Quick note: As promised on Discord, the hiatus is over. Sorry for the delay guys... Also, I noticed we hit 1,500 followers here on RR, meaning I owe you guys an extra chapter. I'll be working on that. Expect it soon!

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Lion Who Rules Over Hounds

  The duel between Ser Anthony and the three mercenary leaders was as fierce as hounds in a bloody fit fight. Nor was this battle of fangs and claws as one-sided as Bram expected thanks to the simple strategy the three mercs employed to fight the old knight.

  ‘Clang!’

  The sound of clashing steel could be heard as Bolin’s cudgel blocked the path of the Griffin’s Blade, leaving it unable to return to its master.

  “No, Sharp One, our dance isn’t finished yet. You’ll have to stay by my side a bit longer.”

  With a twirl of his cudgel, Bolin deflected the longsword’s slash, though the force of it pushed the fat man a step or two back. Still, his expression remained calm, and that calmness helped him react quickly to the attempts of the Griffin’s Blade to return to Ser Anthony’s hand. Once more, he blocked its path.

  “I’ve heard of the martial clerics of Xanxi’s skills before, but this is the first time I’m seeing one in action,” Bram mused aloud.

  Since he had firsthand knowledge of that enchanted sword’s swiftness, Bram couldn’t help but be impressed with Bolin’s martial prowess.

  “What do you think, Chris?”

  “It’s a simple plan. Keep the sword away from the swordmaster, and they might just stand a chance against him.”

  Yes, it was a simple plan. One that offered the best chance of victory, though it was still a slim chance and possibly not even that with Ser Anthony as their opponent.

  “You know, I often say that I’ve honed my body into a weapon.”

  “I remember.”

  Chris glanced sideways at Bram.

  “You learned that from Ser Anthony, didn’t you?”

  Bram nodded.

  As if reading his mind, Rowan, who sat on the hart to Bram’s left, said, “A true swordmaster’s strength isn’t limited to wielding a sword.”

  Her words had the wring of truth to them.

  Every time he hurled his fists forward, Brown Beard and Basma would get struck by blows that drove them back or forced the breath from their lungs.

  “Sarde!” Basma cursed.

  A combination of straights, jabs, and the occasional uppercut was enough to keep her axes from landing a hit against the old knight.

  “Keep at it!” Brown Beard roared. “He’s old. We’ll wear him down eventually.”

  If it were anyone else, he might’ve been right.

  However, Ser Anthony’s deft footwork, the ease with which he slid in and out of range, didn’t lessen no matter how many times the two mercenaries charged at him.

  “These days everyone’s a pugilist,” Bram chuckled.

  He recalled with clarity Nike’s swift steps that helped her survive a fight against a man-eating red grizzly. Ser Anthony was several times quicker than Nike was, and his blows were heavier too.

  One, two, three—he pummeled them with fists that left them beaten, bloodied, and bruised, though neither of them stayed down for long.

  “Feels like the right time for a song.”

  Luckily, Bram hadn’t forgotten to bring his lute on this adventure. He pulled it out now from one of the pages of his dimensional diary. A moment later, a tune began to play, one that could be heard even over the din of battle.

  “I tell a tale of a soul steadfast, a storm in steel his shadow cast,” Bram sang. “His sword strikes true, his foes fall fast, yet mercy lingers when war has passed.”

  While Bram strummed his lute, the fight continued, turning more intense for sorcery now came into play.

  As Basma threw her axes at Ser Anthony, their blades ignited in flames so that they were like twin pinwheels of fire aiming for the old knight’s neck.

  Ser Anthony chose not to dodge though.

  With glowing eyes revealing sorcery at work, he pressed his hands together as if in prayer. When they parted, a ghostly blue aura began to spread across the fingers of both hands, forming into shining bracers born of magic.

  “Through razed villages and embers cold, he gathered children lost and tolled…” Bram’s voice was growing louder. “Hands that shattered shields and bone now lift the young and build them homes!”

  With deft skill, Ser Anthony plucked the flaming axes from the air just before they could reach him. They were in his hands for only a second though, because he launched them right back at Basma.

  No, only one flaming axe reached the axe thrower though she was able to jump out of the way before it could reach her thigh.

  The other axe also missed its mark, though Bolin was forced to block it with his cudgel to avoid getting struck in the shoulder.

  “The golden knight with the golden sword,” Bram sang the chorus, “filling orphans’ bellies with warm food…”

  With Griffin’s Blade free of Bolin’s interruption, it flew back toward its master at the speed of an enraged wolpertinger diving toward its prey.

  “Brought hope greater than any proud lord,” Bram’s strumming quickened, “for he stood for what was right and go~~od!”

  The Griffin’s Blade didn’t come to Ser Anthony’s hand. Instead, the enchanted sword stabbed into Brown Beard’s arm just as the mercenary leader thrust his spear at Ser Anthony’s chest.

  “Ga~~ah!”

  The spear-wielder stumbled forward just in time for Ser Anthony’s elbow to snap against the side of his face.

  “Warbringer’s—”

  He stumbled back from the blow, and the enchanted sword imbedded in his forearm flew off, causing him more pain, leaving him vulnerable to the next attack that was now aimed at the top of his head.

  Ser Anthony raised his hand, and the Griffin’s Blade flew into it just as he sent his hand slashing downward.

  “No saint, no priest, no solemn vow,” Bram’s singing matched Ser Anthony’s pace, “Yet orphaned hands reach him—”

  “Bra~~am!”

  A roar like that of a lion could be heard from behind the encirclement, forcing the prince’s song to end abruptly.

  “Oh, no.”

  His gaze snapped to his left, and that’s when he saw it—a mess of white hair that was like a wild lion’s mane.

  “I know that look.”

  Moments later, someone leaped over the mercenaries’ heads, landing deftly behind Ser Anthony who had already committed to his attack against Brown Beard. It should’ve been impossible for the old knight to stop the new arrival, but through sheer determination, he twisted his hand to the side and sent Griffin’s Blade careening sharply to the left instead.

  ‘Clang!’

  Steel clashed against magic as an arm wrapped in a white aura blocked Ser Anthony’s enchanted sword.

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  More impressively, the new arrival used the impact of their clash to launch herself forward so that she leaped toward Bram at a speed that would’ve been hard to dodge. Her left hand was extended to the side. It was bathed in a white aura that wasn’t unlike the shining bracers Ser Anthony had used earlier to catch Basma’s axes.

  Bram’s eyes widened as he recognized the move meant to strike at his neck for it was one he’d used recently when he and Ravi had been ambushed by northern spies—the ‘Lotharian Clothesline’ that his wrestling teacher had taught him.

  He knew only one other person who liked using this technique besides him.

  “Hello, Cousin.”

  The arm coated in magical aura never reached Bram’s neck.

  “Bulwark!”

  For it was blocked by the shield Chris raised to protect the prince, one that was coated in its own arcane aura that spread outward like a veil covering Bram.

  It was only a split second, but a pair of silver eyes widened when they saw the lopsided grin showing on Bram’s face, and then she was pushed back by the impact of her arm against Chris’ shield.

  As for the Texan, he might have been blown back too were it not for his hart maneuvering to keep him upright. So, of course, he patted the beast’s neck as soon as he steadied himself.

  “Thanks for saving me from a nasty tumble, Colt, buddy,” he said.

  Chris’ kite shield didn’t fare as well as he did though. Its middle was bent inward thanks to that one clash, proof that the attacker’s blow had been quite deadly.

  Noticing the shield’s condition, Bram’s grin faltered.

  “Nice save,” he whispered.

  “I’m your soldier now. It’s my job to watch your back,” Chris replied.

  He meant that literally too.

  Of the three travelers who were in Bram’s adventuring party, only Chris had managed to complete his job promotion quest so far. Now, he had the 2nd tier [Soldier Lv.1] profession, which, apart from helping him earn his new ‘Bulwark’ spell, also gave him a new slew of tricks to fight with. As proof of this, there were more weapons strapped to his belt besides the shiny sword he’d stolen from Alaric von Galen along with the fallen noble’s shiny armor.

  To be fair to Bridget and Hajime, the requirements for their quests were more challenging. Bridget had to spend time with the wearg tribe of the Red Forest so she could learn their ways. As for Hajime, well, he had the unenviable task of impressing his master with his sorcery. But seeing as his master was the rebel trickster of legend, impressing Rowan might be an impossible feat.

  “Shield’s toast though.” Chris pointed out. “Don’t suppose you’d buy me a new one.”

  “I pay you enough to buy your own gear,” Bram reminded him.

  The prince’s gaze drifted left and then right, taking note of how quickly the mood was changing just from her arrival. For what had become an almost warm but ruckus atmosphere—the sort of thing one might feel in an arena—had turned into a loose but rigid-like order of a legion whose commander had just arrived. Backs were straightened, shoulders no longer drooped, shields were held tighter, and every wary gaze was fixed on her.

  “Captain!” Brown Beard yelled.

  “Captain!” Basma followed.

  “Captain!” Bolin repeated.

  Bram guessed that all three mercenaries would’ve flown to her side if only Ser Anthony didn’t bar their way.

  To his credit, Bram’s seneschal knew his duty well. Instead of rushing to his prince’s side and dragging the three competent mercenaries along, he stood his ground and barred them from interfering in this reunion…for it was a reunion, and of family too.

  “Cressida of House Viaros…”

  She was tall, nearly as tall as Bram, with the broad shoulders and thick arms of one who didn’t shy away from harsh training.

  “You’re a long way from Thessalia, Cousin.”

  “And you’re still hiding behind Ser Anthony’s skirt…Cousin.”

  Bram’s grin faltered again.

  He didn’t have a comeback since she wasn’t completely wrong.

  The tan-skinned face framed by her thick white hair was a bit like Bram’s too, meaning the smile growing on it was equally annoying as his.

  “You’re hanging out with a different crowd these days. They’re not your usual gang of ruffians.”

  He doubted Cressida’s old crowd would want anything to do with her. After all, most nobles of central Atlan didn’t bother with the child of a fallen house. Well, except for Camilla. Bram’s older sister wouldn’t have minded, and she’d always like Cressida, who, being a year older than Bram, had often followed his sister around like a puppy. Because of this, Bram and Cressida had been around each other quite a lot when they were young. They might have even been friends if they hadn’t fought over Camilla’s attention so much.

  He hadn’t seen her in over a year though. Not since her family was banished from the Sovereign’s court after her father was caught in an embezzlement scandal. It had been a frame job, of course, but one that had been done so well that Eorl Viaros never stood a chance. Being related to the Sovereign saved his life, but a noble stripped of their title didn’t have much of a life to live. Such was the fate those who lost the game of thrones.

  Seeing her now, it was obvious that Cressida’s life had changed quite a bit.

  She wore a fitted gray cuirass that protected her most vital spots while showing off the hardened muscles of her arms. It was paired with a short leather skirt that didn’t hide her long, shapely legs. Her footwear was the strapped greaves worn in the much warmer climes of the south. Here in cold Lotharin, such equipment wouldn’t be advisable, but this older Cressida who led a whole mercenary company didn’t seem to mind the harsh weather touching her bare flesh.

  “It suits you.”

  Honestly, Bram didn’t mean it as an insult. But paired with his biting remark from earlier, and it was easy to understand why Cressida’s pair of cool silver eyes narrowed.

  “You’ve changed too.”

  Her silver-eyed gaze drifted from Bram to Chris and Rowan and then back to Bram.

  “I didn’t know you had companions who were willing to die for you.”

  She smirked.

  “I didn’t know you had friends at all.”

  Bram’s eyes narrowed too.

  “No one’s dying today.”

  Once more, he tried for a smile, but that just made Cressida’s eyes narrow again.

  Sighing, Bram said, “We’ve come to bar—”

  Rowan cleared her throat.

  Bram resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

  “We want to hire your mercenary company for a job.”

  He should’ve ended with that, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “It is your company, isn’t it?”

  “You’re as annoying as ever.”

  “You were the annoying one!”

  This time, it was Ser Anthony who cleared his throat.

  Bram shut his eyes in exasperation.

  He was prepared for a fight, bribery, flattery, and even forced conscription if necessary, but not this. He wasn’t ready to deal with someone from his past. Cressida’s appearance was too sudden, too random, too coincidental.

  Bram’s brow creased as one of his eyes popped open.

  “Last I heard, the Grey Hounds was under the command of a Captain Fabio. You’re not him.”

  At the mention of the old captain’s name, the mercenaries surrounding Bram’s party visibly bristled. Again. They were a temperamental lot.

  “Fabio’s done.” Cressida wrapped her arms over her chest. “I took over after I killed him.”

  The hounds cheered.

  “Unpopular, was he?”

  “Our company doesn’t like incompetent men. We don’t like following incompetent men even more.”

  Oof, those were fighting words, but Bram held himself back.

  “It’s a lot of griffins.”

  One of Cressida’s eyebrows hitched upward.

  “How much griffins?”

  Most nobles shied away from talking about money. Talking about it meant they didn’t have enough to pretend not to care about it.

  “Enough that you don’t have to stay here.”

  Bram’s gaze drifted toward Einsamer Krieger’s ruins.

  “Or maybe fix it up. Whichever you prefer.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “I want the Gray Hounds to join my expedition.”

  Murmurs resounded amongst the crowd.

  Expeditions were long and tiring, but a successful one could help set a man up for life. No more mercenary work, early retirement—who didn’t want that?

  Possibly sensing the tide was turning Bram’s way, Cressida couldn’t help asking, “Where’s this expedition headed?”

  Her brow creased.

  “And if you say Rhyneland, then my answer’s no. We won’t fight your war for you.”

  “I’m not at war…and fighting in war’s what you do best, isn’t it?”

  “Not for you. Not for any nobles. Not anymore.”

  Cressida may have said it out loud, but the nodding heads around him told Bram there was a consensus here.

  “A mercenary company that doesn’t like war…that’s new.”

  Bram wondered what mad thing his sister Asteria had done to cause this drastic change in the infamous mercenary company that had been known to stand at the frontlines of many conflicts between nobles.

  “So, where are we going?”

  “Well…”

  Here was the tricky part.

  A pile of griffins was enticing enough for anyone, but not after hearing about where they would be going.

  “A land of opportunity…one rife with excitement and wonders.”

  Cressida frowned.

  “Where?”

  Bram scratched his cheek.

  “Bloodhaven…”

  He didn’t say it loud enough for all to hear, but everyone heard it anyway.

  “Sarde off,” Cressida snapped. “If you want to die then I’ll kill you right now. No need to drag our arses along with you in this act of suicide.”

  It was the expected reaction, one Bram had heard from the mercenary guild as well, and they’d been more favorable of the prince since seeing him confront Phoebus’ temple. These foreigners didn’t care about him at all. Cressida’s hold on them seemed too strong as well. He would need to weaken her to get them on his side, and he needed them on his side. This quest was just too important to abandon.

  The cogs in Bram’s brain began to turn, quickly coming to one conclusion.

  “You said you killed him…”

  There were few ways to kill a mercenary captain without incurring an ill reputation from the other mercenaries of the company. One in particular came to Bram’s mind.

  “The Trial of Alcaeus…that’s how you took over.”

  The cult of the war god had a definitive way to settle disputes. They called it the Trial of Alcaeus. When invoked, two combatants would enter a small circle of chains to compete in a test of physical strength and martial prowess without relying on sorcery or weapons. Stepping outside the circle wasn’t allowed, driving the combatants into a brutal conflict inside a space barely large enough for two. Incidentally, this trial was how Lotharian Wrestling was born…and it just so happened that there were two practitioners of this martial art present right here.

  Cressida didn’t answer, but her silence was telling enough.

  Besides, just mentioning the trial made the surrounding hounds excited.

  Predictably, a lightbulb lit up inside Bram’s head.

  “Let’s do it.”

  “What?”

  Bram got off Renfri’s back.

  He walked forward, coming within kicking distance of Cressida.

  “I invoke the Trial of Alcaeus.”

  Silence.

  Then, as if a dam was so full it had to burst, laughter filled the afternoon sky.

  “What’s the ill-fated imp going to do against the captain?” someone asked incredulously.

  “Can he even fight?” another chimed in.

  “He’s big enough, I’ll give him that,” a third conceded, but then added, “but so’s the captain. And she’s a trueborn fighter. A pretty imp’ll get killed fighting her.”

  There were many more snide remarks about Bram’s ill-fated nature, but he didn’t care. It was enough that there were three people there who didn’t think it was funny that he challenged Cressida.

  “Go back to your bastion, Bram,” Cressida recommended. In a low tone, she added, “Don’t make me kill you.”

  The Trial of Alcaeus was the very definition of deadly combat. It wasn’t uncommon for the loser to die at the hands of the victor.

  “You won’t.”

  Bram unfastened his belt and let it drop onto the ground along with his items.

  “Why would I even agree to this?"

  “You attacked me first. That gives me cause. Besides...”

  He glanced left and right.

  “Mercenaries respect strength. They don't follow incompetent men. Or women.”

  Finally, he had the perfect comeback that hit Cressida where it hurt. He'd been looking for one ever since her earlier remark.

  “I, Bram of House Attilan, challenge you, Cressida of House Viaros, to the Trial of Alcaeus.” The prince flashed his cousin his best impish grin. “Winner takes all.”

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