate each stroke. His feet scraped against the cobblestones in a hasty retreat, nearly sending him sprawling twice under the onslaught.
The knight gave Grant no quarter as he escalated his savage assault. Flecks of paint scattered into the air from Grant's shield under the punishing rain of blows. An evasive sidestep to the right kept his shield in the game, but the ceaseless pounding threatened to render his arm numb. The vibrations of each hit against Grant’s defenses reverberated through his bones.
"Time to send you back to the darkness, spawn of the abyss," the knight snarled. His relentless assault drove Grant to his knees.
The knight's shield slammed into Grant's jaw and scattered stars across his vision. Grant dropped the shield from his numb arm and sprung sideways. He scrambled to build enough space to shake off the disorientation. Grant shifted his grip to a two-handed stance.
