“Why did you offer to assist the Noble?” Jurot asked, eating a fruit as he stared out at the Iyrmen who worked. He wanted to work too, but being a guest who had been invited to relax under Sir Merry’s name meant he needed to act appropriately.

“He spent so much money on getting his revenge against the Elder Wolf, but that was probably only half the reason why he paid so much,” Adam replied, taking a bite of a fruit, feeling his tough it was to bite into, and how plain it tasted. ‘Is this a carrot?’ “He probably wanted to find someone decent to fight for him in the tournament.”

Jurot remained silent, waiting for Adam to continue.

“Oh,” Adam said. “You’re asking why I wasn’t so stupid to offend him and leave like I did with Sir Harvey?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve spent a little while thinking about it. I’m pretty intelligent and wise, but I don’t actually act like it.” Adam sighed. “I need to act my age and not my shoe size, as they say.” Adam couldn’t help the smile which crept on his face, recalling how many teachers had berated their students with the line.

Jurot remained silent, waiting for Adam to continue.

“Right, sorry.” Adam cleared his throat. “He spent that much gold only for us to refuse him. Plus, I’m pretty sure he’s annoyed about how I treated him when he started some nonsense with me. I have to remember that Nobles in this world are the same as the Nobles of my world. I had to throw him a bone, especially after disrespecting him so obviously. If I didn’t, I’d end up like one of the Knights in the river.”

Jurot nodded. “I did not expect you to suddenly gain insight.”

“I’ve always had this insight. I just decided that I kind of care about not dying a third time. Sure, maybe I’ll come back again, but…” Adam fell silent, shaking his head. He continued to bite into the fruit, which he was certain was actually a vegetable. “I can’t be silly any more, Jurot.”

Jurot nodded his head. “When will we leave?”

“Tomorrow, probably,” Adam said.

“Then I will inform Sir Merry,” Jurot said, standing. “I will claim my right to fight him before I leave.”

“Alright,” Adam said, watching as the Iyrmen rushed off to go and speak with Sir Harold. Adam let out a small sigh, smiling to himself. ‘He really is like a little kid sometimes.’

It hadn’t taken long for word to travel through the small village, and soon the town had come together, bringing their drinks and snacks. The Iyrmen had been given their own small section, but many of them sat upon the roofs of the huts and cabins as they would do in the Iyr.

Adam accepted a small clay bottle full of fruit wine and some fried bread which was sprinkled with just a touch of sugar.

Villagers tapped on drums, and others played flutes, revealing songs which had been passed down through the generations.

Jurot wore his magical shield, but held a simple axe in one hand. “I, Jurot son of Surot, will face you! Though my shield is magical, I will not use its magics against you, Sir Merry.”

“Do as you please, Iyrman,” Sir Harold replied, holding a sword with both hands, bowing his head. It was also a fairly simple sword, though it had been newly forged. The village smith had worked hard recently, as some Iyrmen fought without their magical weapons, and Sir Merry would mirror them. He also wore a breastplate over his torso, not wanting to bring his entire armour to face a young Iyrman, though kept his amulet close to his chest. It held the symbol of Aldland, a sword surrounded by rays of light.

‘Iyrman, please,’ the village smith thought. ‘Don’t destroy that armour.’

Jurot raised his axe, readying himself to face against Sir Merry. He gripped his axe tight, before loosening his grip slightly. He had never expected that he’d be able to face the previous King’s Sword in a fight. His heart thundered in his chest, already excited about the tale he would tell when he’d return home.

‘Mother will love to hear this story.’

“Watch carefully,” Sarot said, taking a seat beside Adam, who had been given a space near the front, as was his right. “It must be you who repeats the tale.”

Stolen novel; please report.

“Yeah,” Adam said. “I understand.”

Jurot and Sir Harold remained apart from one another. Silent. Still. Their bout had yet to officially begin.

Sir Harold gripped his blade tighter. ‘I can’t end the bout too quickly,’ he thought. ‘I should allow him his fun for his assistance.’ However, he also understood that facing Jurot with everything he had would be fun for the boy too. ‘I can’t bully my juniors too much.’

The pair remained staring at one another, but the winds shifted.

Jurot, who had been staring at Sir Harold for a long while, bolted forward, graceful like a panther. As his sandal boot struck the ground, his entire body turned red, his eyes white, and his mouth formed a wild grin of joy.

As he swung, Sir Harold caught his axe, only to feel how hard his arms strained against the blow. ‘He truly is an Iyrman,’ Sir Harold thought, before he defended himself against another axe swipe of the young man, before bringing some distance between the pair of them, moving as gentle as a butterfly.

Sir Harold’s blade moved casually through the air, though Jurot felt his hair stand up on end. Though the blade swam through the air, Jurot’s body moved on its own, his shield stopping a blow meant for his head, his axe catching another.

‘Damn,’ Adam thought. He watched as Sir Harold deflected Jurot’s axe blows and swung with his own blade, managing to nick Jurot against his body, landing soft blows against the Iyrman’s skin. ‘He really is a monster.’

‘Oh,’ Sir Harold thought, managing to land a few blows onto the Iyrman’s body with his blade, though noted how it felt so tough. Even as his blade flashed white, he could sense that the young man resisted his assault. ‘You’re one of those.’

The pair continued to clash against one another, but Jurot managed to push Sir Harold back with a fierce blow which would have split any normal man’s head in half. The older man had managed to catch the blow, though it had caused his arms to scream as fiery pain flooded through him.

‘I’m too old for this,’ Sir Harold thought.

The Iyrmen grunted and hummed to one another approvingly, watching as their young Iyrman fought Sir Merry. Even they were pleasantly surprised to see how well one of theirs was doing.

“I can’t allow you to beat me so easily, young Iyrman,” Sir Harold chanted, his sword filling with magical might, before he swung down to cut Jurot.

Jurot caught the blow, but the clash had caused thunder to rumble from the pair, causing nearby children to gasp, and babies to cry. Jurot’s arms shuddered from the effort of taking the blow. The blade flashed white as it struck Jurot’s side, though the Iyrman had managed to step aside to dampen the blow.

‘He’s definitely an Expert,’ Sir Harold thought. He could barely believe it, an Iyrman who was an Expert at such an age? ‘Is he being groomed for a greater position?’

It was in the moment that he thought which Jurot struck true. Jurot had managed to slash across Sir Harold’s side, causing the old man’s leg to twitch. Sir Harold flexed his muscles, trying to not drop to a knee from the axe which had sunk across his leg.

‘What a scary young man,’ Sir Harold thought. ‘At this rate, I may very well lose.’ Sir Merry didn’t mind losing to the Iyrman, as he was holding back, but that would be unfair to the young man who had assisted him in returning the bodies, and would no doubt be a terrible story to tell.

The Iyrmen continued to grunt and hum, nodding their heads as they watched. Sarot’s lips were pulled taut as he struggled not to smile. Jurot was putting on quite a show, and he fought with the Rot family’s techniques, honed to such a high proficiency even at his age.

“Jurot, wasn’t it?” Sir Harold asked, taking a moment to put some distance between them.

“I am Jurot, son of Surot!” Jurot declared with a roar, leaping towards Sir Harold, his axe flying through the air.

“I need a moment,” the retired man chanted, raising his hand towards Jurot casually. His amulet flashed for an instant.

Jurot, who was mid leap, disappeared, his roar cut off mid way. It was as though he did not exist.

Adam blinked, staring at where Jurot had been. He glanced around, noting the villagers, who rubbed their eyes. The Iyrmen, on the other hand, remained still, watching the scene intently, their eyes burning in the sight of the situation.

Sir Royce raised his brows, taking himself away from his drink for a moment. “Ho?”

“Do not look away, Adam,” Sarot said. “You must watch.”

Adam’s eyes stopped looking about to find Jurot. ‘Considering how calm the Iyrmen are, there must be something else that’s going on.’

Sir Harold drew his hand across his sword, and following his hand came a gentle white glow. “Jurot, son of Surot, has earned the right to fall under this sword of mine.”

‘You better not mean to death, old man.’ It was a chant for a spell, Adam assumed, for Sir Harold’s sake.

The moment the chant was finished, Jurot returned, blinking as he saw the familiar sight of the village appear once again. His shield and axe were still in hand, and he tried to bring his shield up towards Sir Harold’s blade, understanding what had happened to him.

Sir Harold’s blade glowed white, but there was something else which had taken to the sword. The blade’s tip and edge were blue and purple, full of great magic. The air around them had changed, revealing the force of the spell. The blade crashed downwards, shattering Jurot’s axe, and it cut across his front.

Jurot, who had spent his time elsewhere for a moment, had lost his rage. It would have assisted in dealing with most of the blow’s force, though he could feel the assault in his mind ring true, causing his nostrils to fill with blood. Unfortunately, the rest of the damage from the blade had also pushed through.

The Iyrman dropped to his knees, feeling unconsciousness begin to seep into his mind. He panted, trying to call for his rage, trying to earn a few more seconds.

“Adam’s blade,” Jurot said, coughing up blood. “Is stronger.” His eyes rolled back into his skull as he fell forward.