Chapter 9

Translator: Willia

Swordsmanship was a basic accomplishment for the nobility. They might sooner go without learning their letters than go without learning the sword.

It wasn't only nobles. Commoners too, when setting off on journeys or attending to matters of consequence, often took up swordsmanship as a means of self-defense, enough to protect their own skin.

The sword, moreover, was convenient to wear at the hip, and served in itself as a mark of status, which made it a much-beloved weapon.

One common misconception about swords was that they were useless in battle, on the grounds that they broke or bent all too easily. That was half true and half false.

A close formation armed with shield and sword had superior mobility compared to a spear formation, giving it high tactical utility.

And in fact, the close formation of sword and shield, commonly called the shield wall, had been the chief tactic of the Nordics from long before the Conquest War right down to the present day.

Of course, they didn't always use swords; axes, short spears, and various other close-quarters weapons were employed as well.

And because the quality of iron goods varied wildly, a sword forged from good iron by a skilled smith could cleave through an ordinary helmet with ease.

The famed Ulfberht and Dwarven Steel blades were known for cutting iron as though it were cheese.

Of course, not every sword was made of fine iron by a master smith, so an ordinary blade, if used improperly, was apt to break or bend.

But learning how to wield it properly and honing one's technique, so as to make up for those very weaknesses, was precisely what swordsmanship was.

Spears, axes, and hammers were formidable weapons in their own right, but they were constrained by place and circumstance.

Spears were ill-suited to tight spaces and hard to wield against multiple opponents; axes and hammers could deliver powerful blows but lacked the thrust, which made their application limited.

The conclusion, then, was that any weapon could prove either formidable or deficient depending on where, when, and how it was used.

Swordsmanship, once learned to a certain level, could be applied across a wide variety of places and situations. In short, compared to other weapons, the sword was the most versatile of them all.

Those who delved into swordsmanship professionally and studied it for its own sake were called swordsmen.

If knights were the sort who, through endless physical conditioning and the mastery of various weapons and combat arts, distinguished themselves on the actual field of battle, then swordsmen, devoting themselves solely to the sword itself, had something almost scholarly about them.

Of course, there were swordsmen who actively threw themselves into battle, but as a rule they did not.

In the case of Gael, the envoy sent by Duke Sven, he was not the sort who took part in battle.

He had built his reputation by hiring on with merchant companies as a Sword Arts Instructor to teach the warriors in their employ, or else by serving as a bodyguard to persons of importance.

He had, reportedly, cut down ten bandits somewhere, which, depending on how one looked at it, was either quite a feat or nothing particularly remarkable.

But the man himself seemed to take considerable pride in it, for his bearing was ramrod straight.

Standing in the training grounds, Gael held his back as straight as a fir tree, one hand clasped behind him and the other gripping a practice sword.

His opponent was Gidwin, who held a practice sword and a shield. Gidwin was roughly the same height as Gael, but built far more heavily.

A number of people stood at the edge of the training grounds watching the two face off. Count Aethelred, two knights, Valery and Harold, Tommy, and Hakon. The servants, too, peered from a distance, eyes wide and round.

In the midst of this, Gidwin cast off his shield. Seeing it, Gael spoke.

"What's the meaning of that?"

"Since you're not carrying a shield, it wouldn't be fair otherwise."

At that, Gael smirked as if he found it absurd.

"Suit yourself."

Hearing this, Gidwin stooped slightly and took a stance that looked as though he meant to charge in with his bare hands. The sword, hilted for one hand, he held in one.

It was Gidwin who closed the distance first. He did not rush headlong into range, but edged in cautiously, measuring the gap as if testing his footing.

Then, feinting with a push off his left foot, he circled to the right. Since he held the sword in his right hand, it was, in its way, a trick meant to exploit the blind angle.

Gidwin swung the sword from right to left. Gael leaned his torso slightly back and let it pass. At that, Gidwin drew the blade back and, in the same motion, simply threw his body at the man. If it came down to a grapple, the difference in size meant Gidwin would win outright.

But Gael was not one to simply take it. Shifting his feet only as much as was needed to evade, he jabbed Gidwin in the ribs with his practice sword.

"Khh!"

The pain was enough to sap the strength from his legs, but Gidwin reached out anyway, trying to seize Gael's arm. His hand only clutched helplessly at empty air.

Since the attempt had come to nothing, a price was owed. Gael's sword swept hard across Gidwin's neck.

Being a practice sword, the edge was not keen, but it was still made of metal, and the blow raked Gidwin's neck hard enough to leave what was nearly a burn.

"Ugh!"

Gidwin squeezed his eyes shut against the dizzying pain. But when he opened them again, his gaze blazed as though he were ready to throw himself back in with desperate abandon.

"Enough."

Just then, his father Norman's voice came. He spoke curtly.

"You've lost, Gidwin."

There was no particular disappointment in the words. Only a precise fact that cut deeper than disappointment would have.

Since it was his father's command, Gidwin had no choice but to swallow his mortification. And then Gael threw fuel onto the fire.

"It isn't bad to press the offense with strength. But if it can be evaded, it amounts to nothing. Put strength alone at the fore, and you cannot withstand technique; put technique alone at the fore, and you cannot withstand superior strength. Again: overwhelming strength cannot defeat masterful technique, and masterful technique is likewise helpless before overwhelming strength. In the end, one must cultivate both strength and technique in equal measure."

It wasn't exactly wrong, but the way he prattled on as though he had become some sort of teacher was thoroughly galling.

It was an instructional duel, admittedly, so a word or two of guidance was only to be expected, but there was a rule of life that even correct words could be the last thing one wished to hear.

"Next."

Gael said, giving the sword two crisp flicks through the air.

The next to step forward was Tommy. Unfortunate to say, but with Gidwin having been bested so easily, there was little more to see in Tommy.

And sure enough, Tommy was undone in a fashion almost too embarrassing to put into words.

The knight Tommy served under, for his part, seemed never to have expected much of him to begin with, and showed neither particular disappointment nor anger.

Gael glanced over toward Harold. Then, as though seeking permission, he looked to Count Aethelred.

This was a test of talent. In truth, if the Count's son went untested, the whole thing would be meaningless.

Count Aethelred turned to his son. On the surface, his gaze was indifferent. As though everything passed between them without words, it seemed to say: step forward or step back, the choice is yours.

But unexpectedly, Harold stepped up without a moment's hesitation. After watching his friends get handled so thoroughly right in front of him, one might have expected him to flinch, yet there was no sign of it. If anything, his eyes glared at Gael with a quiet, smoldering anger.

Harold had his childish, guileless side, that much was true, but he was no coward.

Inwardly, Count Aethelred felt a swell of pride in the boy. Lacking a bit in skill was permissible. What was not permissible was cowardice.

But by Gael's cold measure, Harold looked weaker even than the two before him. Just the way he stood made it plain.

"I shall yield the first strike, Young Lord."

Gael said. Harold, gripping a greatsword-class practice sword in both hands, closed the distance swiftly.

He seemed to halt at just the right range, then spun the sword in a loop above his head and cut down on a diagonal, drawing the blade along with the force of the swing. Using centrifugal force was the foundation of handling a large weapon, and Harold could pull it off with a fair degree of competence.

Only, the strike wasn't particularly fast, and Gael evaded it with a simple step back.

As though he had expected exactly that, Harold flowed smoothly into the next step, striking the opposite side, then at once crossed his arms and struck the other side again.

But before the blade had properly gathered its weight, Gael slipped in close and deliberately took the hit.

"Oh my, dear me."

It was a prime chance for Harold to seize the upper hand. Had he been a bit larger, he could have turned it into a grapple, or worked an angle.

Instead, Gael pressed in tighter still and, with a sudden burst of force, pinned down the base of Harold's blade. At that, Harold lost his grip on the sword entirely.

Clatter.

Because the mechanics of force had been applied at exactly the right instant, will had nothing to do with it. In all honesty, Gael's swordsmanship was formidable.

He caught Harold gently as the boy was about to lose his footing and said,

"Magnificent, Young Lord. If anything, it is I who have learned something today. Only, when wielding a greatsword, spacing is paramount. It would serve you well to always be prepared for close quarters."

It was so effusive it might have been mistaken for a courtesy bout. But on reflection, Gael had his reasons for lavishing Harold with praise. Harold's talent had to appear exceptional for there to be a pretext for taking him away.

He could not take him that very day, but he could report back to Duke Sven that Harold's talent was outstanding. In that way, one by one, pretexts were built up.

In the end, what mattered was not how each party actually performed, but how the evaluator chose to judge them. That was Gael's calculation.

"My thanks. I've lost."

Harold brushed aside Gael's hands as though they discomfited him, but, as a nobleman, observed the proper courtesy all the same. He was humiliated. So much so that Gidwin and Tommy, wounded as they were, looked at him with concern.

Gael remained standing in the training grounds, wearing a satisfied smile. The people of House Winsloe, every one of them, wore grim expressions.

Whatever intrigue lay beneath the surface, the plain fact was that they had failed to show anything of real worth. Put simply, their pride was somewhat stung.

"I hear this house's bastard has quite the martial reputation."

Gael said. At that, every eye turned to Valery.

But Valery stood still, head slightly bowed, as though lost in thoughts of his own.

Just when one might have wondered whether someone ought to rouse him, Valery picked up the practice greatsword Harold had been using and stepped forward.

Gael's eyes gleamed for an instant as he looked at Valery. It wasn't easy to kill a man with a practice sword, but for a man of his own skill, it was perfectly possible.

What's more, he could plausibly pass it off as an unavoidable accident. With the pretext of an instructional duel, and an accident to boot, the Duke would not only take his side but would almost certainly reward him.

The bastard had been the chief cause of the abduction plan at the horse fair going up in smoke not long ago, and if the boy's skill were truly formidable, then using that as an excuse to take Harold away would likewise become a distant prospect.

If the bastard's skill was indeed the greatest of them all, then grinding him into the dirt as thoroughly as possible, or outright killing him, would make it easier to carry the plan forward.

As visions of advancement painted themselves across his mind, Gael found a satisfied smile had settled on his face of its own accord.

Valery gazed quietly back at him. It was not a glare, exactly, nor a look of fear. Yet somehow, from that gaze, Gael felt a strange and inexplicable unease.

What is this? This feeling?

As though to shake off the unpleasant sensation, Gael turned to Count Aethelred and let a rather discourteous remark slip out.

"As they say, heroes attract beauties. Or perhaps, Count, it was beyond what your self-control could bear."

It was a low taunt. The words had been prompted by Valery's handsome face.

Yet because the phrasing was, on its surface, complimentary, it was awkward to call him on it. Fortunately, Count Aethelred was not the sort of man to take the bait at so base a provocation. He responded with simple disregard.

Valery, too, was much the same, but unlike the Count he did not let it pass. On the contrary, he answered with a provocation all the more blatant.

"Shall I carve off that unwieldy great nose of yours, or blind those shabby little eyes for you?"

Gael looked at Valery for a moment, then gave a contemptuous laugh. Still a child.

"......Hmph. If they're unwieldy and shabby, then trimming them off would be only right."

"Very well."

"I'll yield the first strike. Swing to your heart's content."

At that, Valery closed the distance without preamble. He brought the sword across in a broad swing, neither quick nor slow.

Gael fell back at first, trying to read Valery's swordsmanship. He couldn't simply kill him outright; he had to shape it into something with the proper appearance.

But Valery pressed in closer still. From Gael's standpoint, there was scarcely any more room to retreat or evade, and he had to answer one way or another.

So he whipped his sword out as if to shake Valery off, aiming at the wrist. Even if the blow were parried, at this range his own shorter sword would have the advantage, or so he thought.

But Valery seized the blade of the greatsword outright and, using it like a staff, batted Gael's sword aside.

Clang!

The arm holding Gael's sword was flung upward. In that instant, Gael felt that something had gone wrong.

Taking no notice of his distress, Valery, in the technique known as Half-swording, handled the greatsword as though it were a short spear and bore down on him.

In that moment, something chilling brushed across Gael's chest. The ramrod bearing he had held until now finally came undone, and he spread his feet wide, at last settling into a proper stance.

First, to get out from under the pressure, he shifted sideways, and in that very instant, as though by some devilry, Valery vanished from before his eyes. Huh?

It was precisely then. Just in front of his face, something swept upward from below in a sudden rush.

With a soft thud, something seemed to fall to the ground, and before Gael registered that he had been cut, he felt a torrent of liquid running down into his mouth.

No, surely not, the thought came, and his heart lurched, his eyes went wide. As he rolled his eyes hurriedly, searching for Valery, a flash of something burst across his vision.

The dizzying flash was followed at once by darkness, and at the same moment Gael felt a pain in both eyes as though they were being seared with a red-hot iron.

"AAAAAAAAAARGH!"

The scream tore from his throat. He let the sword fall and dropped to his knees. With trembling hands he groped at his own eyes and nose. There was no nose. Through the gaping hole, blood mingled with other fluids was pouring out in a steady stream. He could feel it through his fingertips.

"Uhhh......"

In the utter despair of his situation, he could only tremble, while Valery looked down at him with a cold, merciless gaze.

"My thanks for the devoted instructional duel you offered, even at the cost of both your eyes and your nose."

With that, he tossed the practice greatsword onto the ground and simply walked out of the training grounds.

Clatter.

No one had the words. Especially the two knights, who had watched the instructional duel the whole while with arms crossed and faces impassive; their arms slowly came unfolded, and their expressions turned somewhat dazed.

Count Aethelred, who had only ever heard tell of Valery's ability, was now bearing witness to it with his own eyes, and his face showed that he could believe it even less than before. That's clearly a practice sword, with no edge on it. This isn't a question of whether he has talent or not, is it?

The Count's feelings began as surprise, as astonishment, but as time passed they spread ever more into fear.

The root of that fear lay partly in Valery's shocking ability, yet it was closer to a terror of the unknown, of something that could not be grasped by reason.

"Hhhuuhh......"

Amid the silence in which everyone had lost their words, only Gael's whimpering moans filled the training grounds.