Vol.5, Ch.3, P.3
“Well? That muscle just for show, or?” questioned Erika as she eyed me dubiously. “He stands tall, for true. But does he fight strong?”
With the war council concluded and vows of victory shared, the assembly had all quitted the parliamentary chamber and gone each their way. But with the sun still high, there was time yet for meetings more private. Alban and Dušan, for instance, had requested Dennis’s company and taken along the master mercenary to some other venue. A banquet seemed the jarls’ plan, to fill their bellies and, if I had to guess, build one more bridge with their Mennish counterpart.
Having left such civil affairs to civil officials, I was now engaged with a meeting of my own: there I stood, upon a training ground formerly of the defunct Fiefguard and in current use by the city brigade… and aface whom but our four Reùlingen guests. It had been their wish to test my Mennish mettle, and as war-chief to the Vílungen, no choice was left me but to take up the gauntlet.
Albeit, that very gauntlet had been thrown down by whom but one particular soul amongst them. It’d certainly not been Walter himself, scratching his head apologetically now as he was, nor the two remaining fellows of their party, who’d both been flat-browed and grey-mooded this entire time. No; the challenge had come from Erika, Walter’s confidante and, from the look of her, a damsel most dauntless.
“He does,” Lise answered Erika’s doubts, “more so than your sheep of a hero, that’s for sure.”
“‘Sheep’?” Erika nearly gasped. “Hoh! Precious, that! Beg our sheep-hero for help and this be the manners you show him?”
“Manners?” returned Lise. “Ah, the very same from your beak when it began squawking about my Rolf?”
Oh, dear. Sure enough, I had sensed something of a history between these two during the war council. From the look of them now, however, that “history” seemed more a thorny hedge, crossed over only by their constant and caustic bickering. Well, “caustic” might not be the word, for behind their fiery tongues, I sensed a sort of easiness or familiarity not to be mistaken for malice.
Or so I would like to think, at least.
“What beak?” snapped Erika. “You’re all sitting ducks without my Walter to avail the next battle!”
“Better sitting ducks than dead ones, without my Rolf!” Lise countered, before chanting childishly: “Better than yo—urs! Better than yo—urs! My Rolf is better than yo—urs!”
“‘Better’, she said! ‘Better’!” squealed a seething Erika. “Your head’s full of feist if you think yours can best my Walter!!”
“Feist!? Why, you!” screeched a steaming Lise. “My Rolf’s worth a hundred of your Walters, and that’s that!”
…What’s going on? Why is it going on? But more importantly: may I go home now?
Amidst my confusion, there came creeping up to my side the other half of the Reùlingen party. Guido and Gunthar were their names, and behind cupped hands, they graciously offered me an explanation.
“Hard to imagine, but they’re peas in a pod both,” Guido whispered. “Daughters to jarls, you see.”
“Same of age, same of temper,” Gunthar said, shaking his head. “Long be this biting, elbowing race they run—ever since their feet were smaller than our palms, I hear.”
…Bickering equals, hmm? Convincing enough. Though “peas in a pod” sounded slightly too peaceable. Were it mine to measure, I’d say they were weasels stuck in the same, small pen.
“Your frog-brain hasn’t even guessed my Walter’s mettle, I bet!” Erika yelled on. “He’s shot dead a Mennish commander in Artean once! And with just one spell, at that! One! The Slihthund! Ooh, you’ve heard of that one, at least! A magick of geniuses! Or!? Maybe you’re yet too scared of spells to learn of them!? Or too stupid!”
“What? ‘Slick hound’? What spell is that?” Lise mocked back. “Ah, right, right. I remember now: the one Rolf cut to ribbons at Arbel.”
“Cut to what!?” cried a confounded Erika. “Oh, feisting your facts again, I see!”
Lise pouted. “Who’s feisting!?”
More and more were things heating up between the two, but with Walter helplessly flustering and both Guido and Gunthar sighing and rubbing their brows, no sort of mediation seemed on the menu.
High time I stepped in, I thought. But right when I did, I found Erika prying herself away from the screaming match and trampling down my way. Then, with accustomed quickness, she unsheathed the sword from her baldric.
—Shnng!
A whistling breeze later, and a blade shone bare under the sun, its tip halted right anear my neck.
Erika narrowed her eyes at me and scoffed. “Hmph! The reflexes of a rotting fish!” she jeered.
“W-whoa! Easy now, Fräulein!” yelped Guido.
“Man or no, we’ve an agreement with him! Not a grudge!” Gunthar admonished her.
Despite their objections, however, the crescent-moon smirk upon Erika’s face only grew. For my part, I was stuck mulling over whether or not to return the dagger now held in my hands.
Indeed, that’d been her tactic from the start: an open and pompous swing of the sword to snatch my eyes away from the stealthy draw of her dagger. But having scried the whole scheme well in advance, I’d done a bit of snatching myself, divesting the very dagger right from its scabbard at Erika’s hip.
A deed done out of hand, I admit. Erika meant no real harm from this whole affair, that much was clear, but amidst her sudden movement, another thought had occurred to me: what other technique had she up her sleeve, were her second weapon gone before the draw? Spurred by the question, my body had moved all on its own, creating the conundrum I now found myself in. For, as it happened, having seen me ill-responsive to her sword, it appeared Erika had found no need to employ her dagger, and thus to this moment was both oblivious to its loss and unlikely to satisfy my curiosity.
“This yours?” I asked flatly, offering forth the pilfered thing. I felt sorry for it, really: a splendid dagger it was, delicately carven of hilt—only to be made the prop of some inadvertent joke.
Erika gratingly half-gasped, her eyes widening at the weapon in my hand. Swiftly, she then shot her gaze down to empty scabbard at her belt. The realisation set in at once. Her proud face puckered and then reddened like beet steaming in a basket.
“A───h hah hah hah! He took it from yo—u! He took it from yo—u! He took your weapon from yo—u!”
“Mmnngh!!”
“‘Hmph,’ she said! ‘Rotting fish,’ she said! So witty, so funny! Oh, say it again for us, Erika! Say it! Encore, encore!”
“Ghh…!!”
Lise, laughing both her lungs and belly out, unleashing lambasting after lambasting; Erika, quivering like a custard caught in an earthquake; Guido and Gunthar, standing with eyes and jaws both agape—such was the silliness now at hand.
“S-so what!? What of it!?” Erika cried defiantly. “Nnmmh! Never mind me! Walter’s still stronger!”
“Boo-boo! Wrong again,” said Lise, wagging a finger. “What know you of strength when your weak wits can’t keep even your cutlery in its case? Be more like me, why not? A fine frau who can measure her champion for true.”
“More like you!?” screeched Erika. “A toddler who can’t tame even her own tongue!?”
I, a swordsman; Walter, a spellweaver—apples and oranges, our specialities. Indeed, how one would fare against the other is no reasonable comparison to make. Albeit a debate of how practised one is over the other is fine and well in itself, but even that ought prove more productive were it to consider specimens more compatible; say, a mercenary against a knight, or even a sorcerer against a spellblade. Such common sense ought not’ve escaped these two blademaidens, though if I must be frank, their nonsensical and ceaseless squabbling was leaving me less than confident in that regard.
“Forget your puppy magick,” said Lise. “My Rolf once cut a Kōkūtós in twain—whilst inside it! And where be he now? Why, alive here to tell you all about it!”
A smug-cheeked Lise, all puffed up like a pup proud of a hole it had just digged. But in beholding her so, I then experienced something of an epiphany: Lise was boasting of me, preening of a Man she considered a companion.
“Ech!” Erika retched. “Your reveries reek more by the moment!”
Offended, Lise snapped back. “I’m not feisting, I said!”
If of such a companion she wished to boast, then so must I make myself worthy of the honour. “Friendly motivation” is what most would call what I felt now, naturally enough. Only, it wasn’t natural. Not to me. Not for the longest time, that is. But seeing it now playing out right afore my eyes, I remembered its meaning anew. Would that I had done so much sooner, for indeed in my Order days, I’d very much disappointed those near and dear to me. Yes; I had not a sliver of shame for the path I’d chosen, sure, yet I’d not walked it as proudly or nimbly as some had hoped, and that was the cold, naked truth.
But now was my chance to make right of it; as Lise’s friend, I must not disappoint her. Lesson learnt, I decided that a bit of gloating was in order.
“Hmph,” I huffed loudly, forcing a smirk. “Think you can vie with my sword, do you?”
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