The Fourth Member

Battles are won by wit, not brawn. Those were the words Sir Logan made sure Frederick would always remember.

With a powerful swing, Frederick attempted to strike Sir Logan on the side, but he quickly blocked it and kicked some mud off the ground again, but Frederick already anticipated it and leaped high, higher than his master could reach, and swung his sword down. The strike was so precise and powerful, parrying would not be an option. As such, the only choice he had was to face it head on.

When their wooden swords collided, Sir Logan’s feet sank ever so slightly into the mud.

The force Frederick put behind his attack would have been enough to dismantle any opponent, but Sir Logan was different. He held his ground, whether by sheer strength or his tenacity, it sent shivers down the spines of the onlookers.

As soon as the momentum was lost, Sir Logan won the exchange in power and forced his sword upward at speeds that should have launched Frederick back, but Frederick had already anticipated that. He released all the power in his arms, absorbing the impact and parrying the blow, allowing him to fall onto the mud-soaked ground. With both of Sir Logan’s arms up in the air, his whole body was left open. Frederick wouldn’t let that chance slip by. He thrust his sword forward aimed directly at Sir Logan’s exposed torso, and struck–or at least he wanted to.

Despite trying to land a decisive blow, the most he was able to do was graze him. The reason wasn’t his aim being bad or not having enough power in his body. It was his form, precisely, his footing. The muddy ground had gotten too soft from their repeated fighting, that it had gone loose, not fit for sudden bursts of force. It wasn’t Frederick’s steps that had caused this, it came from the person who weighed and stomped around more. Sir Logan had already anticipated his action and left himself open on purpose.

A man focused on victory above all else was a boon in battle, however, when they fight with a form so basic and pure to a fault, like polished glass, makes them predictable.

From the start, while he had struggled through Frederick’s sheer tenacity, Sir Logan already made sure that no matter how drawn out or quick the battle turned out, the result would be the same. Eventually, someone who relied more on speed and direct power with such a predictable style would succumb to the disadvantages of the terrain. For him, this had never been a battle between knights at all.

The leading commander of the Royal Knights' Order never fought chivalrously. And while Frederick never found it in him to replicate this style, he held respect for the man who put absolute victory for the Kingdom above battling “right.” From the start, he already knew, in this fight, he could never possibly beat him.

Sir Logan slammed his sword downward with a murderously efficient arc that struck Frederick’s right shoulder, incapacitating him momentarily. But that was all it took for him to end the battle. Five strikes, shoulder, flank, right thigh, solar plexus, and finally, a powerful swing upward to the jaw, all in rapid succession. Frederick was already paralyzed before the final strike that launched him backwards, landing in the pile of mud, completely dirtying his already worn-out clothes and knocking him out completely.

The crowd was silent. Despite the constant back and forth throughout the match, to see the final moment be such a one sided beatdown left everyone stunned.

“V–Victory goes to Sir Logan!”

Only after the announcement did everyone raise their arms and cheer. The fight was spectacular, better than what the knights could have hoped to see, and this being their last day in the capital city before being sent out again, they couldn’t have wished for a better parting gift.

People kept cheering Sir Logan’s name as they left the training grounds, and soon after people in stretchers came to pick up the unconscious Frederick. All the while, Sir Logan stood, looking at the unconscious man in front of him, and clicked his tongue.

“I made a mistake,” he muttered, walking away.

*******

When Frederick came to, he was not in the carriage on his way to his station, but rather the castle infirmary, all cleaned and bandaged up.

“Ngh–” he groaned.

Trying to move, the only thing that he felt was searing pain everywhere in his body. Despite being hit in only five places, he felt all worked in tandem to make every corner of his body feel it. Healing leaves were neatly tucked beneath his bandages directly over his bruises.. They were supposed to have a numbing effect, but clearly they weren’t enough.

“Don’t move,” the apathetic person next to him said, reading a book.

“What…? Tristan? What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you to wake up, what else?”

That wasn’t what he was asking, but rather than press on forward, Frederick just leaned back and got comfortable with his pillow.

“Where are the others?” he asked.

“Already left. You’ve been out for more than twelve hours.”

“Twelve hours…?”

As it turned out, Sir Logan’s strikes were so powerful that, despite only having used wooden swords, Frederick was injured so severely that he could not travel with the other knights as they set out.

The realization made him cover his face in shame.

Not only did he lose completely, he was beaten so badly he couldn’t join the others.

“Did you really think you could beat Master?” Tristan said.

Frederick did not answer, as if deep in thought.

“What were you thinking?”

Frederick didn’t reply, he didn’t know what to say.

Despite Tristan’s question, there truly wasn’t anything Frederick could do to justify his actions. They were already ordered to go back to their stations. He shouldn’t have pushed for something as foolish as a duel at this time of peril. He shouldn’t have, yet he did all the same. Worse over, he couldn't justify why. He himself could not understand why he wanted to go on this mission so much.

“Whatever the case may be, Master gave you permission to join the Fellowship of the Sun,” Tristan said.

“What? No, but I lost–”

“It’s precisely because you lost in such a manner that I have no choice but to bring you along,” Sir Logan interjected, waltzing into the infirmary. “It will take you a week’s rest to fully heal up, by that point, everyone else would have already long since settled into their stations. Coincidentally, we’re also setting out for the expedition in three days’ time. Luck or misfortune, I can’t tell what it is you have.”

Frederick wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. The duel had been made under the promise that if he won he would join and if not, he’d stay. The fact that such an unprecedented loss had dropped this opportunity into his lap did not sit right with him.

“Don’t bother trying to fight with it, Frederick,” Tristan intervened.

“We had a duel, witnessed by the other knights.”

Frederick gripped the sheets of the bed, even there he tried to maintain his code of chivalry.

“None of the other knights even knew what the duel was for. For all they knew, it could have been one made out by two drunkards one night.”

Still unsatisfied, Frederick looked down with a conflicted expression. Tristan just sighed, and said–

“Remember the King’s orders. Let go of your pride and follow what we’re told. The sooner we complete this, the sooner we can go home.”

“Right…”

When it came to matters such as this, Frederick never won an argument against Tristan. Despite being labelled the Finest Knight of the Kingdom, Frederick himself never saw that essence within; had he been given the choice, he would have handed the title to Tristan instead.

“When you’re ready to get up, come follow me,” Sir Logan said. “We’re going to meet the others.”

The others. The other supposed “demons” of the Kingdom of Avalon. Uncontrollable crude people who still held as much power in the battlefield as knights.

“Yes,” Frederick replied, slightly bowing his head, disregarding the searing pain in his core.

“Good answer, and Tristan, follow up on the carriages.”

“Understood, Sir Logan,” Tristan replied.

Something had been gnawing on Frederick for quite a while now. Something he couldn’t quite put into words, yet lingered in the back of his mind. It wasn’t until now that he actually had a moment to think about it.

“Tristan, why are you here?” he said. “You mentioned ‘we’ a while ago, why?”

“I’m going to be part of this expedition,” he replied. “We’re going together.”

“What–?”

And so, now the Fellowship of the Sun has met its fourth member.