Finally halting at the entrance to the biggest tent of all, the one housing the enemy’s commander, Joyce stood at the ready, swords drawn. The tent itself was small—only big enough for a handful of people—but it was surrounded by tall walls. A large open space separated her from the commander. Even in her blinded state, a sense of etiquette and courtesy compelled her to stop.
Opposite her, at the far end and sitting in his throne-like chair, the commander sat with one hand acting as support for his face. His other hand gripped the armrest. His golden locks cascaded down his face and nestled neatly on his lap. On his face, a solemn expression pierced the air.
“What vile wretch is this who dares to enter the sanctity of my domain?” He voiced, adding, “Then again, only a fool would charge past enemy lines seeking a swifter death.”
He stood and motioned at one of the soldiers to his side, “Bring me my sword.”
“But sir, this man, he,” the soldier protested, attempting to warn the commander.
Angered by that, the commander swung his arm, slamming the back of his hand against the soldier’s face. He knocked him to the ground, shouting, “Don’t question me, you filthy mongrel, and fetch me my sword!”
The commander turned to face Sigurd. Pointing at him, he exclaimed, “I’ll deal with this heathen myself!”
Stolen novel; please report.
Turning his gaze back to the downed soldier, a warm yet deceptively sadistic smile grew on the commander’s face. “As for you,” he knelt and grabbed the nameless soldier by the collar, pulling him close. “After fetching my sword, go make yourself useful along with everyone else here.”
The man scurried to get the item that was requested of him and motioned at the other three soldiers accompanying the commander in his tent to leave via a side entrance. With that, the commander brushed his subordinate’s blood off his knuckle and proceeded to step toward the center of the large open space.
“Silent are we? Cowering in fear? But of course, you should be,” he took petty shots at Sigurd’s lack of an opinion, taking on an exaggerated pose. “After all, you’re standing before the mighty Archibald von Himmel! Everyone bows before me, from the highest of kings to the lowliest of whores.”
He drew his mighty broadsword with a single hand, demonstrating the strength he bore, “But fear not warrior, you need not bow nor share your name. These would be worthless actions, as you’ll soon be dead, just as the rest of your people!”
The commander swung his sword in place and pointed his open palm at Sigurd, “In fact, sullying my blade would be a waste of effort. You’ll die in a much more unrefined way! Like this!”
Archibald’s mouth motioned silent words and within a fraction of a second, a giant fireball formed in front of his palm. Thereafter, it lunged forth, striking Sigurd where he stood. The blonde commander then cracked into maniacal laughter.
“And this is why plebeians such as you don’t deserve an audience with one of such stature as I, after all,” he proudly boasted. But as the smoke cleared, Sigurd stood intact, entirely unharmed.
Seeing that Archibald’s speech was cut short. “Well, I wasn’t expecting someone so formidable to challenge me,” he stammered.
“So be it!” He clapped back, “Raise your swords, let’s fight!”