Matias stood against eleven men in a slightly elevated cobble square as wide as the mess hall. With one hand on the pommel of his broadsword, he took note the stature and equipment of his opponents.

He was outnumbered, obviously so. And even with his surging confidence, it would only do him good to better know his enemy. It was a simple thing and would not take much time. Only a fool would disregard the importance of being prepared.

His gaze landing on the bear-like man ahead, Matias spoke, “Be it tradition or not, sergeant, but punishment must be doled out for the disrespect.”

“I could not agree more, captain,” responded Zekel, his voice losing its haughtiness. He was still shaken from the stint earlier between him and Matias. Motioning to speak, he tightened the grip on the handle of his hammer further. “But an apology will not be followed. Authority must be earned.”

“Indeed,” Matias said as he spied the thick leather armor on Zekel’s chest. His eyes then landed on the shield. It was a wooden kite shield with a steel rim, and daubed it was in the color of the guards. Green lines traveled down its length, and the crest of their lord settled neatly on the center. “Henceforth, hopefully an incident like this would not appear again under my call.”

Zekel peered through the visor of his helm. He swallowed absently realizing throat was unnaturally parched. “It seems you are confident, captain. It’s as if you believe you have already won the match.” Zekel paused, and cleared his throat with a gulp. “As of now, your words hold no sway over the guards.”

“For now,” Matias replied tersely as he playfully tapped the pommel of his sword. “I am no outsider, lad. How things are here, I know it well.” As if to drive his words, he unlatched the scabbard’s leather strap from his person. He then held his sheathed sword with one hand and experimentally tested the weight. He nodded faintly before looking ahead.

“Come, lad. Show me what passes now for strength in the guards.”

The courtyard turned silent, but no one dared to laugh nor jeer at Matias. They stared dumbfoundedly at the captain, poised and ready for a fight.

As if to represent the guards, Zekel bewilderingly said, “Do not make us laugh, captain.”

Matias raised his brows. “Why do you say so, sergeant?”

“To fight with eleven men on your own with your third-circle is folly enough. But to fight with a sheathed sword? Surely, you do not mistake us for fools who believe a minstrel’s tales of glory.” Zekel said in earnest.

“Do not give it mind, sergeant,” Matias said simply. “Only pay notice if you are prepared or not.” 

Zekel halted his voice, seemingly aware the man before him had made his resolve. But even if his opponent was essentially unarmed, the anxiety coiling around his nerves had not lessened at all. It was as though he stood against a beast that had not a care if it had no claws to rake, nor teeth to maul. It was a primal fear, something he had in him since his youth.

The thought itself seemed ridiculous, especially so for the pragmatic Zekel. But as he recalled the shrouded past, his doubts festered still. He was beginning to understand he had known the man once, though the details were unknown at best.

Zekel gave one last glance at his opponent. If he could not quell his anxiety with his thoughts alone, then he would find better opportunity with his hammer. Best the foe that had dragged his fear into the open; it was the way of the guards.

“Then, do not mistake our win because of your conceit, captain,” Zekel said, unable to prevent some poison seeping into his words.

“I will not,” Matias said, confidence in his voice. “If there is nothing left, then let us fight.” He raised the sheathed sword with his right hand, and took one step back with his left leg. His free hand hovered freely above his left shoulder where his crossbow was. He had his eyes settled on the enemy before him, not letting the subtlety of movement escape his sight.

Seeing the match was to be underway, Zekel ordered his men to move. With their superior numbers, he would be a fool not to overwhelm his foes. It was a coward’s way of fighting, but nobility and honor served no purpose in a battle. Every guard knew it well--nay, they were forced to learn, and the ones who had refused were now buried underneath the deep earth.

Stolen story; please report.

“Surround him!” bellowed Zekel as he stood at the helm of the charge. His men spreaded out in a fanning formation, intending to box Matias in. It was a maneuver so simple even children could deliver results. But the simplicity it held was what all battles were won.

Matias immediately moved to intercept, giving regard to the danger the maneuver posed. Even if he were to have the same circle as Nito, he had no confidence in breaking through an encirclement. Not now, where their numbers and strength were still steadfast and plenty. Fortunately, the enemy’s movement was still in its initial stage. All he had to do was prevent them from completing their goal.

Four of Zekel’s men had splitted off from the main host, moving to besieged Matias’ left flank. At the same moment, another four had branched off, aiming for his right.

Seeing how the quality of the guards had not diminished at all since his long absence over the years, Matias was inwardly satisfied. They heeded the call of their sergeant well. And it seemed they were trained enough to understood the importance of order and certainty. Their movement suggested they had to guarantee their chances first before making the kill.

A cause for celebration, if not for the mere fact he was their prey.

His eyes danced about, and a moment after, he grabbed his crossbow and tugged it loose from its latch. He stepped forward and centered it on the enemy at his left.

Matias pulled the trigger and sent a bolt spearing towards the nearest foe. The man at the front raised his shield and blocked the bolt with a thud. Mechanically, he lowered his shield to see if all was clear. But Matias gave no quarter.

After the first bolt had left its chamber, a muffled blast of heated air resetted the string back. A reloader then pushed another bolt in place. Matias heard a click and pulled the trigger once more.

The second bolt flew through the air, and struck the shieldbearer cleanly in the knee. His body keeled over, a pained shout escaping from his throat. With his momentum pulling him forward and down, gravity pulled him to the floor while dragging a stout man alongside. With a resounding thud of flesh against earth, two men skidded across the hard floor.

Another blast rang out, pushing the string of the crossbow back, fresh for more. Matias keenly felt the heated air wafting by his face as small puffs of steam blew across. Without pause, he swung the crossbow right and blindly discharged the remaining bolts in his reloader.

The air whistled as three more bolts flew by. But Matias paid no heed if they had struck flesh or not. He had only needed them to buy time.

Holstering his crossbow as he had not the moment to refill his reloader, he sprinted for the left flank. Two men met him there as they hopped over their fallen comrades. The enemy unprepared for the sudden assault, Matias moved to make quick work.

The nearest man stabbed his sword forth. As the blade drew near, Matias avoided the jab by stepping to the side. At the same time, he swung up and struck the man by the chin with his sheathed sword.

The man’s head snapped back and forth, his senses in mess from the blow. Dazed, his legs buckled and fell to his knees.

Matias stepped past him and swung a backstroke with the flat of his blade. It arced around and slammed the man by the head again, smashing him headfirst against the ground. He laid there, breathing but unmoving.

Matias released a breath.

Catching the glint of a spearhead at the edge of his sight, Matias immediately whirled away. The spear clipped his waist, barely cutting the plated-mail. His momentum swinging him in almost a full circle, he swept his sword, cleaving the air apart.

The sheathed blade struck the spearwielder by the side, forcing him to stumble a few steps from where he stood. The blow from Matias had knocked the air out from his lungs. He could not breath.

Gasping for air and his vision growing hazy, he tried to maintain a tight grip over his spear. It was the only object he could use to fight back. The solid, hefty feeling he held in his hands helped him weather the pain as his knucles turned white from gripping too hard.

As the man turned his head to see what became of his foe, Matias delivered a swift fist to the face, knocking him over his feet. The blow jarred the weapon away from his cold hands.

A clang sounded out as the spear bounced about on the ground.

The man fell back, slamming against the dry, hard floor. His vision turned dark for a moment. Gasping still and quelling the urge to vomit, he desperately searched for his spear by probing his hands about.

As soon as he felt the solid cold touch of the spear’s haft, he smiled in relief. But it was all for a moment’s respite as a white-haired man loomed overhead. His smile was wiped clean, replaced by a grim realization of what was to come to him.

His fear was brought to life as Matias thrust down his sword at the man’s gut. The tip of the sheathed blade dug deep, almost as if it was no different from being stabbed through. He flinched from the spiking pain, and with eyes pried open, retched what remained of his morning meal. Battered and beaten, the man passed out.

Matias cleared his lungs, and breathed a new batch of fresh air.

Four of the enemy had been fell.

He then turned slowly as he heard deep cascading footfalls behind him. At the same time, he took his crossbow back in hand and tried to feel the vestiges of heat in the chamber. He could only shoot five bolts in sequence before the heat threatened to snap the string in twain.

He nodded faintly as the crossbow had almost cooled down. After which, he retrieved a special holder of five bolts from his waist. With deft hands, he refitted the reloader full, the crossbow ready to shoot once more. As he finally met face of what remained of the enemy, he snapped the chamber back in place.

He spoke, “Sergeant, bring more of your men.”