Robert's eyes were shut, his face fully pressed against his pillow, though he was entirely awake. He'd always been a light sleeper, and though the two men entering his room had done their best to keep quiet, their best wasn't quite good enough.
He didn't know who they were, not exactly, but he knew these men were here to kill him. From a risky glance, he'd gathered that they both had weapons. One had a sword at his side while the other already had a dagger firmly in his grasp.
I'd like to call them cowards, Robert thought. Though I can't exactly blame them for taking the low road. I'd have done the same if I were up against me.
Robert could hear their breathing. Well, he could hear the breathing of one man, as the dullard was breathing heavily, nervously through his mouth. The other seemed more professional. He'd not made a sound as he'd entered the room nor as he'd made his way closer to Robert. Only a small breath of wind let Robert know that the dagger one of them held was being pulled back, readied for the thrust that would've killed him.
With a reaction quicker than a man half his age, Robert opened his eyes and caught the dagger as it plunged towards his throat. In shock, his assailant instinctively pulled back. As the man tried to move away, Robert wrenched the dagger from his grip, using the man's momentum against him. With his newly acquired dagger Robert let a backslash fly at the other man, cutting him across the face before he could draw his sword.
"Fuck," cried the man who'd just lost his weapon. He balled his fist, aiming a punch at Robert's nose. Robert flipped the dagger in his hand and let the hilt crack against the assassin's knuckle. There was an audible crunch, and without hesitation Robert leapt out of bed and plunged the dagger into its owner's heart. The man gasped his last before collapsing in a heap on the floor.
The second man rose again. One hand covered his slashed face while the other gripped his longsword. Robert smirked. A moment later the second man was dead, a gash across his throat that was almost deep enough to decapitate him.
Staring at the two assassins, a grim realisation dawned on Robert. Both men were wearing red. On their trousers, tunics, or even socks, there was red. They were Sommeliers.
"Shit," Robert whispered as he fetched some simple trousers and his sword. "Anne."
After a quick glance at the dead men on the floor, Robert stepped out of his bedroom. As soon as his head appeared in the corridor outside, he heard the thrum of a crossbow bolt being loosed. Instinctively Robert ducked back, letting the bolt thud into the doorframe. He peered out again, and another bolt was sent flying towards him. Robert hadn't had the chance to get a look at the men trying to turn him into a walking pincushion. That was stupid really, he'd not known how many there were, and merely assumed only the one man had his crossbow set on Robert's bedroom door.
There was no time to duck back now, Robert had stepped too far out into the narrow corridor. With a swipe of his blade, he sliced the crossbow bolt from the air, letting it pang against his sabre and shatter into two finely cut pieces on the floor. Robert revelled in the shock on the crossbowmen's faces. In truth, he'd only been able to slice a bolt from the air four times before today, and was just as shocked himself it had gone so well.
"I should've known better than to think the old man would only send two to finish me off," Robert said, advancing on the crossbowmen before they could reload. "That would've been nothing short of an insult."
Knowing Robert would be on them before they could loose another bolt, the crossbowmen pulled short swords from their hips. In the narrowness of the corridor, they could only face Robert one at a time, and so that was how they fell.
"I'd like to say I'm impressed Wisser," said a voice. It was male, deep, and coming from the other end of the corridor. A thick Vovequian accent trailed on every word. "But they were meant to die, nothing more than barriers to slow you down."
Robert spun, facing the source of the voice. Wrapped in furs and leathers was a beast of a man, with thick exposed arms and a red scarf hanging over his shoulder. Thick black hair ran over his head and face like vines over a tree. At his sides he had two mean looking scimitars, and behind him were four more men, each wearing some form of red garb, with their weapons drawn.
"So, you strike while I'm sleeping, naked and unarmed," Robert said. "And still need to slow me down. You're pathetic, the lot of you. Which of you is the man Vulg thinks can match me?"
"Find out," said the burly man. "Let's see the red river flow." With a word shouted in Vovequian he and his minions rushed Robert. Again, the tight space of the corridor was Robert's friend, though the knight didn't really need it to defeat most of his attackers.
The first rushed in with a stab, hoping the weight of his longsword would be enough to break Robert's guard. With the swiftness of a cat Robert sidestepped the stab, spinning as he did so and cutting the man down as he passed. The second assailant roared as he brought his sword down towards Robert's face. Robert parried the blow, feeling the weight of it shock through his arms before he retreated a step. His assailant's next swing went low, and Robert punished him for his slowness, cutting the man cleanly across his throat while he left it unguarded.
The third and fourth of the lesser fighters attacked as one. They were agile, nimble things and one of them kicked off of the wall to jump around Robert, getting behind the knight while the other attacked from the front.
In a moment of confusion, Robert's defence dropped, allowing the man behind to slash his sword along Robert's back. With a hiss, Robert pushed himself away from the blow before it cut too deep or too long. The man in front slapped Robert across the face with a rusted cudgel, stunning the knight momentarily as pulsing pain shocked from his chin.
Idiot, Robert accosted himself. Wake up, would you?
Tucking one arm behind his back, Robert twirled his sabre, creating tiny circles with his blade, mesmerising the man in front. The Sommelier behind readied himself for another blow. Robert spun on his heel, ducking the cudgel as it swung overhead. He parried two quick slashes from the sword before spinning again, pushing the man and his cudgel back again with a wild swing. Another spin, and Robert caught another swing of the sword just in time. He stopped the blade in motion, pushing his own sabre down the length of the enemy sword, driving it towards the Sommelier's hand. With a flash of steel both hand and sword clattered to the floor. One more spin, and Robert batted the cudgel from the man's hands, before disembowelling him with another swipe. The swordsman behind had not yet recovered from having his hand cut off, which made dispatching him an easy task.
"A bit slow," the bearded man said. "Considering your age though, an adequate display." He pulled the two scimitars from his belt, giving them a good few practise swings before he readied himself at the end of the corridor.
Robert flicked the blood from his sabre. "Stop twirling those useless things and let's get started."
The pangs of colliding steel echoed throughout the corridor. Neither man had stayed still, and both Robert and his opponent charged each other with equal fervour. The bearded man was good, wielding his swords in perfect unity. One pressed the attack, while the other was reserved for defence. Usually, Robert judged any man who sought to dual wield as a fool. Very few swordsmen had the time or skill to make having two swords worth the while. If this young hunk of bearded muscle had not been so arrogant, and charged in alongside his minions, he might've been good enough to put Robert down. Sadly, he'd chosen to face Drevon's finest fighter alone, and so he would suffer the consequences.
Catching a slash aimed for his throat, Robert pushed the scimitar away, retaliating with a jab aimed for the bearded man's eye. The Sommelier dodged backwards, saving his eye at the cost of a few beard hairs. Robert planted his feet, making circles with his sabre. He cocked his head towards his opponent, taunting the riled youth.
One swing aimed for Robert's head, while another went low, hoping to take out the knight's legs. It seemed the Sommelier was sacrificing his defence now, wishing to best Robert swiftly. Robert leapt through both swings headfirst, diving between the scimitars and emerging behind the Sommelier. He'd not dodged the swings entirely, and could already feel warm liquid trickling down his hip.
The Sommelier lashed out desperately, though he wasn't quite quick enough. Three jabs to his chest punished the bearded man for his slowness. Robert ducked another swing aimed at his throat, and with a vengeful stab, he pinned the Sommelier's right arm to the wall of the corridor. With his free hand, the bearded man made for one final attempt at Robert's life. Robert twisted his sabre, causing the Sommelier to drop the scimitar from his pinned hand. Ducking, Robert caught one scimitar while dodging a blow from the other. He slashed as he rose again, cutting the Sommelier cleanly from navel to collarbone.
Shock rapidly infecting his eyes, the Sommelier clutched uselessly at his wound.
"There was never even a chance," the Sommelier sputtered. With a cough, he collapsed to the floor, painting the carpet in a smattering of crimson.
"There were," Robert said. "Plenty of them, in fact. You just didn't see them."
"Someone will best you," the bearded man said, his words no more than a whisper.
"Not for a while, I think. I've faced men both beneath and above me, and I've cut them all down. I might be a pompous bastard but that's because I've earned it. It's because I am the best."
The Sommelier had died before Robert had started speaking. Robert tutted and shut the man's eyes.
Silly boy, he thought. Such potential. All gone to waste.
Robert tapped the wounds at his back and hip. They stung as his cold fingertips made contact, but they weren't fatal. Nothing more than some light scratches, or at least that's how he justified throwing on his coat and rushing towards Anne's office.
As Robert found his way through the Bastille, he heard a distant, booming rumble. It sounded as if thunder was crashing from underground, some miles from the Bastille. Perhaps the noise even came from outside of the city, it was too loud for Robert to tell. It could've been a sound echoing around the world, or been a boom that sounded right next to him.
Next came the shuddering. As the rumble gained in volume, Robert felt the ground beneath his feet begin to tremble. It was nothing more than a slight shudder at first, then the knight was forced to lean against a nearby wall as the earth beneath him shook so violently it felt as though it would give way.
Dashing to the first window he could find, Robert sought to locate the source of this phenomenon. He could already hear the screams and cries of a city full of panicking people, dashing about as they tried to save themselves and their loved ones.
Looking out of the window, it didn't take long for Robert to realise what was causing the ground to shake, though in part he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Reaching out of the ground and over the walls of Quenasses was one giant, looming plant. With a trunk as thick as the Bastille, and tendrils that were spreading rapidly through the streets, the thing looked as though it would engulf the whole city. Its shadow covered half of Quenasses, and it still seemed to be growing.
It could be a dream, Robert told himself, shaking his head. One terrible, fantastical dream. First the Sommeliers, and now this.
"Ah, Wisser," said a nasally voice from behind Robert. He turned around to see a balding, middle-aged man who he knew he should recognise, but couldn't.
Robert bowed, just to be safe. The man was waiting for a response, one Robert couldn't give. He peered at the man's clothes, his face, to see if he could get any sense of who he was. A little on the shorter side, with shocking red hair, he likely hailed from Zagravin.
The Count of Zagravin? Robert thought. Likely, if only I could remember his bloody name.
"Lord Count," Robert said, again leaning on the safer side.
"Please," chuckled the Count. His face was pointed, with a nose that crinkled when he laughed. His features were like a weasel's, though he seemed an honest, friendly chap. "Alfred will do."
Yonnar, Robert realised. That's who it is. Not a bad bloke, really.
"Alright then, Alfred."
"Considering it looks like the end of the world has arrived to meet us," Count Yonnar continued. "I believe formalities can be left aside for now."
"I'm inclined to agree. Have you seen Countess Dreor anywhere?"
"Honestly Robert I was hoping to ask you the same. We need order now, and that wife of yours may not be my favourite person, but may Atoth label me a coward and use me as a training dummy if she can't whip our lads into shape."
"I'm sure the Drevonish military is mighty enough to deal with an overgrown tree," Robert said.
Count Yonnar joined Robert at the window. He whistled at the sight of the plant. "It's gotten bigger since I last saw it."
"Still, burn it and it'll shrink."
"Wisser, the rest of the council may not have been involved in your raid a few nights ago, but you can be sure we heard of it. The word on the wind is there's a magician in our midst, plotting the downfall of the Patriarch."
"The wind seems a knowledgeable fellow."
"I won't believe that tree is anything but the beginning of an assault."
"You're right," Robert said. He spun, bringing his face accidentally close to Yonnar's. "So, let's take the fight to that heinous plant and whoever conjured it. We can't be bickering while under siege now, can we?"
Yonnar rubbed his hairless, weak chin. He chuckled again, only ceasing his laughter when he choked on air.
"Well said," Yonnar coughed. "Well said, Sir Robert. Shall we?"
*
Since Conrad had been brought back to life, not much had been able to surprise him, he didn't think there was much left that shock him. A gigantic tree pushing itself out of the ground and into Qunasses though, that would do it.
Bearskull had given no warning what was going to happen, and Conrad had awoken to the ground beneath him shaking. He'd barely rolled away in time as the tree burst through the floor, carving through the ruins, and exiting out of its ceiling. No doubt the witch thought all of this was hilarious. As she threw on her robes, and placed the bear's skull on top of her head, Conrad could hear Bearskull tittering to herself.
"So, what do we do?" Arten asked, completely enamoured with the plant as it continued to grow, continued to push itself into Quenasses. Conrad could only see a part of the trunk from where he was, and given the size of that small part, he was certain the tree was causing some serious damage up on the surface.
"Grab on darlings," Bearskull said, stepping in front of Arten and Conrad and closer to the tree. Even with its size, it was growing and moving so fast all it was to Conrad's eyes was a brown blur.
"I'd like to keep my arms, thanks," Arten said, still staring at the tree.
"Trust me," Bearskull said. "You don't want to wait until he stops growing."
"He?" Conrad asked.
"I think so, don't you?" Bearskull said. "Perhaps we'll give him a name, too?"
"It's a tree," Conrad said.
"And you are a man. Life is life, dear."
With that, Bearskull turned to the tree and leapt onto it. She shot up into the air, shadowy mist trailing behind her. As she disappeared into the sky, Conrad could hear the witch whooping with glee.
"Well," Arten said. "If it's between sitting here and jumping on that, I think I'll go with the latter."
Conrad nodded, though he didn't move when Arten did. He wanted to move, he wanted to jump onto the tree, but his feet were firmly planted to the floor. He willed his foot to rise, and his toes departed from the floor by about an inch, before placing themselves back where they were.
"Conrad," Arten said.
"Yes mate?"
"You can't die, remember."
"Yes, but I can fall, and that will hurt."
"Grab on tight then," Arten said as he too jumped onto the tree.
Grab on tight, Conrad thought. My arse.
The Zweihander looked at his blade, and then at the tree. Closing his eyes, he dashed forwards, and slammed his sword into the tree. He heard an audible thunk before he felt himself be lifted forcefully from the ground. The air washed over his face, pushing its way through his clothes, and chilling his body beneath it. Still Conrad did not open his eyes. Rising higher and higher, he began to smell burning, the shouts and cries of desperate men and women filled his ears. His eyes remained shut.
Eventually, the rush of wind slowed, and Conrad felt himself be grabbed by the waist. It felt as though a large snake had coiled around him, moving him through the air. He risked opening his eyes. A risk not worth taking.
Below Conrad were the streets of Quenasses. Hundreds of feet below him, more accurately. He gulped down his nerves as he was gently lowered towards the city below. Around his waist was a thick root, no doubt an appendage of the giant tree. In the distance, Conrad could make out a black shape, with what looked like smoke trailing behind it. The shape was rapidly heading for the Bastille.
She couldn't wait for just one moment, could she? Conrad thought.
"Good to see you made it," shouted a voice from below Conrad. Arten was being lowered in a similar fashion, though he was being cradled like a child with multiple roots. Conrad by comparison was gripped rather carelessly.
"Do you know where this thing will put us down?" Conrad asked.
"No idea mate, enjoy the ride, I suppose. I hope we'll be heading near the Bastille, but at this rate, the battle will long be over before we hit the ground."
As though it had heard Arten, the roots suddenly forgot their slow descent and shot towards the ground swiftly. Conrad felt his stomach in his chest, as for a few seconds he was plummeting as though there was no root to protect him. Not wishing to look at the impending doom of the floor, Conrad's eyes looked above, to the rolling grey clouds. No sun could be seen today, like one soft sheet the clouds had covered all light in the sky. Autumn had a habit of creating days like that, where a man couldn't tell whether it was dusk or dawn. Day or night.
The clouds weren't exactly immobile though. As Conrad watched, their dull greyness twisted in places. What looked like prying eyes and grinning mouths looked down from above.
Well, Conrad thought. Whatever will happen today, something's watching, and it seems to already be enjoying the show.
With a lurching in his stomach Conrad was pulled to a halt. Finally he'd stopped rushing through the air, though he dreaded what that now meant. Looking around himself, he couldn't see Arten, yet he could make out where he was. In front of Conrad was an open street, with infantrymen already pouring down it. The echoing footfalls of marching men was still like music to Conrad's ears, even if it now signalled enemies approaching. Beyond that street were great stone steps, and then, just short of a mile from where Conrad was about to be dropped, was the Bastille.
"Conrad!" called Arten. Looking overhead, the half-Pale Boy was still being pushed on by his root, sent over the streets and the soldiers that populated them.
"Shit," whispered Conrad as the root let go of him. He dropped about a foot onto the cobbled street, his sword still in his hands. The approaching Drevonish infantry had all caught sight of him. There were about twenty in total, all Zweihanders of the Second regiment. Not the best swordsmen Drevon had, but they were close.
Before he was abandoned, the root left Conrad with one final favour. Without a kinder or more wholesome way to put it, Conrad received a firm yet suggestive slap on the arse from the root. Alongside being inappropriate, it was a small signal from Bearskull, letting Conrad know she was in control of this whole thing. Looking back, Conrad saw the plant had grown so large as to tower over Quenasses. If it fell, the city would be crushed underneath.
Though I'm sure that's already what you've planned, Conrad thought. You manic, repressed witch.
"By order of the Patriarch," one of the Zweihanders said. "Throw down your weapon and come with us." Each of the twenty men had their weapon ready, something that gave Conrad's ego a swell.
Conrad was half-tempted to do as the man ordered. It was an instinctive reaction to follow his superiors, one that had been nurtured over years spent in the army. Now though, things were different.
"I believe you lads would be rather disappointed if I did throw down my weapon," Conrad said.
"Boris," the Zweihander ordered, turning to a man with a froggish face. "Deal with this man, won't you, and keep ten here, to give him a swift end. The rest of you, with me, the Third are being torn apart down there, and I won't let one man stop me from relieving them."
"Aye sir," said a chorus of men. The one identified as Boris took his half of the unit and began to step towards Conrad, while the other tried to trudge past him, marching to his left as if he would just stand still.
Conrad stepped forwards, and swiped at the commander of the Zweihanders. The man parried Conrad's swing and returned with a stab. Conrad pushed the stab down and in a perfect step decapitated the Zweihander. It was a fine kill, and quick too. A shame Conrad didn't have more time to admire his efficiency, for a moment after he'd struck the man down two blades pierced him. One was Boris' and it entered Conrad's belly, while the other punctured him from his back. A slow, heavy breath escaped Conrad's lungs. The stabs hurt, but not nearly as much as they should have. The soldiers pulled their blades from Conrad's flesh. Blood wept from the wounds, though again there should've been more. Much more. None of the Zweihanders seemed to notice though, Boris pushed Conrad over before he began barking at his men.
"Bloody fucking shit!" he roared. "Did none of you think to kill this bugger before he separated the commander's head from his body?"
"In fairness, Boris, wasn't that your job?"
Conrad was lying on the floor, admiring his wounds, and how the pain from them was already dulling. Then he heard the smack of iron against skin, and looked up to see Boris standing over another young man. The latter had a hand pressed against his reddening cheek, and Conrad could see the beginnings of tears of shock welling in his eyes.
"Oh, Cedric," Boris said, leaning over the body of the commander.
With a grunt, Conrad tried to rise. It was surprisingly easy to do so, and after a few moments he was on his feet. The Zweihanders looked at him in disbelief.
Boris, though he looked shocked too, decided to take action. He swung his heavy blade at Conrad, who caught the blow with his own zweihander before his neck could be cut in two.
Probably best to keep my head on, Conrad told himself as he pushed Boris back. The froggish man swung again, always aiming high. Compared to the speed of Robert Wisser, Boris was like facing a tortoise. Conrad ducked the blow with ease, spinning as he stepped past Boris and smacking his sword against his opponent's sallet helm. Boris hissed, touching his hand to his head.
"You mock me, beast?" he asked.
Another man attacked Conrad from the rear. Steel chunked into Conrad's side by an inch before he parried the blade away. Toying with Boris had allowed the others to surround him.
"Make it fair for me?" Conrad asked, stabbing his blade forwards to keep the Zweihanders back. "One at a time, please."
Three men charged Conrad from the front, and another immediately caught him in the back. He killed one before the rest overwhelmed him, sending him to the floor with the added weight of the steel stabbing through his body. Again, they mostly stabbed Conrad. He reckoned it was so wild swings wouldn't accidentally hit the other Zweihanders. This was fine with Conrad, as it meant he could keep getting up.
And after another moment on the floor, he did get up. He expected most of the Second to look upon him with horror, and run screaming. Much to Conrad's surprise, the men of Drevon proved hardier than that. Though their eyes were full of disbelief, they stood their ground.
"There were rumours of a magician attacking the city," Boris said. "I'd not think myself so lucky as to face one of its thralls. Tell me boy, how many times do we have to put you down?"
Conrad shook his head. He knew he couldn't die, or at least at this point he was quite sure. There were many other things he didn't know though, like if there was a limit on how much damage he could take. If his limbs or head were cut from his body, would he just be left to fend for himself without them? Could he last long enough to take on twenty men? Was he good enough? Even if he couldn't die, there were plenty of other ways to render him useless.
Slamming the edge of his blade to the floor, Conrad revelled in the ringing metal. The blade of his sword bounced from the cobbled street, and Conrad caught its momentum before swinging for the first man he saw. It was a good strike, swift and strong. The Zweihander lost his arm trying to parry the blow. Conrad blocked a blow that would've slashed open his eyes before stabbing again and catching another of Drevon's finest in the belly.
Boris lunged into combat once more. He was slow, but strong. With a wild swing he batted Conrad's blade to one side, opening his guard. Conrad ducked another swing and this time he left no chance for Boris to survive. With one swipe he took out Boris' legs before stabbing the Zweihander in his chest.
Another blade rammed through Conrad, pushing him to the floor. Two heavy boots stood on his hand and zweihander.
"Take his head off!" ordered a voice.
Shit, Conrad thought. Guess I'm about to find out what happens if I lose my head.
Conrad didn't feel his head roll though, nor did he feel the steel against his neck. Instead, he heard the creaking of wood, a man's scream, and felt a warm splash against the back of his neck. He turned around to see the sword removed from his sternum, and a man being lifted high into the air by some strange, thick vine. The vine had a tip like a spear and had thrust itself through the Zweihanders chest.
Suddenly, Conrad seemed much less of a worry to the Drevonish infantry. As more whip and spear-like vines joined the one rampaging through the lines of the Second, the streets around the Bastille quickly became a bloodbath. Men were plucked from the ground and thrown into walls or dropped from great heights. They were stabbed, choked, and cut to death, or until they'd had enough of the massacre and decided to run. After half of their number had been lost to the vines did the Second Zweihander regiment break, efficiently retreating into the streets.
Getting to his feet, Conrad grabbed his sword and made for the Bastille. No time to dwell on any of that. It was a distraction, and nothing more. He needed to find Arten and Bearskull, and after they were safe, then he could find Robert Wisser.
Or, as it turned out, Robert Wisser could find Conrad. As the latter ascended the steps to the courtyard of the Bastille, he caught the eye of an impossibly handsome man with striking amber hair. Sir Robert Wisser had a man at his side, one that he dismissed as he locked eyes with Conrad.
"Wisser," Conrad said. Looking up at the knight from halfway up the steps, letting Wisser look down on him, Conrad only found him even more pompous and infuriating.
"Where's the witch lad?" Robert asked earnestly. "This is serious now, if you tell me what you know, I'll ensure your life is spared."
"Did you tell Biter that?"
Robert shrugged. "Something along those lines. I'd just rather not fight you really, I've got plenty of other things to do."
Conrad lunged for Wisser, stabbing forwards. He was slower climbing up the stairs, and Wisser had no time for slowness. The knight met Conrad's advance, dodging his swing expertly before planting his sabre in Conrad's chest. The Zweihander sucked in air as the sabre was pulled from his breast. He was pushed back, but did not fall.
Robert Wisser cocked his head. "Curious," he muttered. "I thought it strange how you endured wounds, but now I see it must be some sort of magic keeping you alive."
"No one," Conrad said, spitting blood. "Not a single man has seemed impressed by me surviving a blade in my heart."
"You've been at war, lad," Robert said. "We've all seen things much worse. Now, can you tell me what is going on and where the witch is? You could save lives."
Conrad shrugged. "It would've saved lives not to send the Eighth to their deaths. It would've saved lives not to create the Pale Boys, and it would've saved lives to just leave all this well enough alone."
"Who put those ideas into your head, lad? You're not the type to have them on your own. In fact, I think I can tell you why no one cares that you can't be killed."
Venom infested Robert's eyes, his mouth curling in a grimace. "It's because you're such a snivelling whelp that even if you have to be killed a hundred times, any man among Drevon's military would win."
With that, Robert charged down the stairs. He was unbelievably fast, and Conrad barely raised his blade in time to block the incoming swipes. Holding his Zweihander in both hands, with one gripping near the point of the sword, Conrad could use the hefty blade like a thin shield. With this protection, he could keep up with Robert's speed, even allowing Conrad to shoot out a stab whenever he got the time. Right now, there didn't seem to be the time at all. Even with his defence, Robert was still putting an immense amount of pressure on his opponent. Slashes and stabs found their way through Conrad's guard, opening up his thin noble clothing and causing fresh cuts in his flesh.
There was something different about the way the knight fought now. When before Robert Wiser had been fighting with an enigmatic, composed posture, now he was angry. Now he was wild, leaning forwards with every strike, doing his most to cut Conrad to pieces as quickly as possible.
Conrad leaned back against a blow aimed for his neck. Wisser's sabre grazed him, but Conrad caught the knight in turn with a backswing. Wisser had lunged out of the way but not far enough, and blood oozed from a cut on his arm. The Zweihander paused at his minor victory, and for his slowness, Wisser stabbed him twice in the head and kicked him in the stomach, sending Conrad tumbling down the stairs. He stabilised himself before he fell too far, but had left his blade two steps above.
Wisser rushed for the zweihander, and Conrad let him have it. In his focus shifting to the weapon, Robert Wisser had forgotten Conrad entirely. The latter met Robert not with a blade, but with a fist, cracking the handsome man right in the jaw. An elbow followed the punch, and finally Conrad smacked the knight with the back of his palm. For his short assault, Conrad earned a sword in the gut. Inch by inch the steel lodged itself in his belly. Blood trickling from his nose and mouth, Robert Wisser snickered as he twisted the sabre in Conrad's guts.
A headbutt created some distance between the men, allowing Conrad to grab his zweihander, though Robert pulled his blade from the former's stomach at the same time. Steel rang once again as the sabre and zweihander collided. Conrad was throwing defence away now, not caring how many wounds he received. One strike, one good hit was all it would take to bring this pompous prick to his knees.
A strong, overhead swing cracked the stone of a step, with Robert dodging the blow with relative ease. Stepping to one side, he struck Conrad in the face with the pommel of his sabre. Another swing, and another. Wisser dodged both, though he was tiring.
Just a few more moments, Conrad told himself. Outlast him.
There are few truths in this world, yet one of them became known to Conrad as Wisser ducked and weaved around the former's great sword. His movements like water, his ripostes quicker than the eye could keep up with, and a strength unmatched even by a man two stone heavier than him at least. Robert Wisser was simply too good of a swordsman, and that was the awful truth. As that truth dawned on Conrad, he found fear in his belly. A sudden want to run came over him.
Conrad blocked a swipe that would've decapitated him, and drove Wisser's blade downwards. Wisser pulled a dagger from his boot and jammed it into Conrad's shoulder. The pain caused Conrad to drop his guard, at which point Wisser left a deep gash across his chest. Retreating, Conrad stumbled down a few steps, before dropping to a knee. He felt completely and utterly spent, his arms and legs unwilling to move.
Idiot, the Zweihander told himself. You should've run.
Applause filled the open air. It was a raucous clap, from the man who'd accompanied Wisser.
"Good show," he praised. "Magnificent, truly Sir Robert."
"You were here this whole time, Yonnar?" Sir Robert asked, his eyes still locked onto Conrad. "How helpful."
Yonnar? Conrad thought. Like the Count?
"I did not want to interrupt a duel between gentlemen," Count Yonnar said. "Now that it is finished, let us move."
Robert Wisser placed the tip of its blade to Conrad's neck. The Zweihander didn't resist. It was all he could do just to keep breathing. "What if I cut off your head?" the knight asked. "Would you die then, boy?"
Conrad couldn't move. He calmed his breathing and closed his eyes.
Before the cold bite of steel cut across Conrad's neck, before Robert Wisser could get out one more condescending, hateful word, a loud snap whipped across the air. There was a light squelching, and Conrad opened his eyes to see Robert Wisser clutching at his side. Blood oozed over his hands, and was already pooling on the steps. The knight's eyes were wide with shock, his mouth trembling as he turned from Conrad and retreated towards the Bastille. Yonnar had already ran as soon as the shot rang out, and Conrad was left to watch the best swordsman in Drevon stumble his way around the entrance to the Bastille, like a dying animal searching for its final resting place.
Footsteps smacked against the stone from behind. A cold, firm hand gripped Conrad's shoulder.
"So," Arten said. "Got your duel, did you?"
"Yep," Conrad huffed.
"You win?"
"Nope."
"No," Arten clapped Conrad's back twice. "I know you didn't mate. Not to worry though, you've a friend who appears to be quite the shot with one of these things."
"How," Conrad said, gulping in air as though it were the cleanest water and he'd been wandering the desert for weeks. "How did you get here?"
"Suppose we'd call it a bit of a scenic route," Arten replied. "Got dropped off in a tower somewhere, filled with fellows wearing red. Pushed my way out in the confusion, had to bludgeon a couple of them who mistook me for one of Dreor's men."
"Why would someone stab you if they thought you were one of Dreor's?" Conrad asked.
"Don't know mate," Arten said. "Seemed like quite the melee in there to be honest. Looking at you though, I could've had it worse."
"Wait," Conrad said, still not fully conscious, though he knew he'd heard something of interest. "What's going on in the Bastille?"
"Not entirely sure," Arten said. "Whether Bearskull had some allies she didn't tell us about I don't know, but they're cutting Dreor's Gunners down wherever they can find them. No word on the Countess herself though."
With gritted teeth, Conrad brought himself to his feet, leaning on his sword so that he could stand. He could feel strength returning to him, and some of his open flesh knitting back together. Without Bearskull, he'd not fully heal himself, though he might regenerate enough to be somewhat useful.
"Right," the Zweihander said. "Let's be off then, don't want to leave the witch on her own now, do we?"
Arten gripped Conrad's arm, nearly pulling him over. "You sure you're alright?"
"No," Conrad admitted. "But what else are we going to do?"