Chapter 3

Day Two – Afternoon

“Hello,” shouted a child, out of breath. “You there. You! You are Zaber?”

The bells of St. Hildemina struck to the hour, from the neighboring quarter of Kreitz. Zaber and Torm had just set foot back on the streets, arms filled with cured meat, sausages and loafs of rye bread. The shoddy bakery had not much to offer, as good harvests had not blessed them in quite a while. The pair’s plan had been to visit Old Dalke’s next and buy some cheap schnapps and get a new barrel of beer. Pay some extra, to make up for the trouble.

“Who asks?” Torm made room to have one free hand. The child was sweaty and wheezing, bent over, bracing hands on knees.

“That’s Eger’s boy, Ahne,” said Zaber and stepped forward. “You ‘aight?”

It took some time before Ahne was able to straighten up. His wooden shoes were not made for running, and his pants were too wide. They were, most likely, handed down from an older sibling or cousin. He retied the rope that held his fringy little outfit together and wiped his neck.

“Papa sent me after you, I ran Magpie’s up and down and all the alleys.” His eyes followed his words. “Finally found you. I–”

“What’s the fuss about?” asked Torm rashly.

“I was about to say,” said Ahne miffed. “Papa said there are guards in St. Heinmuth.”

Zaber’s and Torm’s brows narrowed. They checked each other and then approached the child in cadence. The apprentice padded Ahne on the back, to help him regain his breath. Meanwhile, the mentor pushed the baked goods into his arms. Zaber fished out a quartered groschen from under his belt, to pay the messenger, and Torm handed over the meat.

“This is for you. Bring the rest to our place,” said Zaber and looked down the street. “Don’t hurry.”

“Umm, thanks?” Ahne looked perplexed and was barely able to hold everything together in his arms. But he was not refusing an easy coin.

“How many–” Zaber scratched the scar along his jawline. “And is the place still in one piece?”

“One patrol and damned I know. Is the place ever?” said Ahne.

Torm fought a smile and shrugged. “He’s not wrong.”

“’aight. Let’s go.”

The pair pushed their way through the folk on Magpie Lane and took a detour as soon as possible. Quick on their feet, the side alleys and backyards had less traffic and thus were their chosen route. Zaber expected them to have a magistrate with them, maybe even an officer of the watch. Best case, the sergeant of Westwatch would be among them. Worst case it’s the captain or even the colonel in charge of all of Teblen’s guardsmen. Or that damned Baronet, again. What would they even want from them? A couple of bruised nobodies in bumfuck Westwatch don’t cause commotion like that. Not in broad daylight.

The look on Torm’s and Zaber’s faces have darkened. Nobody they’ve encountered in the backyards were courageous or quick enough to call them out for trespassing. The moment the duo got spotted, they were already gone.

“Do you think they brought hard steel?” asked Torm. He and his mentorwere in good shape. A spurt like this caused not more than a minor hiccup.

“Don’t know,” said Zaber. “You closed the hatch, did you?”

“Yes. I think,” pondered Torm. “What’s the plan? Any ideas?”

“I talk, you look mean. At least try.” Zaber’s gaze was ahead of them, focused. “Not easy with that face, I know. If anyone has good armor, you stay away from them. Even more so if it’s a fancy arse gentry.”

One last turn and they reached the middle of St. Heinmuth Street. A crowd had gathered around the greenery of the old temple’s front yard. Six mailled men standing guard, with two horses tied to a tree. Many of the spectators looked quite cheerful. Only a few good neighbors around that knew Torm or Zaber by name. Front row, though, was manned with a couple of familiar faces. They wore red kerchiefs around their heads, necks or arms. Long knives and cudgels hung ominously from their belts. The guards and them stared at each other, in grim anticipation.

“There they are!” yelled a by-stander.

“The Kraken shall devour them,” added another.

“Rot, defiler, rot!” One man and woman screeched into Zaber’s ear when they cut through the knot of folk and many more joined in unison.

If it weren’t for the intimidating presence of the Red Mob among them, one or two might have felt brave enough. But just as many understood that the men on duty were not their friends. They merely hated Zaber and Torm even more. The pair had talked this many times over, knew about the rumors – and what the folk got right. ‘Sleeping around with the blackheads’, ‘preying on their daughters’, ‘a drunken hoodlum’, ‘the man that never sleeps’ and even ‘arsefuckers’. Where Torm would love nothing more than to correct them, his mentor was quite the opposite. It kept them away. Outside. May they think… whatever. The fear of getting your teeth knocked out made Zaber’s retirement pleasant.

“Good to have you around,” said Zaber as he walked past an oak of a man, wearing a red piece of cloth around his shaven head.

“Gotcha.” The man sounded as heavy and strong as he looked. “This’ our turf.”

“I know,” said Zaber with a curt nod. “I’ll sort this out.”

A corporal stood in the center of the path that led inside the ruins, surrounded by old rubble. None of the guards stopped Zaber or Torm when they came closer. All of them were rather amused by the spite directed at the duo. Zaber inspected the horses and Torm followed his mentor’s gaze. Bridle and saddle were sturdy yet artistic, fit to seat an armored man. These were no horses for a mere ride out, these beasts were bred for war. Zaber scratched the scar on his jawline once more and stuck his thumbs up his belt, close to arms. Torm was even more direct. He rested his hand on the hilt of his bauernwehr and fixed his hat one more time so it wouldn’t fall off in a scuffle.

“Are we expected?” asked the boy with a smirk. His mentor moved right in front of the corporal, noses were about to touch and stares collided.

The corporal smirked back. “By the Stars, I hope they kill you,” he whispered and moved to the side.

With a knowing side-eye, Torm and Zaber passed the guard into their home of four years. The corporal’s bulldog mug was hard to remember under the kettle helmet, maille coif and padding. But, by the Stars, the next time they met, this man would lose a tooth or two. Or more.

“If they touched any of our junk, I swear to the Bear, I will…” Torm entered the vestibule. He swallowed his words when Zaber shunned him with a hiss. “Or any of my books,” he whispered, then looked for clues if anybody used the stairs up the Sun Tower.

A solemn and reserved melody drove chills through their spines. With each step, more and more hair stood up under their clothes, until they reached the altar room. Zaber, tense not just by his nature but by the magic made by human cords, examined what happened in front of them.

“Aquila ergo cum sedebit,

Quidquid latet apparebit:

Nil inultum remanebit.”

The poor excuse for an interior that Zaber and Torm made a home from had been shifted around. The last remnants of benches rearranged to fit what a temple should look like. Two men of noble bearing awaited them. One, engrossed in prayer, knelt in front of the stone altar. The other stood guard next to it, facing them with watchful eyes. Even a fire was set up on the altar that exuded incense.

Zaber rasped. “I see, y’all made yourself at home.”

“We still have some ale.” Torm kept one step behind his mentor. “Or did you help yourself with that too?”

Neither of them had been to a Lecture in the last four years, or heard any kind of religious verses sung. Strong emotions, the Fear of the Stars, was put in folk who heard them. Torm and Zaber recognized this one. It was about judgment.

The knight at the altar, a perfect cavalier baritone, fell silent and unfolded his hands. No steel around either of them for protection. Getting on his feet, the man at the center of the room wore an arming doublet of fine fabric and vivid colors. His chaperone hat rested next to the fire bowl. A captain, judged by the fibula on his chest, but not of Westwatch, nor of any other district’s watches. He and his lieutenant were from The Margrave’s personal regiment, residing in and around the city.

The captain’s personal coat of arms was a meandering blue river on yellow ground, with a vertical blade in the middle. A sign that he was old nobility of the sword. So was his adjutant’s, with a sun on sky blue ground, and a bow and arrow aiming upwards.

The captain, though not much older than Zaber, possessed everything the greasy and unkempt man did not. Barbered, perfectly trimmed and combed blonde hair, with gray-blue eyes that complimented his good teeth. While everybody in this room had a strong built, Zaber was most often above the average man in height. But that knight towered half a head over him. And not a single scar.

The lieutenant standing next to him was shorter by about a head's length. Much more similar to Torm, but broader in figure. He looked much older than he was, with his coiffed red beard and hair smeared to the side in a fine manner. His skin looked much more akin to that of Zaber’s and his old comrades, who had never lived an easy life. This knight wore an older, long and thick gambeson in the style of a surcoat. A leather cap with fine stitches, hid away inside his belt.

Without a doubt, these were men of war, cavalry boots and all. Even though they were unarmored, they were not unarmed. And did not come in peace. With a heater shield tilted against the altar, the captain wore a decorated arming sword at his side. It bore an elaborate eagle-head pommel and much heraldic adorned the scabbard. The simpler bastard sword of the lieutenant did so too, as it was custom among the nobility to tell achievements, family history and fealty through it.

“Kneel down and introduce yourself,” commanded the lieutenant. A drum-like, far reaching bass.

“No need for formalities,” said the baritone. “We know who we are dealing with. And we are the ones–” He paused, looking around in disgust. “Trespassing. Are we not?” The weather, birds and vermin had left their marks everywhere. It seemed that they had cleaned the altar beforehand. The captain ran his gloved finger over the closest surface, through the muck. His disgusted face contorted into a bright white smile. “Lovely home.”

“Damned right, you should introduce yourself to us,” barked Torm.

Zaber’s eyes were glued to the knight’s weaponry, the way they moved, stood and imposed themselves onto him and Torm. On instinct, the boy mimicked the defensive stance taken by his mentor. Young and inexperienced, he’d only seen one licensed patrician sing a spell yet. Listened to the Lectures and Songs of an Auror and Aurora when he was a child. But Zaber knew the real danger these men posed. He knew of their destructive potential, the raw power that came with their arts and tools. He had seen the best of them.

The captain held his lieutenant back from lashing out against the impudence shown to them. “Right, where are my manners,” he said and strolled through the room. “I, for my part, am Sir Beotold of Ituna. Son and heir to Sir Bernrick of Ituna Manor. Captain of the second banner in His Most Honourable Margrave’s personal regiment.” A smile flashed throughout his words. “And,” he added. “Two times champion of the summer tourney.”

The way his titles, positions and achievements were presented triggered Zaber even more. The chanting rhythm, the emphatic singsong. With every tonal shift, the tension that filled his body rose and his fists began to hurt from the pressure. When Torm looked at his mentor, also keeping a keen eye on their visitors, he had never seen him as serious and focused.

“I am Sir Romund of Aulder,” said the lieutenant. “Son of Isenbard of Aulder and in charge of the first lance of the second banner of His Most Honourable Margrave’s personal regiment.” His words boiled in disdain, with a less flexible vocal range than his superior. But to someone who knew what they had to listen for, the threat beneath such a deep tone was imminent.

“Damned you want here?” Torm snapped back, again. His chest felt tied up, just from listening to them. And his stomach got more clenched with every step the captain took towards them.

“Get a grip on your brat,” said Romund and crossed his arms so that one hand could rest on the hilt of his bastard sword. “Or I will.”

Zaber looked at the boy. With nothing but a marginal widening of his eyes Torm understood that this was not the time to be a gobshite.

“Mind sitting with me.” Beotold invited Zaber, waving his hand.

“I mind,” said Zaber. But the brightening of the knight’s smile and nudge of the his head reassured the veteran that this was not a question. “Torm, guard the entrance.”

The knight had already sat down before Zaber was able to finish his sentence. Tapping his palm over the wood right next to him. There was still plenty space in the altar room. The benches weren't rearranged at the center, as it would be. The duo’s personal belongings were sorted to the side. Next to the awful timberjob of a door that led to the sacristy. Did they rummage through it? Did they enter Zaber’s or Torm’s room? No. The altar still stood at its spot. They were not looking for something. They had set up a battlefield.

“Why so tense?” asked Beotold after Zaber fell in line. “I got told you–” The knight sought eye contact with his second-in-command. “What were the words?”

“Not. Violating. Any Laws,” repeated Romund.

“Ah, yes. Neither the King’s nor the Margrave’s.” The captain leaned back and let out one singular jab of a laugh. “We are just here to talk. You have my word, no danger is looming above your heads.”

Zaber rubbed the scar on the back of his hand before scratching the one on his jaw. His eyes twitched back and forth between his fist and the cold steel on his hips. It couldn’t be helped. He first stared at Romund by the altar, before linking eyes with the knight next to him. The voice was strong today.

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“Ask your damned questions and let us be,” sighed Zaber. “My days dealing with your kind are over. And that’s how I want to keep it.”

“Tell me,” began the knight. “What is your Birthstar? Living in this fine accommodation, worthy of your character, I believe you a pious man.” Beotold looked around the mess. The leaded windows depicting the Constellations, broken and tainted. A life-sized woodcarving of the patron saint, St. Heinmuth, should be towering behind the altar. Gone was everything sacred. “Like your general was.”

“Rooster,” said Zaber. “Or so I was told.”

Beotold exhaled excited. “Gallus. Very fitting. I was born an Aquila and Sir Romund an Ariēs.” an approving nod accompanied his revelation to his fellow nobleman. “But you, I am sure, have noticed that already.”

Romund, of course, nodded back.

“What about your boy?” Beotold continued, causing much impatience.

“He’s not my boy–” replied Zaber.

“Or a boy at all.” Torm interjected from behind. “But a Stallion.”

The bearded knight stepped forward from the altar and made Torm flinch. Zaber had his hand already on his weapon, ready to draw, but the stout nobleman halted.

“If the captain calls you a boy, you thank him,” ordered Romund. His hand clung to his sword.

“You and the Equus boy are not kin, are you? It seems, you have learned quite a lot from the Grand General. He also liked them young, didn’t he?” Beotold’s keen eyes cut deep into Zaber’s stare.

The greasy and unkempt man sighed long and exhausted, again. “Airich has made me who I am. What I know, I know because of him. I teach the boy to be better.”

“Rumors have it that you are already very good. Better than you should be.”

The knight’s attention centered on Zaber and Zaber alone. Torm was of no concern to them and it irked the boy. For Zaber, though, this was the first opening to regain control and shift the battlefield. His only real power lay in the knowledge of Airich of Belge. The legends.

“He wanted me to carry his legacy. His dying wish,” said Zaber. “The Baronet and his magistrates spoke to me about it already four years ago.”

“He is to be addressed as Sir Osrick, Baronet of Teblen,” barked Romund in a bloodcurdling bass. “You have been a soldier, we know you are capable of the proper etiquette.”

Torm stood right in front of the entrance, from the vestibule, to block it. His grinding teeth made the muscles beneath his peach fuzz bulk up. It seemed as if all corners of the altar room had wasp nests poking at one another. The only one who remained calm and collected was Beotold, with an everlasting show of his good teeth.

“We are all good men here, who’ve served our lords well. Romund, my friend, you need to work on your patience,” said the captain. “Zaber,” he turned his attention back to the main course. “When you were blessed with Sir Osricks visitation, I assume, you spoke about the unfortunate departure of General Airich to the Stars? He had just died and… many of his acquaintances missed the chance to give him their farewells. The realm was expecting a funeral with all honors.”

“He would have hated that,” said Zaber. “If there was one thing he did not want, it was a gathering of all the folk he despised.”

“Even the High King, his dear childhood friend?”

“Especially his childhood friend, the King.” Zaber smiled bittersweet. It was like a stinger into his heart, that the man he served under still played such an important role. “His own officers and family was already too much for him.”

Beotold straightened his back and rested his hands on his lap, folding them as if in prayer. His eyes wandered up through the destroyed roof. “You have served as his orderly and you were the last man who spoke to him. You surely had a special bond, didn’t you?” He looked back at Zaber. “Some of his belongings have been lost, not laid to rest next to him in his ancestral tomb. Are you sure that you know nothing about this?”

“Nothing,” said Zaber. “Got my payout after eighteen years of enlistment, just like everybody else. Took the boy, began a new one.”

“You and this Asher,” Beotold paused. “You have earned your freemen rights. We’re all–” he smirked and gave Torm a side-eye. “Nearly all men of war here. I respect that you shed blood in the name of our High King against Galázians, Krasnians, Yesilians and the misguided. But what, by the Stars, are you doing with your life?”

“Whatever I damned want to,” replied Zaber. “I’m just peasant son, I have no obligati–“

“You misunderstand our visitation,” interrupted Beotold as he began to rise. “You, indeed, are a mere peasant son. A great man took a liking to you, a troubled man – an eccentric man. But a great man nonetheless. And what did you do with this opportunity, a once in a thousand for a mere peasant son?”

Beotold stepped in front of Zaber so he could look down on him and revel in it. His second-in-command had twitched yet again, after the sordid excuse of a man that was Zaber had stepped out of line.

“I came here, personally, to confirm these rumors. Ever since you have arrived with this boy, you have kept up the guards and magistrates. And this is what I am finding? A dirty man, living in a pile of garbage, wasting his and his–” He looked at Torm. “Apprentice pitiful existence. A veteran like you could have gotten good pay under any other banner or regiment. Even if it was just the watchmen. At least take the payout and become an honest man. Settle down, take a wife and make some new soldiers for your lords. With eighteen years of service, you could have afforded yourself a Yesilian servant. Or breeder.”

Zaber fought the urge to stand up and face the knight. Not yet. His muscles twitched, his shoulders became hard as rock and his chest was tangled and pumped at the same time. All he wanted at this moment was…

“Sir Beotold,” the veteran withheld his anger. “If there is anything I have learned from Airich, it is not to play by other folks’ rules.”

The captain stepped back and laid his hand on his heart. He laughed. “I have to say, there is one more question I have to ask.”

“And then you leave?” Zaber understood and got on his feet. Finally, the voice could be answered. It’s not like he could succeed, this time.

“When was the last time you have encountered the High Arts?” Beotold turned around.

Zaber’s brows were as narrow as it gets, his eyes screaming bloody murder. One last scratch at the scar along his jaw. “In every war I fought. From every officer in charge. And from my General.”

“I asked when,” pressed Beotold.

“I have seen some constructs glow up every now and then,” said Zaber. “But, you know… I try not to breathe in too hard around them.”

“Oh.” Beotold’s grin returned. “We know that you know. Ever fought the High Arts?”

“As much as anyone in formation. Line magicians and noblemen alike.”

Torm did not know what kind of attraction Zaber had, but this pheasant dance happened all the time. Big chested, arms bent like they had knives under their armpits. Eyes that only saw each other. The boy had tried this kind of provocation in the past, but it always ended up more boastful and hectic. Whatever it was, Zaber’s calm combativeness had something infectious. Other’s broke under it, or mimicked it. No in-between.

“Any duels? Even with just warranted officers,” urged Beotold as the two circled each other.

“Line defense,” said Zaber. “Two bouts,” he added. “And whenever an enraged Dragon felt like Lecturing me.”

Beotold flashed his bright whites right into Zaber’s face. His lieutenant shifted behind the altar, but never let his guard down. Gaze fixated on the vagrant veteran and the valorous warrior that was his superior. Thrilled was the boy that kept watch over the door. This was his first up-close experience of a knight in action.

“Any wins?” was the question everyone in this room wanted to know. A question that had been all over Westwatch and Teblen’s elite. And Beotold was out to settle it. He looked down on Zaber. Being a knight, he was bred for combat. Tall, strong in stature and a voice like a crystal. And not a single scar.

“No, obviously,” said Zaber. His face became a stone, his teeth pressed upon each other so hard that his bones were about to burst. A feeling filled his muscles, thrown back in time.

“I have been told about your–” Beotold halted. Their circling had lead him right to where he needed to be, with Romund and the altar in his back. “Achievements. Why the Red Mob and the Morly brothers are at peace.”

“Morell brothers,” said Zaber.

“I. Don’t. Care.” Beotold leaned forward with each word. “I am here on behalf of My Lord, Margrave Greodor of Tunow-Aine himself, to confirm the rumors.”

“Fucking lead with that next time,” said Zaber, trying to mimic the vocal pace. He watched the knight turn his back at him. The tensed up former mercenary retreated a couple of steps and drew both his langes messer and stiletto.

“There will be no next time.” Beotold reached forward with his left arm so that Romund could strap on the heater shield.

Zaber turned his head and looked at Torm. The boy shivered in anticipation and awe. “Don’t look away,” said the mentor and half-smirked for a moment. To remind his apprentice to stay focused and calm.

“Two rumors, I have been tasked to investigate. And I am a man that only trusts his own six senses.” Beotold drew his sword and turned around in one swift movement. Presented to the altar room , a blade of the finest steel, sharp and deadly. Carved into the fuller, a set of strange letters, unfamiliar to the uninitiated. Filled with a yellow mineral dust that faintly glowed when unsheathed.

“Ready, peasant son?”

“Let’s see if I can really defeat anyone,” said Zaber. “That’s what they say, ain’t it? No matter how many constructs y’all got.”

Without a warning, Zaber lunged himself forward, blade first. Getting blocked by the shield with ease. Beotold jabbed back with his magic sword, but got deflected to the side. Offensive was the language Zaber spoke. A routine of feeling each other out, where was the leverage of their crossguards, weight of their armament and strength in their cores. Effective distances were established. Both men circled each other once more, this time outside the deadly reach of their blades.

“It is called a Cōnstrūctus,” said Beotold in a spiteful melody. “You are not fooling me. But your swordplay is magnificent. Want to give it a try?” He showed the flat of his blade so that Zaber got a good look at the arcane scripture. “Maybe you want to don a more appropriate attire. Would be a shame–” He paused. “If something happened.”

“I know it’s constructo”, repeated Zaber. “Shut it and fight, your noble yammerings have always irked me.”

Never since they’d come here had Torm seen Zaber matched like this. There were plenty capable hoodlums, mercenaries and prowlers, but only his old comrades Asher and Breg were his equal in direct confrontation. When Zaber struck again with the lange messer, the block was with as much ease as before. Steel slid over steel and got dangerously close to Beotold’s face. Stabbed behind the ledge of the shield, Zaber tried to pull it open with his stiletto.

The short blade, made for mercy killing, wasn’t able to overcome the shield. It was Zaber’s most cherished possession. Wondering why Zaber fought in this way, a knightly bout, Torm knew that something was off. His mentor didn't fight according to his strengths. A core lesson, repeated over and over to the boy in training.

The crossguards of the swords connected and Zaber was about to leverage out for a cut. But Beotold had shifted his weight into the shield and pushed forward. “Dā mihi vīrēs”, he sang. Pitch perfect, in a hall that was made to make noises spread far. Even without an intact roof, it still somewhat worked. A burst of raw power pressed against the knight’s foe, from the surface of his shield.

Before Zaber could finished what he had set out to do, he got overwhelmed, his feet lifted from the ground. Thrown against a wall, the veteran’s lungs emptied themselves. But no matter how much pain surged through his back; when he hit the wall, he did not scream.

A silent gasp left Torm’s open mouth at the same moment. They had fought the tall and strong types before, but none of them were capable of such feats. For someone who had never seen the terrifying might possessed by a knight, like Torm, this was utterly bizarre. No folks could do this. Nobody should be able to do this. How can someone even win against this?

The vibrations of the spell were still visible. Remnants akin to distorted air on a hot summer surface. Zaber’s eyes and lips puckered. He fell on his feet and braced himself against the wall to not topple over. This was a good refresher to his memory. There were no effective threat ranges in a fight against a knight like Beotold.

“No need to hold back,” said Beotold and opened his arms to present his full physique. “Come at me, like I’m one of your tavern brawls.” His smile was unbroken.

Zaber flicked his wrist and threw his stiletto right at the captain’s face. Very few fighters were able to react quickly enough to a surprise at this range. And it showed on Beotold’s face.

Within a moment of shock, a quick verse of melodic words were chanted, yet again. “Dā mihi–” As if space bent around the knight’s voice, his entire body moved at an abnormal speed. “Celeritātem!” A shift to the side and a swat with his shield followed. Short, precise, and at the last breath. The metallic ‘clings’ and ‘clangs’ of the needle dagger ricocheted through the altar room. Soon followed by another attack. Zaber front kicked the shield with his entire being.

A noble adversary, adept at swordplay and the High Arts, now off balance. This wasn’t Beotold’s first real fight either. He fell back on his instincts, blocking the next strike blade on blade. Regaining control with steady footing. This Zaber, a common soldier, had nearly gotten the better of the captain for one breath, but…

Ptui.

Disgust swept through Beotold’s face and body. The cheers of the boy were nothing but a distant noise when Beotold lost his composure. Everything went blank. Spit forced his eyes to close and a fist hit him right in the mouth. Their blades were still bond together when he tasted a split of blood.

Zaber was not making the same, arrogant, mistake as Beotold has. He never did. He always kept the pressure when he had the advantage.

A couple more clumsy attacks were exchanged and Beotold hid behind his shield. Beaten down, until he lashed out strong and wide. Beotold forced Zaber to retreat, both still haggard from the one unarmored hit they took. But Zaber had already set himself up. To strike around the blinded knight’s defense. Killing was out of order, no matter how loud the voice was, but this was in need of a quick settling. No element of surprise anymore. Another punch landed, right at the captain’s liver.

“Scum!” yelled Beotold. Even in pain, his voice did not crack. “Vocō tonitrē!”

Zaber’s eyes widened. No matter how well he lied, he couldn’t fall back on his own croaking voice. All he could do was pull up his blade and support it with his free hand at the flat. To brace himself with all his might. The veteran even saw the scripture on the fine blade flaring up and emit an underlying smoke. It burned through the topmost layer and a cracking thunder erupted when steel hit steel. Catapulted to the side, Zaber shot through the benches. A violent ‘boom’ shattered the last glass panels the temple had left. It wandered far into Westwatch for everyone to hear. Everyone except Zaber, who couldn’t even hear the wood break around him when he crashed into it. All he could hear was a sharp tingle.

“Zaber!” Torm left his post and ran.

Beotold wiped his eyes and hammered his sword back into its scabbard. He looked down at Zaber and Torm, in disgust. Turned away so that Romund could unstrap the shield. The lieutenant was just as angered, but seeing Zaber struggle to get out of the pile of planks brought a smile to his face.

“Consider this rumor–” Beotold wiped his face again. “Settled,” he said and walked towards the exit. “Know your place and stay down, peasant son.”