CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Clash of Steel

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Bram had one last task before he could set out on a new adventure. It was why he brought Chris to the bastion’s training grounds.

“This place could do with a bit of polish,” Rowan commented.

She’d tagged along with them because she had nothing better to do. Not now that Hajime wasn’t around to bully, which was the specific word she used for training him.

They arrived at the entrance to a courtyard sandwiched between the inner keep that housed the Oaken Hall and the western wall that guarded the bastion’s residents from the cliff’s edge behind it.

“I don’t know,” Chris’ gaze swept the yard, “I like how rough it looks.”

He sniffed at the air.

“Smells of sweat and hard work.” The Texan grinned.

Though he appreciated Chris’ sentiments, Bram didn’t think an otherworlder’s gym was anything like the training grounds of his bastion with its many implements of death and struggle.

Racks filled with all manner of weapons envisioned by the smiths of the Imperium waited in one corner of the rectangular space, even the rare double-sided lances that were the signature tools of the sky rangers of Navarra. These weapons weren’t the wooden variety common in training halls but made of bastion-forged steel and sharpened so thoroughly that they easily cut through flesh. A considerable expense, for certain, but one that Bastille’s seneschal deemed of utmost importance. Within this training ground of rough stone floor, Ser Anthony sought to forge warriors who could protect his prince from all dangers.

Recalling how well Baer and his fellow traitors had fought, Bram thought Ser Anthony was succeeding at least in training them. Loyalty was another matter entirely.

“They’ve even got a jungle gym,” Chris mused aloud.

The Texan’s gaze was fixed on another corner of the training grounds and the weightlifting tools set up there. Iron framing and wooden planks made up a short obstacle course that was like a death trap of swinging axes, rotating sickles, and, seemingly to Chris’ delight, a pool of processed slime.

“Yep, this will be my favorite spot in the bastion,” he decided.

“Right,” Rowan shook her head, “you and our prince are cut from the same cloth.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Bram said, flexing his muscles for good measure.

It was an act Chris copied. “Ditto.”

‘Clang!’

The sound of steel clashing against steel ended their banter, drawing the trio’s attention toward the central arena. There, trading sword blows as if she were born to be a warrior…was Bridget Fowling.

Bram raised an eyebrow. “I thought she was a writer?”

In Bridget’s hand was not a pen but a short sword of two-and-a-half feet in length, its single edge gleaming underneath the light of the twin moons.

“She is, but she’s also a big MMA nut,” Chris chuckled.

“MMA?”

“Mixed martial arts…from what Rowan's told me about your last fights, then it's kind of like what you do, Boss.”

While Chris explained the intricacies of Earth’s martial arts scene, Bridget showed the prince its potential in duels. Holding her weapon in a reversed grip made it easier to parry a sword blow meant to cut her shoulder while allowing Bridget room to maneuver in such a heated close-quarters-fight.

‘Clang!’

Sparks flew as Bridget blocked one blow after another in a deft showing of defensive talent. In the same breath, she tried to grab her opponent’s outstretched wrist with her free hand, but the knight who wielded a saber against her was no easy prey either.

She was Ser Aveline Allard, a middle-aged woman with short copper hair and a scar across her nose who’d learned to wield her saber under Ser Anthony’s tutelage.

Like the other knights that the seneschal had summoned to Lotharin to serve the prince, Ser Aveline had been meant to be Bram’s sword and shield…a role Rowan had taken up. He’s had few occasions to interact with her and her fellow knights though because they’d been avoiding the ill-fated prince as most of his household did, so this might be the first time he’d seen Ser Aveline smile.

‘Clang!’

Ser Aveline’s and Bridget’s blades locked together, both smiling like mad fools drunk with the madness only a duel could induce.

“Bridget’s a natural,” Rowan noted.

“Has she had training before?” Bram followed up.

“Karate and Judo, I think,” Chris’ brow scrunched together, “maybe some Krav Maga.”

Bram cast a curious expression at Chris. “Krav Maga…?”

“It’s a self-defense art geared for close-quarters fights meant to keep you alive as long as possible,” Chris’ face turned contemplative, “or, you know, surprise someone enough to earn the kill shot.”

As if to prove Chris’ words true, Bridget performed a stunt rarely seen in duels—she let go of her weapon.

This astonishing feat of daring didn’t just end the sword lock between her and Ser Aveline, but it left Bridget vulnerable to the knight’s saber coming down on her arm. Or it should have, but Bridget sidestepped the blow at the last second, forcing Ser Aveline to move forward, leaving her vulnerable to the short sword now aimed at her gut, which Bridget had dropped with one hand and then caught with her other hand.

“It was a good move,” Bram conceded, “but not enough.”

He saw Bridget’s sword waver just before it could draw blood, and that instance of indecision cost the blonde otherworlder.

Unlike Bridget, Ser Aveline was used to the threat of death. Instead of cowering back from the sword aimed at her midsection, the knight who’d traded her armor for a trainee’s leather padding barreled forward, sending her shoulder crashing into Bridget’s bosom with such force that the blonde otherworlder was pushed back before she could resume her attack.

Then, with Bridget’s footing compromised, Ser Aveline kicked out at her stomach in a move that reminded Bram of his victory over a knight of the White Rose. The kick sent Bridget crashing butt-first onto the ground, where she was unable to react to the tip of Ser Aveline’s sword brushing against her neck.

“I surrender,” Bridget said, breathless.

“You sacrificed sure footing for a killing blow.” Ser Aveline’s voice was low and melodic, but there was a hint of approval in her tone. “Had your gamble worked, it would have been me on the floor instead of you.”

While the copper-haired knight helped Bridget up, she asked the blonde otherworlder where she’d learned to fight and if Bridget might be willing to trade techniques with her.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“I can teach you the swift sword I use in exchange for your defensive style,” Ser Aveline said, to which Bridget quickly replied, “ Hell yes — let’s do it.”

Hearing them caused a grin to spread on Bram’s face.

An exchange of ideas and expertise, this was exactly what he was hoping to achieve for Lotharin’s sake as much as his own. Here and now, without his prompting, such an exchange was truly beginning.

“Well done. Both of you.” Bram stepped out of the shadows the inner keep cast on the courtyard. “It was a good match.”

Silence.

Once they noticed the prince had arrived, the noise around the training grounds died down, and only awkward silence remained. This wasn’t a special circumstance, though. Bram often made people uncomfortable whenever he appeared at a gathering. It was one of the reasons he preferred being in disguise. However, this time, there was also an undercurrent of tension in the air, one whose origins Bram already guessed at.

Two incidents came to mind.

There was the flogging of the city’s guardsmen who’d been caught drinking instead of performing their duties as they should have. It had been nearly two weeks since, but the severity of their punishment—how Ser Anthony showed no mercy in giving it—seemed fresh in the minds of the gathered guardsmen.

Then there was the more recent incident of betrayal within the ranks of his household’s soldiers.

Baer’s betrayal had shaken Bram’s trust in them, and for days, the soldiers of his household were questioned to see how many more rats were hiding among them. A few were discovered and rooted out, although all shared the stigma of mistrust. This, more than his reputation as a magicless fool, was the cause of the awkward looks Bram received from those sworn to be his swords.

In short, trust and camaraderie within the bastion were at an all-time low, though Bram hoped to change this before he left for his next adventure. Fortunately, he wasn’t alone in this thinking.

“Well met, Your Highness,” said Ser Aveline.

She bowed her head, and the others gathered nearby followed suit.

Bram couldn’t help but feel grateful.

“Raise your heads,” he insisted. “I’ve told you all, you needn’t bow to me. Just serve me well.”

“They cannot do that,” said the old knight who’d been observing from a shadowy corner. “All must show due deference to the Sovereign’s blood.”

“When was the last time you showed me deference?” Bram asked, chuckling.

Ser Anthony exhaled a pillar of smoke he’d inhaled from his pipe.

“Being strict with you is my way of showing deference, Your Highness.”

The seneschal reeked of grass and mud when he arrived at his prince’s side, but Bram didn’t dislike this aroma anymore now that he’d enjoyed cloud weed himself.

“We’ll end training here,” he said out loud.

The soldiers and guardsmen took his command as their cue to escape, with Bridget thanking them for participating in what she dubbed, “The interview.”

“Don’t lose your promissory notes,” she reminded them. “You can’t claim the griffins you earned today without them!”

Earlier today, Bram had unlocked his vault to encourage the soldiers and guardsmen to participate in Bridget’s interview, the ruse meant to hide that she was cataloging their jobs and abilities to add to the Loom’s new job system, which, until yesterday, had only three entries. It didn’t mean the Loom couldn’t create jobs by itself. However, providing it with already-established information helped expand the job list faster.

So, with the promise of a hefty pouch of griffins, the soldiers of Bram’s household readily showed off their skills to Bridget while not knowing that their hard-earned talents would serve the great undertaking’s cause.

After a short conversation with Ser Anthony and a promise of more training with Bridget, Ser Aveline was the last to leave the training grounds.

Once they were alone, the others praised Bridget for her duel, with Chris asking her when she’d learned to fight like she did.

“I spend my weekends at the Krav Maga Institute on the corner of Broadway and West Thirtieth. My boyfriend’s one of the instructors there,” she explained.

“Heck, I didn’t know Biosoft had weekends,” Chris chuckled, but, as an afterthought, added, “New boyfriend?”

“Fairly recent,” Bridget admitted.

Chris looked uncomfortable. “Does, um, Hajime know?”

“Don’t know.” Bridget wiped the sweat on her brow with the towel Rowan offered her. “We don’t really talk about relationships.”

“Yep, I figured,” Chris sighed.

Bram, who knew of Hajime’s secret crush as well, couldn’t help but understand Chris’ frustration. However, romance was one thing the prince couldn’t help with because he’d never had a problem with it himself, having mostly been on the receiving end of others’ admiration. Of course, this was only true for commoner suitors or those few nobles who had yet to discover his ill-fated reputation.

“Did you get everything you needed?” Bram asked.

“Enough to start with.” Bridget motioned the group over to a nearby table. “Here, have a look.”

It was stacked with piles of scrolls and books.

“Your guys loved showing off, so it was easy to get them to perform,” she explained.

Both Bram and Chris exchanged looks.

The strands of hair clinging to her flushed face, the sweat that coated her shirt, and her charming smile; they suspected Bridget’s appearance had much to do with his household’s cooperation.

“Some of them even shared their training manuals. Most of its stuff that’s already in your library, Prince Bram, but some of it,” Bridget took a scroll from the pile and unfurled it for Bram, “like this one…”

The Fleet-Footed Step

“…It’s a manual for a mobility spell that the Loom’s tagged as a rare piece,” she happily reported, adding, “We can turn these into skill books that players can earn as rare quest rewards with low drop rates…”

“…Encouraging them to repeat quests we’ll need them to keep doing,” Chris finished the thought. “That’s a good one, Bridge.”

“I know,” she grinned.

Bridget further explained that she’d cataloged a total of fourteen new jobs along with hundreds of new abilities. She’d even finished integrating these into the Loom’s job system before her duel with Ser Aveline.

“The All-Seeing Eye made it easy to analyze stuff,” she said. “Might be more useful than we thought.”

Most of the team grew enthusiastic about the updated system, though Rowan dampened their enthusiasm with only a few words.

“With the number of people here earlier, I expected more than fourteen,” she said.

“Honestly, there wasn’t a lot of variety with this group,” Bridget admitted, although also adding, “But people with the same jobs do use their abilities differently, so seeing these varying habits might be helpful to us.”

To Bram, it sounded like the last part had been Bridget’s attempt at consoling him for his lack of competent men.

“Did you get other knights besides Ser Aveline to participate?” he asked.

“All except one,” Bridget reported.

Her brown-eyed gaze drifted to the old knight standing behind the prince.

“Oh, right,” Bram nodded.

The prince turned to face his loyal knight, though, as their gazes locked, he couldn’t find the words.

It was a shameful thing to ask his seneschal to allow the Loom to clone the skills Ser Anthony had worked all his life to achieve, something most true masters of their respective jobs would be loathed to do.

Fortunately, the old knight already knew what his prince wanted.

“To ask me to share my skills with people who have no relation to me or my house…” Ser Anthony shook his head. “You’ve grown bolder since becoming governor, Your Highness.”

“Is it an impossible proposition?” Bram pressed.

He didn’t bother offering Ser Anthony money or a promotion for his knowledge. His seneschal had served as a member of the Sovereign-Guard before Bram was born, and as a former ‘Knight Champion’ of the Sovereign, wealth, prestige, and position were his already. Indeed, Ser Anthony could have done anything in his later years, but his loyalty to Bram’s mother made him choose to become the protector of a prince whose ill fate no one else would touch.

So, instead of plying him with sweet words or false promises, Bram could only ask his companion of many years for this great favor while knowing he could offer Ser Anthony nothing in return.

“Despite my ambitions…I can’t achieve greatness alone. I’m too weak…” Bram’s hands balled into fists. “I need the strength of others to help me with the great undertaking — to raise Lotharin from its decline — and finally become a prince worthy of my bloodline…”

Ser Anthony was the only member of Bram’s household who knew of his schemes to wield the knowledge of the other world for Lotharin’s sake. His seneschal didn’t have a full understanding of Bram’s plans, but it was a sign of Ser Anthony’s loyalty that he hadn’t tried to stop his prince from enacting a stratagem which any right-minded sorcerer might assume was a dangerous and foolhardy endeavor.

“What you ask of me isn’t an impossible proposition, Your Highness.”

His seneschal walked over to the center of the training hall where Bridget had dueled Ser Aveline.

“As you know, my time as a champion of the imperium left me with no opportunity to start a family.” He spoke in a wistful tone. “Officially, my only heir is my younger brother Axel, who, like me, chose the path of the sword rather than become a lord.”

House Holmes was the hereditary ruler of Dunhallow, a shire in the Highland Kingdom of Tara, a land separated from Bram’s kingdom by the ‘Gaullian Channel’ to its northwest.

By rights, Ser Anthony was an eorl like Bram, though he’d relinquished his title at a young age when he chose to serve in the Sovereign-guard whose members weren’t allowed to be landed lords.

“I have no child who will inherit what I have to pass on…” Ser Anthony gazed at Bram with great fondness. “At least not one who carries my blood.”

Emotion filled Bram’s chest. “Ser Anthony…”

It was true that his seneschal had treated a young Bram more like a family member rather than a knight who served his liege. As the prince grew older, the dynamic between them didn’t change, and Bram didn’t want it to. For him, Ser Anthony was like his favorite uncle who’d showered Bram with the affection no one else would give him. The old knight was his protector, his teacher, and his one true friend.

Bram lowered his gaze.

Though he felt great affection for his seneschal, it was also true that Bram was suffocating from the weight of Ser Anthony’s expectant gaze. For only he of all Bram’s retainers believed the prince could still achieve greatness. Despite his efforts though, Bram had failed to meet those expectations time and time again.

“But if I’m to share my talents with those unrelated to me…”

Ser Anthony’s choice of words caused Bram to look up.

“Shouldn’t the heir I’ve chosen be first to inherit the art of the ‘Peerless Heart Sword’ that I’ve mastered?”

“S-Ser Anthony…?”

With a smile, the old knight drew his longsword from its sheath. “I believe a new lesson is overdue.”