The Knight of Honor (The Arising Evil, Book 1)

by Ulysses Troy

  “It’s over, Ser. I have won.” The clouds moved away and the sun above shed its lights upon the duelers, shining their plate armors and steel swords. The glare reflecting from Conrad’s sword stung Evrard’s eyes, stunning him for a moment. Conrad waited for the Black Knight’s response, but before Evrard could answer, a scream, full of pain and terror, rose from among the crowd. At the same moment, a dog barked, an armored man fell, and a woman cried for help with fright. Something is wrong. Conrad thought as he turned his head back to see. At first, he was unable to understand what was going on. It seemed as if there were an incident or brawl that had spread among the crowd, causing this chaos in the first place. But it did not take him long to realize that was not the case at all. He saw a man holding a bloody sword in his armored hands, and standing above a lifeless body. The blood belonged to a guardsman, and the body too. Still surprised by what he had just seen, Conrad watched as heavily armored men, wearing black coats on their bodies and holding banners in their hands with no sigil but only black, carrying swords, bows, axes, spears, and maces filled the place. These are . . . the mercenaries Ser Robard mentioned! He thought. The Banned Company. He saw blood on their men’s swords and lifeless bodies lying around. They were slaying the guards and guests alike, without any sign of hesitation. They sent arrows to the crowd, cut a man’s nose, and set one of the seats on fire.

  Conrad was no idiot. He quickly understood what was going on. The peasant back at the road had been telling the truth. Most of the forces of the Brotherhood had departed for somewhere else, leaving only a small force behind and abandoning the castle of Unac’h Dorn to its fate. And now, he knew where they had departed for: the plains of LaPellás. It had been their plan all along to ambush the contest, all the while disguised as mercenaries hired to protect the plains . . . from themselves. He felt too stupid for not realizing this earlier, as Retlaff must have wanted Gavise to sneak into the plains for a reason. And that Knight, leading them, had to be the Rider’s second in command, the one the bandit had mentioned. They have been planning this for a long time. But who helped them if it wasn’t Gavise? Conrad thought. The Brotherhood has used this whole “the Banned Company” thing as a disguise.

  Ser Evrard was as surprised as everybody else. That much was obvious from his movements, even though his helmet hid his face. Conrad quickly bent over, picked up the man’s sword and threw it back to him, shouting. “Fight alongside me, Ser! If you can fight against them as you did against me, then we may have a chance.”

  Evrard caught the sword in the air and nodded to him, standing tall and taking his position. Unpleasant cries filled the air. From behind, a man screamed, and a child started to cry. And sounds of flying arrows surrounded the arena, yet Conrad did not know whose lives they were heading to take away.

  Their numbers constantly increasing, a group of mercenaries approached them. He raised his sword, examined his enemies, and calculated his chances. It’s bad, but I have seen worse. It was not the first time he would fight against opponents of much greater numbers, and Conrad knew how these fights would go. After seeing their friends get swiftly cut up like a carved cake by a superior sword, the other men would barely be able to fight their best, trying to not shit their pants, as the terror would conquer their hearts. But if they were the men of the Brotherhood as Conrad thought and the rumors about their capabilities were true, it could be much harder of a fight than he could imagine. Even professional soldiers would fear; they were just better at controlling their fear.

  Conrad of Battum and Evrard de Wellon stood back-to-back and raised their swords towards the small horde of bandits, who were running towards them with furious and loud cries. They were coming from nearly everywhere and they had more than five men for each of Conrad and Evrard, so the odds were even.

  And it started, a real fight for real fighters. Now, they could show all of their skill without the restrictions or limitations of the contest, and they did so. As the men of the Brotherhood were now within their reach, the two started to make their move. Steel clashed against steel, and their metallic grey was soon colored dark red. A lifeless head flew, a man lost his arm and another lost his ear, all to the same blade. Conrad and Evrard were giving hell to their opponents. What they were doing right now was not just fighting, it was more than that. It was more of art performed by its specific masters before the eyes of a great crowd, a terrified one, but still able to witness and be impressed by this very special piece. This splendid show of the two could be likened to a theater performance, yet it was much more glorious and bloodier than any that had ever existed. Even though they were in their plate armors, they were as fast as a Jamedian panther in the woods, going after his unlucky hunt with unparalleled speed and elegance. With their every move, a bandit’s life was taken away. With every step they took, they were cornering their enemies and breaking their defenses, despite the enemy’s greater numbers. Theirs was a talent, a deadly one, but still quite recognizable.

  All over the arena, chaos was the sole power that ruled. The rising voices of pain and shock had filled everywhere. Some knights from the crowd had jumped into the arena with their steel swords in their hands. But they were only wearing high-quality silk and no armor, and many of them became easy prey to the bandits’ flying arrows.

  The men of The Brotherhood were like no other bandits. They were fighting like warriors, obeying orders like soldiers, and dying like believers. They had courage in their heart and dedication in their mind, but Conrad was wondering how long it was going to last. These men could be like a legion of Carasson, but they were still bandits and had no better motivation than obtaining coins. Despite the fact that some believed they were fighting for freedom.

  A heavily armored man, covered with steel from head to foot, appeared from nowhere in an instant. He raised his great sword to blow a strike into Conrad’s head, but Conrad was fast enough to evade his attack. The bandit hit his sword to the lifeless body of a fallen outlaw lying on the ground by mistake, sticking it into the body’s chest. As he was struggling to draw back the great sword from the dead man’s chest, Conrad leaned towards him with agility, raised his sword for a strike, and aimed the bandit’s eyes, the only fully uncovered area in his body, as he did not have a visor. He penetrated the man’s head, sticking his sword from the eyes. The bandit died in an instant and his lifeless body fell to the ground, and Conrad did not make the same mistake as him, as he left the Baron’s precious sword in the bandit’s helmet and quickly picked up the other dead bandit’s sword.

  Straightening up after taking the sword, he realized that this had been the right move to make, as another bandit appeared before him. He was a large, strong man with a goatie. He was holding a two-handed ax. His face is similar to those of the villagers at Hoél. Conrad thought while examining the man’s light blue eyes, just like those of the Hag. He wondered about his story and felt bad for his kith and kin, seeing as his ax was dull, and he was holding it wrong. Even though he could beat Conrad in fight, he could not penetrate the Baron’s plate armor.

  The man swung his ax, aiming at Conrad’s head to slice it in one strike. He could have been successful if Conrad had not been able to step back at the right time, although the Baron’s helmet was protecting his head. Yet this move revealed a crucial point about the bandit. He is relying on his strength. That’s good. Conrad thought; he had no skill to rely on, only muscle. And this, what they were doing right now, was nothing like breaking bricks. This was a dance. A dance only the finest could survive through.

  Conrad evaded the man’s attack with swift steps, then made his own. The bandit parried it with the wooden hilt of his axe, which made an unpleasant sound of crashing wood. But as soon as he blocked Conrad’s attack, he faced another, and then another. Conrad of Battum was like no one he had ever faced before. He had skill, speed, and dedication all at once. So, only a few seconds later, he saw his ax lying on the ground, meters away from him, and his hands empty. After disarming him, Conrad hoped he would surrende
r, but his hope was in vain. The bandit replied with a quick reflex without thinking. He punched Conrad’s chest as hard as possible, only to see the skin of his hand peeled by the superior steel armor, now bloody all over. He cried out and Conrad saw fear in his eyes. Maybe it was the first time he had feared that much in his whole life because he knew he had lost and was left with no choice. But Conrad was out of choices, too. The other bandits were approaching, and he could not just wait for him to surrender. But he did not have to make a choice, as the unarmed bandit ran towards him to drive him to the ground under his sheer weight. Yet Conrad was fast, as fast as the Wind Breeze. He made a quick step to the side and brought his sword heavy on the man, severing his head from his shoulders. I wonder if he was Dermot. While the ground was colored red one more time with human blood, Conrad thought.

  But he had not much time to think, as the mercenaries were everywhere. Conrad felt tempted to count their numbers but resisted as it would be pointless. There were enough of them to at least fill a mediocre Utornian tavern. For a moment, Conrad hoped they would surrender after seeing the lifeless and bloody bodies of their mates lying on the ground. But his assumptions about this Brotherhood turned out to be wrong, and he finally understood they had no intention of surrendering at all. They would rather win victory by the swords and axes in their hands or die by them. The ones who have lived by the blade will die by the blade.

  The remaining men of The Brotherhood surrounded the two for one more time, but their numbers were much fewer than the last time. They were all brave men, and perhaps too proud to give up, but they had fear, a fear of death. Conrad knew they were waiting for one among them who had the guts to attack first, even after all they had seen happen to their friends seconds ago. But this delay was a very wrong move on their part, as it provided the two fighters the breath they needed to regain their stamina. For a moment, Conrad thought they would never dare to attack, until a short man with a messy long beard made the first move. And then they came, over and over, only to fall by the blades of Conrad of Battum and Evrard de Wellon. While their blood adorned the two fighter’s swords, two men on their horses appeared at the center of the arena.

  While the two fighters were keeping their position a little behind them, two men on two horses stood giving commands to the bandits and watching the progress of the fight. One of them wore black, the other green. It was impossible to miss the first as he was mounting a robust war stallion, larger than any horse Conrad had ever seen. Its coat and eyes were as dark as a night without the reflection of moon and stars. This mysterious man, under his dark hood, large mask, and leather armor dyed black had to be the Rider, the famous and dreadful leader of the Brotherhood. And just next to him, a man with the attitude of a Knight, wearing a green mail coat on his chainmail armor, was shouting and continuously giving orders to the men of The Brotherhood.

  After jumping over the body of one of his dead friends, a bandit showed up behind Conrad, holding a mace to crush his head. He was about to parry the bandit’s attack, but the Black Knight stuck his sword into the bandit’s dark leather armor. As the bandit fell in pain, Conrad thanked the Black Knight with a quick nod and continued his fight without wasting any time. Two bandits were charging towards them, one in front and one at the back. As the first one came, he swung his sword, drawing a cross in the air. Conrad blocked the attack and landed a kick on the bandit’s chest, stunting him for a second. But then, a second was all he needed to penetrate the man’s head with his sword. The man’s blood squirted from his head, Conrad thought how gruesome fighting was, brutal, and disgusting sometimes. Yet, it was what he had to do to make a difference in the world. And he had no regrets for doing it; some arts had to be bloodier than the others.

  Ser Robard, captain of the guardsmen of House LaPellás and Lady Chanel’s most reliable knight, called to his men. “Stand together! Defend the guests with your life! Form a line!” Caught by surprise, many armed men-at-arms on duty were quickly killed by the Brotherhood with their first attack, but guardsmen still preserved at least half of their number, and that was enough to cope with the Brotherhood’s men. The guards jumped onto the stage and tried to form a defensive line. A few of the armored Knights were among their ranks too, but they were all in the service of LaPellás. Soon, some noble guests also drew their swords to protect themselves from the attacking forces. In a few seconds, the slaughter turned to a wide-scale fight between the mercenaries and the LaPellás forces.

  For a while, the fight continued in favor of the Brotherhood. They fought with the guards toe to toe and kept their ground without any sign of hesitation. The Green Knight ordered them to stick together and concentrate on breaking the line Ser Robard had set up. With the Knight’s order, a dozen archers sent a volley to Robard’s men, killing a few and wounding some, yet the rest were still holding the line. So, the Green Knight ordered his men for another volley. As they were aware of the danger this time, the guardsmen raised their shields to protect themselves, although some were too late, and some did not even have a shield. More of them fell to the ground covered in blood. The signs of hesitation started to appear among the guards. Ser Robard saw the fear that was conquering his men and called out to preserve their motivation. “Raise your shields and hold the line if you want to survive! Right after they send another volley, we will charge their ranks! On my order!”

  “Yes, Ser!” the guardsmen said, waiting for the impending volley. It came, penetrated the thin air whistling, and fell right above the guardsmen. Even though they lost some of their numbers again, they were now ready to charge through the Brotherhood as Ser Robard had ordered, only waiting for his word to begin. One Knight, maimed with an arrow in his left shoulder, anxiously said, “Ser Robard, we must strike now! Ser Robard?” Turning right, where Robard stood, he saw him lying on the ground, with two arrows in his chest.

  “Ser Robard . . . he . . . he is dead!” A man-at-arms said with terror and drew the others’ attention towards the lying body in an instant. Seeing their leader in that position, the other men lost any modicum of courage they had.

  “Wha . . . at should we do now?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “They killed Ser Robard!” A guard among them shouted. His fear was clearly seen in his voice. “They fucking killed him!”

  “Fuck this!” Another guardsman behind him said. “If we don’t want to end up like him, we’d better run before they send another volley through our fucking heads!”

  “What kind of shit are you pooping, Herald! We have a duty; we have to fight!”

  “Yes!” Another voice supported him. “We can’t abandon these people.”

  “You retards have lost your minds! They just slew half of our men! And they will slay us too! These fucking mercenaries are no joke! We can’t beat them!” He dropped his shield. “Fuck this! Fuck this! I have a life to live.” He started to run back, towards the entrance of the arena, with most of the remaining guardsmen.

  “I have a life, too! Fuck this contest.” Another said while trying to catch up to him. The Knight that was shot by an arrow called out to them.

  “You cowards, stand your ground! Herald, you bloody traitor! I say return or I will chop your fucking heads off! Boilé! Listen to me fucker!” His voice sounded angry, but also helpless. He looked nearby to count how many men remained. The bravest and most loyal soldiers were still keeping their ground, with increasing fear in their eyes and swearing at the mercenaries and their escaping friends. After killing another bandit and getting some rest, Conrad looked at their ranks to calculate their chances. After the mercenaries’ attack, Ser Robard had managed to gather a force of thirteen men on the arena. Yet, now, with the dead and escaped, there were only seven guardsmen and two knights left, one injured. The injured one spoke to the remaining men.

  “Keep your shields above your head and start pray to the Holy One! The other volley . . .”

  The other Knight interfered before he could finish his sentence. “There won’t be another v
olley, Melden.”

  The injured Knight quickly turned around. To his great surprise, the mercenaries were charging towards them with full force, to end the fight once and for all. The Green Knight was personally leading them, with sword in hand. Their numbers were much greater than the remaining guardsmen, who did not have the slightest chance of winning or surviving this fight.

  This time, all of the guards tried to flee, but it was already too late. The Green Knight had positioned halberdiers and spearmen to the front, and they pierced the soldiers of LaPellás with their weapons. Among the two standing Knights of LaPellás, one was cut down by a bandit with an ax, and the injured one was knocked out by a powerful strike to his head from a bandit’s mace. One bandit threw his spear at a guardsman and killed him instantly. Another beat one who tried to defend himself in a short duel and chopped his arm off. None of the remaining guards survived. And now, as the guardsmen lay defeated, only Conrad of Battum and Evrard de Wellon stood in the arena to counter the Brotherhood. So, it’s over. I never thought it would end like this. As they turned their attention towards them, Conrad thought.

  The Green Knight gathered his men once more and led them against the two fighters, who were standing beside countless bodies that belonged to The Brotherhood’s fallen. The bandits formed a circle, surrounding the two with their greater numbers.

  The bandit who seemed to be the captain of the archers said to his men. “Prepare to knock!” But before the men of the Brotherhood could execute the order, The Green knight stopped them with his hand.