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Vol.3, Extra 1, P.2

 

“Aigh… That smarts.”

There Edvard was sat, moaning in pain. Scrapes and scratches were scattered about his body, and numberless bruises besides. Thankfully, that was about the worst of his wounds, and he certainly could have met a more miserable end were it not for the slight incline of the cliff face, making for a sliding fall of no more than seven passūs.

Beside him was Frieda with barely a broken patch of skin, no doubt a boon of her acrobatics. Together they were sojourning at the base of the cliff, concealed amongst the shrubbery, having—for the time being, at least—escaped their pursuers.

“Lord,” said Frieda as she offered forth a waterskin. “Drink. The chase ain’t ended yet.”

“A-ah, right. Thank you,” said Edvard, taking the waterskin and slaking his thirst. All the excitement truly had left his throat parched. Yet, the look on his face was none too thrilled. In fact, he seemed altogether very tired.

Edvard’s head bowed, heavy with thought. A new silence grew between the two. The voices of their pursuers had faded; only the forest now stirred. For his part, Edvard looked forlorn, a clear contrast to his former character; till not more than mere minutes ago was he so eager to preen and strut afore his fair lady. As though in token of this, the lordling then handed back to Frieda her waterskin, wrapped his arms about his knees, and stared down distantly at the dirt.

For a long moment thereafter, they remained sat in a wordless lull, till at last Edvard moved his lips.

“…Here I was,” he began in a murmur, “thinking myself becoming of their compliments.”

“Them guards o’ yours?” Frieda asked.

“Indeed. Them…” Edvard nodded slowly. “Freemen they are. Longtime guardsmen of House Hafgren… and sycophants singing of their young master at every turn.” There his voice broke under its own bitterness. Frieda remained quiet. “Honeyed much, their words…” he went on, “…though I was well-aware. Only, I had chosen instead to drown in their sweet nothings than see the storm brewing above…”

That Edvard should be so shattered after that attempt upon his life was most reasonable. Why—though she still fancied him not in the slightest—Frieda herself began to find him worthy of some pity.

“And now, I reap what I have sown…” Edvard said on, “…one deception deserves another.”

Frieda blinked. “‘Deception’?”

“…You heard aright. I have treated you as I would a fresh acquaintance, have I not? Well, truth be told, I have known of you for a while now, Frieda,” Edvard revealed. Yet looking darkly at the ground, he continued: “It was sunset. In my return from a day of hunting, I spotted it: a caravan upon a causeway, beset by brigands. But fending them off… was you, Frieda. Your steel, your splendour—how awed I was.”

“Well… that sorts, innit,” Frieda remarked softly. “An’ so you’ve call’d upon ‘Frieda’ by name, an’ not some other mercen’ry for this matter.”

“…That is, indeed, the way of it,” Edvard affirmed. “I sought your society, fancied your affection; just a display of deftness should suffice to earn them… or so I believed…”

Hubris it was, and naught but a bother to Frieda besides. This Edvard knew, if not before, then fully now. Yet he was a noble; there ought be more wondrous ways of courting a woman like Frieda, had he at least some imagination to wield his aristocratic might. Still, that he had flaunted his fencing as a peacock displays its plumage was an act that Frieda could not bring herself to abhor, even if it were as roundabout as it were birdbrained. Though, that is not to say that she was delighted with it, either…

“…All as dear Ronja is yet unaccounted for,” Edvard muttered on. “What a fool I am… No wonder the fates have made such a toy out of me.”

“But you are repentant, no?” said Frieda. “Then that’s a fine first step, I’d say. Penance is a long path, but yours is begun, leastways.”

“Would it were so…” Edward said, before turning at last to our freelance. “Frieda. Forgive me. This is a foul turn we’ve taken… one I ought never have involved you in—”

“Shh!” Frieda’s forefinger was upon her lips, her senses upon a third presence. Slowly she unsheathed her sword, and as her caution crescendoed, there came a rustle in the bushes nearby.

“Hmp?!” Edvard gulped. And just as he did, the greenery gave way, and from it emerged…

“Ah…”

…a young woman.

“…M-m’liege?” she said breathlessly. “Master Eddie?

Edvard’s eyes widened. “Ronja…?”

 

♰

 

The missing handmaiden—found by chance, and alive, at that. From the look of her, Ronja seemed faint from her ordeal, though much to her master’s relief, not a single wound was upon her person.

“Uu… au…” she sobbed into Edvard’s bosom. He held her in turn, caressing her quivering back. “Master Eddie… Oh, Master Eddie…”

“My poor Ronja,” he said as soothingly as he could. “There, there. Worry not.”

At his words, the handmaiden rubbed her damp face against his breast. “Yes… m’liege…”

“How glad am I to see you safe—and unscathed, even,” Edvard whispered. “You did well.”

“Yes…” said Ronja, at last turning her tear-flustered face up to her master. “I trusted you’d come for me… an’ so I’ve kept out o’ trouble…”

Edvard looked back upon his snivelling servant. The face he showed her was no less pitiful, bent as it was with embarrassment. His earlier behaviour and the baring of his heart to Frieda was yet ill-forgotten, it seemed. Still, glowing upon it was gladness for a friend found safe and sound, and that was no deception. Though, for her part, Frieda laid a rather guarded gaze upon Ronja. Suspicion was what simmered in our freelance’s mind.

She looked away. Such thoughts were best left for later. In truth, her prior caution had not been solely for Ronja’s sudden appearance; other presences were prowling about. Recalling the details of the houseguards’ map, Frieda remembered then a path leading down from the clifftop. Chances were, their pursuers were near at hand.

“Lord,” she whispered. “They’re soon ‘pon us.”

“Soon…!?” Edvard gasped, looking up with a face fraught from anxiety. Yet in the next moment, he pressed together his lips tight and set a fire in his eyes—the lion in the lordling was roused. “Frieda,” he said firmly. “I will fight, as well.”

But our freelance could only shake her head. “…Leave this to me, Lord,” she objected. “Your sword best serves a shield for Ronja. Stay—an’ be hid with her!”

None of Edvard’s resolve had gone unheeded. Yet he was still the client, and Frieda his hireling. And client as he was, he could not be made to fight. As for Frieda, she had by now measured in full the true mettle of the mutineers. Were her client to conceal himself along with his dear servant, Frieda had iron-hard confidence that the five remnant foes would fall fast to her unburdened blade.

Nonetheless, Edvard remained adamant. “Please, Frieda,” he insisted.

“But…”

“This story shan’t end with a prince doomed to pity,” Edvard said on. “I must bear my shame. I must right my wrongs.”

Some sliver of sunlight seemed now to have cloven the clouds that had been hanging over the lordling’s spirits. To say that the tears of the helpless lass in his arms were what had so galvanised Edvard out of his greyness was, perhaps, too simple an explanation for the sudden change of heart. Nevertheless, his choosing to challenge fear fast kindled a memory in Frieda’s own heart. And so with a sigh, she relented.

“As you will.”

 

♰

 

“There ‘e is! O’er this way!!”

The son of House Hafgren, out in the open, standing brazen with blade in hand—met with such a sight, the mutineers rushed all at once to him, their own swords glinting against the greenery.

“Mng?” grunted the man foremost amongst them. Signalling for the others behind him to halt, he gave the lordling a doubtful glower. “Where’s that coin-covess gone off to, ah?” he hissed.

“To better coin. Where else?” Edvard quipped.

“Hmph…” the mutineer scoffed as he scanned about. The sellsword was nowhere in sight. She was hid somewhere, like as not. But really, now? Making a decoy out of her client and their prey? What foolery. This the man thought, as did Frieda as she watched on from the shadows near at hand. But it was little helped. This was Edvard’s will.

“No matter. We’ll ‘ave ya carved an’ spitted ‘fore she springs,” snarled the mutineer. Then, lifting aloft his sword, he advanced upon Edvard with a cry. “…’Ave at ya!!”

—Khaash!

Blades clashed and locked.

“Ghekh…” came a groan from Edvard as he was hard put to the defence. Strength, speed, skill—in all of these the lordling ought be superior, were they not each withered by his wounds. That they were inflicted by a fall down a cliff and not the fault of a glorious fight was itself another injury—upon Edvard’s pride, to be sure. But it was merely one of many on this day. To hell with glory and grace! Now was the time to struggle, to grapple amidst grit and grime!

“…khngahh!!” the lordling growled, heaving into his sword his every sinew. His foe was forced back in the effort, but Edvard, yet fierce, followed it up with a full kick to his foe’s breastplate.

“Gwofh!?” yelped the mutineer, tottering further back. Edvard, readying his sword, dashed in for a thrust to the throat, but too soon had his foe regained a foothold—ducking from the thrust, the mutineer threw his arms about Edvard, and together they wrung and wrestled. Soon enough, a knee jousted up—right into Edvard’s groyne.

“Hhingh—gwaah!?” the nobleman screamed in pain. Satisfied and smirking, the mutineer backed off and brought aloft his blade once more. But before the mercy stroke could fall, a wild desperation possessed Edvard as he pounced upon his opponent. “Uoaahh!!”

—Bappfh!

“Khunmfh!?”

A groan, muffled behind clenched and cracking teeth. The mutineer reeled back, having been struck under the chin by a headbutt from a tearful and slobbering Edvard. With his foe left dazed and listing, the lordling jolted forth and drave down his sword with all his sinews summoned to the effort.

“Zzyaa—ahh!” he cried, as his blade, blustering with odyl, burrowed in between the neck and shoulder of his foe. The strike was soon halted by the upper lip of the breastplate, but by then, the edge had cloven clear through the man’s clavicle. The wound, deep and red, spelt his last—with blood spewing out of his mouth, the mutineer gave the lordling one final glower before buckling to his knees and expiring upon the forest floor.

“Hhah…! Hah…!” Edvard panted. How many more!? was his roaring thought, and so he glanced about wildly. But what he found next tamed his feral spirit at once: remaining were no less than four mutineers…

…all of whom laid as lifeless bodies upon the underbrush.

“You’ve got ‘im, Lord?” said Frieda, standing calm. “Then that makes five out o’ five, innit?”

“F… five?” Edvard wheezed in wonder. “…Of course,” he then said with a wry smile, “yes… of course.”

“But I’ve left one alive for good measure,” our freelance revealed. Indeed, Edvard had seen awrong, as the farthest body was, in fact, faintly moaning, and bound at the wrists and ankles with wire.

“Good measure, indeed,” Edvard nodded. “Sorry… for the trouble…”

…Sorry, indeed, he chided himself. A poor showing… for so steeled a resolve…

With that thought, the man of finery fumbled to his buttocks.

 

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