"Then by all means, let us duel, Gaudmult Baltrice of Celbriac," Velmund said in Norsmundi tongue, assuming a defensive stance.
At first, the barbarian was taken aback by his fluent delivery and politeness. However, as he perceived him further, an emotion comparable to uneasiness hovered over him as he felt the gaze of the young noble. "I admire your courage, little one. But you look like as young as my son, who is fourteen summers old."
"Forsooth, I am young, but nearly two years older than your lad," he said in a casual manner, portraying a calm demeanor.
"Don't be so athirst to die, little fool. But because my honor would be tarnish if I refuse a challenge, I'll indulge this foolishness of yours. Tell me, what is your name?"
"I am Velmund Grimuleth Walruse of House Walruse, third son of the Duke of Regalia, overlord of Estveine," he said, beaming with joyous pride. "On guard, warrior of Norsmund."
"Are you the son of that imbecile who messed with the Shiradonii?! This should be entertaining, but I say you are as stupid as your father, little lord."
"I will warn you to refrain using such shameful words to describe my father, lest you regret it," Velmund threatened in austerity, staring with contempt and scorn.
His remark enraged the barbarian, who charged at him in full pace. Gaudmult lunged for an overhead strike aimed at Velmund's shoulder. Instead of deflecting the attack, Velmund jumped back for him to miss by the slightest of margin. The opponent was quick to follow up another strike, sweeping his falchion from the left. Velmund blocked the blow, and both of them are engaged in a tight sword lock. Gaudmult had almost overpowered him, so he had to muster up all his strength to break free of the engagement. The barbarian leader grinned as his warriors cheered for him, and taunted Velmund saying, "Come on little lord, is that all you got?"
Seeing him staying on the defensive, Gaudmult commenced a barrage of strokes, thrashing in almost all directions. Velmund either parried or dodged, attempts which he had been fully successful. Evading and steering from all of the attacks had seemed to take its toll to his stamina, though, so Velmund, after being on the receiving end of formidable sword swings and thrusts that lasted for minutes, panted vigorously in search for air. The enemy appeared to be tireless, on the contrary, and had increased the amount of attacks twofold, releasing a salvo of blows ceaselessly.
Upon the duration of the fight, Velmund tried to study his opponent's pattern of attack. He noticed that his adversary favored doing overhead strikes, followed by an attack landing on either his left arm or the opposite, ending with a forward thrust and another stroke above his head, which had proven to be the deadliest. The young lord remembered his sparring sessions with his father's guards at the castle, men from the City Watch who only knew four practiced swings repeated in succession. Although Gaudmult's attacks were not as predictable as the guardsmen he trained with and seemed to vary, his movements became foreseeable as the battle dragged on. Velmund meekly deferred from making any offensive move, then seized his chance when he had worked out his own stratagem.
The barbarian leader, after a repeated series of strikes, hoisted his falchion in a large sweeping motion, looked down on Velmund from his towering figure, and slashed down with all his might, taking advantage of his vantage point from his imposing height. All of a sudden, Velmund stripped his black cloak and flung it towards his opponent, obscuring his sight. To his dismay, Gaudmult found himself cutting into thin air, dumbfounded. Meanwhile, Velmund had sidestepped and snatched his chance, stabbing at his foe near his groin, making him lose his balance. Although the blade did not puncture deep, it caused a shallow wound that trickled blood. Velmund leaped back to distance a gap between himself and his wounded enemy.
The sensation of hacking flesh was an unexplored domain for Velmund. Up until recently, he had no real combat experience to speak off. The longsword he wielded weighed greater compared to the wooden weapons he trained with, and the blood the edge of his sword caused was a first of his lifetime. Never had he injured someone, let alone kill. The hundreds of simulations he had imagined were inadequate compared to the real terror of a sword clash.
"Now you've done it, little lord," Gaudmult said, darting a frantic look, gritting his teeth in wrath. "Time to end this. I'll murder you!"
The barbarian catapulted his blade towards Velmund, catching him off his guard. He ran like an injured beast, his shouting fueled with frenzied fury, attempting to tackle Velmund with the entirety of his body. The falchion dashed forth spinning towards the young lord. He only had moments to react, but he was fortunate enough to ward off the oncoming projectile, though it had disarmed him in the process. To make things direr, Gaudmult would be upon him in split seconds, his brawny arms stretched aimed for firm gripping. Impulsively, Velmund crossed his arms and shut his eyes to brace the impact. "You shouldn't have left your castle to play soldier, little lor—" Gaudmult said, drawing his last breath.
The thwacking sound of cleaving flesh made Velmund disenthrall his eyes. A silvery flash of a blade drawn in lightning speed rendered him unsighted for a moment. Shortly after, the horrendous sight of Gaudmult's dismembered limbs greeted him. His left arm and thigh were cleanly torn off, gouging a seemingly endless stream of blood. The next thing he knew, his first knight was standing close by his side. "A swift death…" Frenda sneered, sternly, gazing upon the ranks of tribal warriors. "Anyone who poses harm on Lord Velmund shall be dealt with a swift death."
The throng of barbarians were infuriated by the remark, stiffening grip upon their weapons in order to prepare to avenge their fallen leader and comrade-in-arms. Unlike their bearing minutes prior, the Regalian militia did not falter nor tremble, witnessing the bravery of the young lord and the strength of his knight. They held a poised line of defense; a spear wall.
"Lord Velmund, are you hurt?" Frenda asked, paying him a side glance.
"I am unscathed," Velmund replied. "You don't know how grateful I am that you are here, but do tell me who's in command of the Raven Knights at your absence."
"I felt an urge to return to you, m'lord. I am sorry that I should defy your orders, though I am not the slightest bit of regretful of my actions. For that matter, I left Lord Jurelle to lead our knights. He would preside the operation as I would all the same, that I assure."
"I have complete faith upon cousin Jurelle, as any other man who knows him well would."
"That being the case, please allow me to finish these scoundrels who stand in your way. Pay no mind to them. I take it that you should be getting ready soon?"
"Very well, I shall do as you say."
"Then trust me to protect your front and rear as you cast," she said, turning to the ranks of the militia. "On your feet, men! Prepare yourselves. Make a perimeter and surround Lord Velmund. Protect him at all costs."
She was set against more than a hundred foes, yet Frenda marched nonchalantly, swiftly crossing the gap between herself and the enemies. Frenda neither flinched nor squirmed. The idea was too absurd to the people who knew her well. The barbarians met her with fervor, as if stomaching a long-term grudge against their single most opponent, that may as well be the truth as one of them angrily cried and cursed the words 'knight reaper' the moment he, at a second swinging an axe, and at another having his head severed from its neck. The lone knight surged forth the clump of men with an indomitable strength, decimating half a dozen warriors in one fell swoop. Her enemies faced her in pairs of twos and fours, wave upon wave, but not a single one managed to past her guard, not even a single blow scathing or thrashing against her sturdy plate armor. Her every stroke was worth the demise of many brave souls. Her greatsword brandished to yearn death. Each swing and thrust emanated blood of the slain and fallen. To the eyes of the ill-fated men who battled against her, it was almost as if she was the embodiment of the hell made flesh, spilling gore as she went. However, at the core of her mind, upon the depths of her own soul, she felt no guilt nor contempt against her adversaries. In truth, she had only the sole intent of serving his sworn liege to the fullest of her capabilities; the man whom she entrusted her fate and being.
Frenda was truly a force to be reckoned with, a display of prowess to behold! On contrary with her pale and tender frame, she possessed an unrivaled strength matched with finesse at swordplay. She was charming and fair seen as a refined young lady at court, yet vicious and wicked in the face of an enemy. For these very reasons alone, she occupied the first seat of the knightly order of the Raven Knights.
Velmund paid little attention to the slaughter, almost proffering pity to the forlorn souls of his adversaries. He knew Frenda and trusted her abilities, so he chose to waste no time worrying, and started to clear his thoughts, freeing himself from the chaos of battle. Finally, when he had silenced all his thoughts, he drew a black grimoire from his person. Slowly, he chanted the words:
"Spirituous of shadows darker than black, concealed and polished in the caliginous void of the slumbering god. I implore the wisdom of this ancient tome. Hark, O' great god Grimereth. I beseech thee, grant me thy power. Bring forth de—"
The incantation was halted as Velmund was shaken by the sudden quake of the ground, accompanied by the shrieking sound of metal and wood being abruptly unhinged. Returning the grimoire inside his cloak, he turned to look beneath the wall, searching for the source of the tremor, and the clamor of men once again sank in his ears. Velmund squinted to see the epicenter of the battle, seeing that flames had engulfed the gigantic wooden gate of Flendle, whilst soldiers poured in to block the hole, forming a wall of shields in order to deny the enemies passage. The fighting was brutal as barbarians continued to scurry forth, yet the fact did not bother the young lord the least bit. Instead, he marveled at how did the tribesmen progressed on destroying the gate, bolted and latched prior to the battle as it was. He arrived at no conjecture, until a man-at-arms had screamed, "Flame magic! Mage… the enemy has brought a mage!"