23 — The Tale of a Knight

Lorelai's training was accurate.

Pult is too smart to take risks, so he keeps his obnoxiously long sword held forward, with his arms close to his core. He walks towards Joezand without doing any big movements, knowing that he could corner the prince eventually. Joezand's rapier is too short, and it can't reach Pult before Pult reaches him.

Joezand uses both his dagger and rapier to hit the montante at the same time, just like he did with Lorelai. It's way harder to displace it than during his training, probably because of the difference in strength between the two knights.

Still, he invades Pult's position, which forces the knight to act. Pult tries to cut at Joezand's shoulder.

And it's the same cut Pult did during that day.

Since Joezand knew the move, it was a breeze to dodge like the wind.

That makes it easier. He knows the entire range of movements that Pult will use, and he knows how to counter all of them.

Joezand is able to parry the montante with his dagger, which puts a great strain on his arm. The dinky little dagger is so small and weightless that it barely stops Pult's weapon. The blades bite into each other slightly, and Joezand tries to thrust towards Pult's shoulder, but the knight twists his body, putting that shoulder further back. This does weaken the Montante's pressure, though, so it allows him to push it back with his dagger and get even closer.

"Tch..." Pult murmurs as their swords clash. "Better than I expected."

Joezand smirks at the compliment, thrusting towards the knight's leg. Pult parries it, but has to step back again. He's getting cornered.

Pult tries another move from the manual, thrusting towards Joezand's head. But the prince expects it and is able to duck, stepping closer and closer. Pult retreats again, but his back touches the cold wall of the arena.

Joezand is about to deliver the final thrust to Pult's arm.

This is it, he won.

It's going to connect, and he'll win the duel—

Pult twists his blade, doing a sweeping cut from above.

Nothing even close to it was trained during that day.

Joezand's expression changed quickly from a smile to bewilderment, as he stepped back with superhuman speed. The montante scrapes the prince's sleeve, bits of fabric falling to the ground before it hits the ground with a loud clank.

They stay outside of each other's range, breathing heavily.

"I-I thought you said..." Joezand pants.

"That I wouldn't use anything that you didn't watch me train?" Pult replies. "Yeah, I changed my mind."

"You goddamn..." The prince grits his teeth in anger, grunting as he readies his sword and dagger again.

They run towards each other once more.

— — —

"Hahahaha! I win again!"

A small boy exclaimed, his hands on his hips. His short black hair clung to his forehead due to the sweat, as he exhaled heavily. He wore very basic clothes, stained and with a few holes. A group of other kids laid on the ground, exhausted.

"That makes it, what? Seven hundred to zero for me?" The boy spoke. "You guys really need to get your head into the game. Tug of war, hide and seek and now tag. Are you all bad at everything?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, Pult. You're no fun." One of the children said.

"It's not my fault I'm so good!" Pult grinned wildly. "Come on, let's play again!"

"No, I'm good."

"Yeah, me too."

"No way, I'm beat."

"Ugh, you guys are pansies. No fighting spirit?" Pult puffed. "Screw you guys. I'm going home." He walked away.

Navigating the alleyways, they felt more like a maze. The shoddy wooden sheds and crates made for a poor pathway, but a very fun obstacle courses. He jumped from one box to the next, avoiding the floor as much as he could. He ran for a bit, reaching a house that's nearly indistinguishable from the others, if not for one of the planks that made up the wall being slightly loose.

Contrary to his previous bravado, he opened the door with as much caution as he could. He timidly entered the home, seeing the bare-bones kitchen. There was a table that was amateurishly carved, uneven, ugly and with splinters sticking out. The chairs were in a similar situation. There was a crock pot with some burnt firewood underneath.

He walked into a hallway, slowly and quietly. He started hearing rough grunts which got steadily louder as he made his way inside.

He got to the end of the hallway. Two doors are opposite from each other. One of them led to his room, which had a "bed" made of cotton inside several burlap sacks and not much else. The other one is where his... parents slept. He tried to quickly abscond to his own, until...

"Pult! Are you home?" A slurred masculine voice came from the other door. "C'mere, boy."

He sighed. A long, deep, drawn-out sigh.

"What is it, father?" Pult said, not even bothering to hide the disgust on his voice.

"Your mother needs help, boy. Come here already."

Pult entered the room, the smell hitting him like a truck. It stinks of sweat and still air. His father was laying on the floor, shirtless, with dried blood on his lower lip, looking like it just came out of his mouth. His mother was laying face-down on the floor.

"What happened now?" The boy asked.

His mother turned around, gasping wildly as she grabbed her throat. She looked like she was trying to breathe, but somehow couldn't. Her skin was pale and clammy and her lips were blue. She looked at Pult, her pupils contracted with a look of pure fear on her face.

And her son stared back, dispassionate.

He wasn't scared that his mother was having a health episode. He wasn't concerned, either.

He saw the straight, long pipe beside her and groaned.

He hasn't always lived in this awful, disgusting, dirty shed.

His family was well off at one time. His father was a blacksmith in one of Styria's biggest cities.

Until that merchant introduced that plant to them. He doesn't remember what it was called, but they were addicted instantly.

They spent everything they had, traded for this momentary pleasure. To the point where they had to move somewhere without any cost of living. In the trash, among the trash.

So they could keep scraping the barrel and everything they had to get more of that drug.

"I don't care." He replied to his father. "Help her yourself."

"I can barely move, boy. I can't do it."

"Then she'll die." Pult said, going over to the pipe and stomping on it.

"Hey!" His father got up, stumbling. "Not the pipe, you idiot!"

"See? You can move just fine." He says as he leaves their room. "I'm going out."

"Oh, you're not!" His father said angrily. "If you leave this house, you're not coming back!"

"Fine by me. Now are you going to help Mom or are you going to ler her die?" Pult replied, as his mother gasps for air. His father grunted and went to help her. Pult rolled his eyes. "Tsk."

The boy walked out of the house, feeling the fresh outside air. He saw the sun set on the horizon as he started to walk away from the shed, out in the unhabited plains in front of him.

Of course his father was bluffing. It's not like he could do much to stop his son from coming back to their home even if he really wanted to. He'll probably forget about this when he's high again.

Pult kept walking, climbing a small hill and exploring the surroundings. It's the only source of entertainment he really had out here, since the other kids got bored fairly quickly of losing all the time.

However, the scenario was different this time. The usually empty green valley below the hill was full.

Of bodies.

Blood soaked the grass below, as swords, maces, bows, armors... All kinds of weaponry were strewn about the field. He slides down, inspecting the scene.

Clearly a battle took place here. One side was wearing the Styrian crest of the minimalist black lion over a white shield with a blue background. The other was from Wespolta, a white eagle over a red shield.

While inspecting the site, he sees one of the armored knights start to shake. He curiously got closer, not rushing to help.

"Wa... ter..." A female voice said. He sees a canteen on the knights hip, which she desperately tried to grab at. "Ngh..." She winces as she moves her arm.

"Here." Pult said, grabbing the canteen from her hip. He helped her take off her helmet as well, revealing a pretty young woman, barely out of her teenage years. She had long, cascading blonde hair. "Drink, lady. What happened?"

The lady took a swig, drinking the entire contents in one gulp. She then cleared her throat before speaking.

"I'm pretty sure you can tell, little one." The woman said. "We were able to beat back the Wespoltan offensive. That should be enough to end the war, but..." She looked around at the desecrated battlefield. "I think only two of my soldiers were able to retreat. The rest would have died, and I probably would as well, if not for you." She moves her arm and winces in pain. "Although I still might. The cut isn't enough to kill, but I may get an infection." She gestured to the gash on her side that went through her chainmail, then put her hand over it. "Either way, I'll be fine for now. Who are you, kid?"

"My name's Pult." He replied. "I live... nearby. What about you?"

"I'm Lorelai." She said, scanning the surroundings. "Hmm, I don't see any place of residence here. But I'll admit that I'm not really a local."

"Um, Lorelai." He said, timidly. "What will you do now?"

"Hm? I'll probably retreat to my outpost and await reinforcements and orders. Then, if the war really is over, I'll go back to the capital."

"Can I... Can I come with?"

"Huh? Out of nowhere?" Lorelai asked, confused. "What about your house here?"

"I hate it." He took her by the hand, helping her climb the small hill. He showed her the slum that he lived in from far away. "Please, I'm begging you. Let me live with you."

"But what about your parents?"

"They're awful. Addicted to some... drug I don't know." Pult remarked, looking downcast. "I don't want to rot in this place."

"I... see." Lorelai said. A look of understanding flashed on her face. "Well then... How about becoming a squire, Pult?"

— — —

Pult doesn't know why he did it. This fight doesn't matter that much to him, right? He's able to keep a small promise over a meaningless chore like this.

He remembers what Joezand said, back when they talked during his training. About wanting to put the prince in his place.

That's not the duty of the knight. The knight should follow orders, and only that.

Even so...

He saw his smile. The cocky grin of the little prince that could. That made his life so much more difficult in the past.

He's not about to let Joezand become even more insufferable.

He didn't become a knight just to be an errand boy.

After he broke the promise, the anger in the prince's eyes is clear as day.

And Pult throws caution out the window.

He could keep the royal at the end of his range, tire him out and eventually win.

But he wants the emotion. He wants to compete.

He never has a chance to go all out.

Pult attacks. Joezand parries but steps back.

Joezand tries to thrust, but Pult is able to easily dodge and counter-attack.

"I know all the moves from the book, Prince Joezand." Pult says. "Anything you throw at me, I'll know the perfect counter."

Joezand's eyebrows furrow harder in rage. He cuts, and the knight parries.

A counter-attack from Pult. Joezand has to step back and dodge.

Cut, parry, counter-attack.

Thrust, parry, counter-attack.

No matter what Joezand tries to do, it's perfectly countered and leaves him in an even worse position.

The prince is losing more and more ground. He's the cornered one now.

Pult delivers an overhead cut. Joezand barely parries with his rapier, his arm twisting as he tries to hold the force. Strands of the prince's light brown hair fall to the ground as the montante gets ever closer to his head.

"Agh!" Joezand grunts in pain, as Pult applies more pressure.

"You better give up now. If you don't, your arm will break." Pult says, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Don't worry, Prince Joezand. I'll only give you a small scar. It has been fun. I haven't been able to go all out for such a long time—"

A glint of metal shines in his peripheral vision. He turns his head slightly, and sees...

The dagger.

Joezand's dagger. He threw it directly on his face.

What is the prince even thinking? That's not in any manuals. That's the worst idea that boy's ever had—

Pult's body moves on its own.

Swordsmen are trained to not flinch. But for a technique that's never used...

Reflexes still take over.

Pult moves his montante as it parries the dagger. It hits the metal of the sword and is thrown to the side.

He hears the prince's voice.

"COUNTER THIS, YOU MORON!!!"

And the knight feels pain.

Pult looks to his side, and there's a cut there. Crimson coats his shirt, as the prince stands behind him, rapier with slight droplets of blood.

"HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW!?" Joezand screams, panting heavily. He's holding his arm that was put under pressure, but his expression has no hint of pain. Only pure euphoria.

Pult falls to one knee, a pained grimace on his face. The other maid runs over to him with bandages they prepared beforehand, while Anneliese looks at Joezand excitedly, chatting with him.

"Incredible!" The announcer noble says. "After a staggering battle with lots of back and forth, Prince Joezand draws first blood on Pult! It's a win for house von Styria!"

The crowd cheers excitedly. Pult's eyes scan the faces of people.

The common public, the nobles and merchants. They're all clapping. Lorelai is, too. A proud look on her face.

Directed at Joezand, not him.

Thaddius has a big grin on his face as well, and even Agatha has a soft smile. Cecilia's miserable expression softened, too.

Pult lost.

And everyone is happy and cheering.

Because nobody really wanted him to win.

"I guess..." Pult murmurs. "I guess I deserve that, huh?" A pained smile comes across his face.

The duel is finished, and the day slowly winds down.