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TRAS Chapter 59: The Day of the Duel
🕑 Added 2025-01-21 15:20:15 +0000 UTCOutside the amphitheater where the duel was to take place, Sir Fontaine sat on a stone bench built around a birch tree. There were a few of them—dormant birch trees with stone benches surrounding, yet Fontaine was one of the few taking advantage.
Since it was cold and snowy, Fontaine had wisely brought his own pelt.
As sergeant-prior, he nominally should have been directing the knights—especially now that the high marshal had been stripped of his position. Mercifully, Sir Dartune had more than amply stepped into the more frenetic stewarding duties.
The knights in the Order were considerate of his weary bones, which often needed time to sit. In truth, it was less his knees than his spirits which needed quiet moments of recuperation. The occasional minute of solace was what kept a knight donning armor, and Fontaine wasn’t shy to sit around and relish the peace the Order worked so hard to protect.
At the moment, the plaza was mostly filled with children. The duel was to be a public spectacle, and their parents were likely in a suffocating, crushing crowd, attempting to procure tickets; the children were safer here than there.
Most of the children wore wolf masks, their playful energy filling the air. A handful of them shyly offered gelé primevère to other children, and their blossoms of young love stirred memories in Fontaine—of a moment long past, when Aldous had handed the same flower to Celine.
Once a bittersweet memory, recent events had rendered it only bitter. Like caffè left in a knight’s tin undrunk, no amount of honey could salvage it, and the wolf mask that young, gallant boy had worn all those years ago seemed in retrospect to reek with portent.
“Sir Fontaine,” Sir Reynard came walking up with a friendly and excited grin. “Bit too cold to be sittin’ around in the park, in’it? His Highness Sigurd sent me to inform you that the knight officers need to get to the mezzanine.”
“Certainly,” Fontaine rose slow and steady, patting Reynard on the back as they headed into the amphitheater. “I hope your knee’s standing well, today, Sir Reynard.”
“I’d say it gets better on cold days, Sir Fontaine,” Reynard said, completely serious.
“...Is that so? I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Reynard had become more of an errand boy ever since his recent failures, but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, Sigurd kept assigning him odd tasks since he always performed his duties cheerfully.
Servants and even commoners with no ties to the castle waved at the two knights as they passed by. Known as two of the kinder, more sociable knights—and with Fontaine having been a familiar figure for over half a century—many in Varant recognized them.
‘Sausage and bread! Three coppers! Four coppers with the addition of fruit!’
‘I have two tickets for the east gallery! Two tins each!’
The amphitheater was still a staple of city life, despite seeing little recent use for spectacle. Nowadays, the open space was used by religious vendors, who sold relics of dubious authenticity to pilgrims. Chased from the cathedral, they had settled in Varant’s most historic building, hoping its augustness would inspire the reverent feelings they relied on to sell their goods.
Most of them grumbled about being chased out once again, this time for a rather unexpected event, but there was little they could do. Making the best of it, more than a few of them weaseled their way in as event vendors, setting aside their spiritual wares to instead sell baskets of food, or simply scalp.
On the way to the mezzanine, the two knights encountered Sigurd, already dressed in the ceremonial armor reserved for duels of headship.
“You look a fine commander, Your Highness,” Reynard said. “Both the eum-Creid men do!”
“...Yes, well,” Sigurd did his best to ignore Reynard’s mildly oblivious comment, “I suppose someone has to teach my brother that the family headship requires more than silver hair. A dose of humiliation is the perfect medicine for otherwise terminal stupidity.”
Like all things eum-Creid, the ceremonial armor was silver and blue, and featured the family’s wolf crest. Its design, however, was not merely aesthetic. The azure hues of its leather were natural, not dyed, from the wyvern hide used; the silver accents, meanwhile, came from the mythril plates that had been riveted in beneath the leather.
Thus, the brigandine that Sigurd currently wore offered better protection than the steel plate armor most of Varant’s knights wore to the northern wall, to say nothing of its increased mobility. Second only to the adamantium plate Sigurd himself wore in real battle, it was the finest armor in all of Varant.
“I wish you the best of luck, Your Highness,” Fontaine said honestly. If it had been Ailn in the hallway, he would have bid him luck just the same.
“The strong need not fortune’s fickle patronage, Fontaine,” Sigurd chided the elderly knight. “This duel will be short. I will only go so far as to stamp out the vanity that has infected Ailn’s constitution.”
Sigurd disappeared down the corridor, the crowd parting in awe as he made way. This was the nearest they’d ever be to their duke.
Fontaine watched with a bitter smile, noting in Sigurd the continuation of a pattern which had persisted for three generations past. It wasn’t resentment Fontaine felt, but resignation; he could hardly blame Sigurd for taking after Celine, and Aaron before her.
Reynard and Fontaine entered the mezzanine, which—Ailn and Sigurd aside—was currently occupied by the entirety of the remaining eum-Creid family. That included Ennieux’s children, though they were actually merely there as knight escorts.
Near the front of the mezzanine, Ennieux, hands on both her hips, was already lecturing her daughter.
“I truly cannot understand how the knights believe it is humane to feed you that barbaric… ‘meat cube!’” Ennieux tapped her foot impatiently, trying to read past her daughter’s composed smile. “How is it prudent to deny more vigorous foods, if you wish to be an able knight?! Really, Camille!”
“I assure you it’s vigorous enough, Your Grace,” Camille said. “Now, if you were just talk your seat—”
Ennieux rolled her eyes at the title. “Goodness, it’s never ‘mother’ unless you feel guilty, is it?” she muttered, angrily, but brushed past her daughter to sit, anyway. “Fine, then. Be a knight. I shan’t fail to treat you like one.”
Nicolas, her son, quietly stood beside his mother. Unlike Camille, they’d already spoken a few times since the inquisition.
“Don’t be so hard on Camille,” Nicolas said. His voice sounded harsh, but that was simply how it struck most people. “Please, mother.”
“I’m not being difficult, Nicolas,” Ennieux said exasperatedly. She gave a gentle swat to her son’s shoulder and spoke in what she must have thought was a whisper. “Rather, you! Your recklessness sets a poor example for your sister! You know she imitates you, Nicolas!”
Camille probably didn’t realize it, but for all her self-control in expression, when she was frustrated enough she rolled her eyes just the same as her mother. Nicolas, meanwhile, merely nodded along hesitantly to his mother’s scolding, with all its unfounded accusations.
Sophie and Renea, meanwhile, talked amongst themselves. Or rather, Sophie was attempting to console an anxiously praying Renea.
“Renea, the chance of Ailn dying is quite low,” Sophie said, unperturbed. “The difference in strength between them is so great, Sigurd will have no difficulty disarming him.”
“He—I wouldn’t necessarily count Ani out so quickly,” Renea said, with soreness evident in her voice. “Ani… well, Ailn beat Aldous, so…”
“Yes, and Aldous was old. What of it?” Sophie seemed genuinely perplexed by what she perceived as Renea’s poor reasoning. “Sigurd will safely quash Ailn before he can hurt himself. Ailn is quite weak. Given permission to use the divine blessing, even the poorest of the knights would soundly defeat him—as Aldous did in the end.”
Nicolas and Camille both stiffened quite noticeably, hearing Sophie’s assessment. And Ennieux at least knew when her children were upset.
“Hush, Sophie! Heavens!” Ennieux scolded her.
“Hush? Why?” Sophie looked all around her. Renea was quite cross, Ennieux was reproachful, and her two knight cousins looked completely demoralized. Camille, in particular, looked like someone had just pushed her into a puddle, the way her eyes weakened even as she kept her smile.
“Would someone please apprise me of what it is I said?” Sophie’s voice rose slightly.
Standing at the back of the mezzanine, Fontaine watched over all of them warmly, while kindling his small hope.
He wished for Ailn to win because he wanted the grandchildren of his dear friend to stay together.
Was it irresponsible? Perhaps. As far as leadership, Sigurd ostensibly had the greatest qualifications; and yet there was something in the young master Ailn's spirit that gave Sir Fontaine hope.
To the sergeant-prior, this peace—with all of its mundane strife and soft, familial struggles—was something to be desperately protected.
____________________________
The audience had gathered expecting to see more of a farce than a spectacle. Ailn had always been a topic of gossip for the commoners; he served as comforting proof that being a lowlife had nothing to do with one’s station in life.
It was the kind of meanspiritedness that thrived on distance. The world of the castle was one most of them would never be privy to.
Hence, word of Renea’s fall from grace, and the rise of a previously unknown bastard child into the position of Saintess went largely disbelieved. When Renea and Sophie had exited from the coach of state, their positions and garb essentially reversed, more than a few tattlers went scurrying.
Idle, frivolous gossip began to take on sincere notes of anxiety now that Renea’s clothing seemed to affirm the whisperings. The world of the castle above had been shaken up entirely without their realizing, and interest in the match between Ailn and Sigurd began to crescendo, along with the volume in the amphitheater.
Renea was loved by the people because she was strong and kind. Now that she was apparently proven a fake, they didn’t know what to think.
Sophie was a complete unknown.
Sigurd was a strong, proud leader. While Ailn was widely accepted to be a clown.
Their worries growing, sentiment among the populace coalesced into a unanimous conclusion: Sigurd better put down his imbecile of a brother before things got even more messed up.
Ailn had not expected the jeers as he entered the arena.
“I’m the bad guy here, too?” Ailn muttered. Boos came raining down, and insults flew his way. “I think I traded a rabbit with that lady…”
‘Know your place, reprobate!’
‘Stick to the fields!’
Thankfully, Ailn had the type of personality that found this more motivating than dispiriting. He tried to think of acceptably petty ways to flaunt his soon-to-be dukedom in his hecklers’ faces—it was amazing just how many people in his new life were asking for their just deserts.
He waved back like they were cheering for him.
Sigurd came approaching from the other side of the arena, pleased by the crowd’s united support. His eyes narrowed as his gaze met Ailn’s.
“This is the last hour, Ailn. If you have any sense left, you’ll plead now, in front of this crowd,” Sigurd declared, raising his sword to the sky. With grand flourish, he slowly brought the blade down to point its tip toward Ailn. “I will be merc—”
“Last chance to apologize, Sigurd,” Ailn cut in, his voice sharp. “Or you’ll eat dirt.”
Sigurd’s sword had not even fully descended yet. Hence, it hovered in the air awkwardly as its owner sputtered, unsure if he should finish his speech.
With a growl, Sigurd simply gave a swift upward cut through the air, then brought it naturally to eye level—as if that was his intention all along. At first glance his guard resembled Camille’s, but hers was typically raised above her head.
“It seems you have become arrogant, thinking that you—” Sigurd started.
“You’re overconfident, Sigurd,” Ailn said, interrupting him again.
His jaw clenching hard, Sigurd simply stopped talking. Taking measured steps toward Ailn, he seemed to have no qualms about seizing the initiative; he did not, however, rush his movements as Ailn had hoped he would.
Sigurd made the first move, with a thrust. Ailn, who had kept his distance, simply took a step back. Unlike any of Ailn’s sparring partners, Sigurd preferred to control the battle with thrusts. With his exceptional range, it was the natural strategic choice—especially because he could vary his range.
Ailn had been about to step forward, when his instinct told him not to; it was a good thing because Sigurd’s sword extended half a foot, by dint of his holy aura.
The scariest thing was how quiet it was. Ailn had been prepared for it—he’d heard of this tactic from Kylian—but seeing it in action was nerve-wracking.
In response, as Sigurd pulled back his sword, Ailn made a quick forward movement as if he were forced into rushing.
Sigurd, seeing this, responded with a slash across his centerline, to thwart the advance. Ailn, however, had been feinting and made a seamless retreating step before Sigurd had even slashed.
Giving Sigurd no chance to adjust, Ailn moved to flank him, shifting his angle of attack. Once again, Ailn acted as if he were desperately reliant on the opening he’d created, swiftly advancing forward.
“You must think me a fool!” Sigurd shouted. Seamlessly lowering the guard of his sword, he advanced with quick steps of his own, to cut off what he believed to be a flanking feint.
But Ailn was a step ahead of him. Almost in sync with Sigurd’s transitioning guard, Ailn changed his own—to one much like Camille’s. And the overhead strike he made at the oncoming Sigurd could only be weakly parried.
“Predictable, Sigurd!” Ailn yelled at his brother. “As expected of a simpleton!”
“You wretch!” Sigurd snarled, unable to help himself. “Damn you!”
The two had locked blades, with Ailn in the position of leverage; here, the holy aura with which Sigurd wrapped his blade provided him little advantage.
Sigurd quickly disengaged, backing away to give himself space from Ailn. Lowering his sword guard, he telegraphed what looked like a moment of vulnerability—bait which Ailn did in fact fall for, as Sigurd made a sudden stop and delivered an upward thrust.
Still, Ailn managed to parry the blow, slowing it down, even if a flare of holy aura flickered off Sigurd’s blade and left a singe on Ailn’s cheek.
Using his leverage to throw Sigurd’s recovering blade forcibly to the side, Ailn used the continued momentum of the movement to strike at Sigurd’s face with the pommel of his sword.
“Hrgh!” Sigurd could only block the blow with his arms, covering them with holy aura to slow the blunt attack.
Then, Ailn used his off-hand to grab the ricasso of his own blade—his hand protected by a gauntlet—and once again struck with the pommel. With two points of leverage on his sword, Ailn’s strike came in with more force than the last, and punched into Sigurd’s arm with bone breaking force.
“Arrrrghh!” Sigurd screamed out in pain, but gritted his teeth. And when Ailn raised his sword for the next blow, Sigurd simply wrapped his free fist in holy aura and aimed for Ailn’s neck.
“Urck!” Ailn let out a rather guttural sound even though he’d blocked the blow with his shoulder.
Sigurd seized on this chance, realizing that Ailn would be slow to react; since it had shown more success than anything else, he simply went for another aura-augmented punch. This one, Ailn dodged. Sigurd had used his injured arm, which was weak and far too slow.
Then, Sigurd did something a little insane; Ailn’s eyes widened, realizing he hadn’t given his older brother enough credit.
Abandoning his sword of his own accord, Sigurd followed up with a strike from his dominant hand. Not even wrapping it in aura, it came so fast Ailn didn’t have time to react. Sigurd had hit him with a perfect right straight that actually made him black out for a moment.
But disarming Sigurd had been Ailn’s goal in the first place; and even though he hadn’t expected the opportunity to come like this, he dropped his own sword and caught Sigurd’s arm.
Caught off-guard, Sigurd tried to redirect the momentum. He stepped in himself, and tried to turn Ailn’s pulling motion into a throw from his own hip.
Ailn just lowered his center of gravity and punched Sigurd, who’d failed to throw him to the ground. In fact, he got three or four hooks in, even if their entanglement kept him from making a solid punch.
Making like he was about to faint, Sigurd let his body sag, before catching Ailn off-guard with an uppercut.
Dazed, and desperate to keep Sigurd from winning right there, Ailn caught Sigurd’s right foot between his shins as he fell back forcefully. The back of both their heads slammed hard on the ground.
“How bad do you want it Sigurd?!” Ailn yelled out. His brain was so addled, he screamed the first competitive platitude that came to mind, as he tried to get Sigurd into a chokehold.
“You’re a goddamned disgrace!” Sigurd shouted something rather crude, but was no stranger to grappling himself, and grabbed Ailn’s wrist with both of his hands. “You’ll ruin this family! You’ll destroy the Order of the Azure Knights!”
“Yeah?” Ailn just ignored what he’d actually said, and continued to goad him on through gritted teeth. “Then show me some conviction!”
He gave Sigurd a close-range, weak uppercut.
The holy and sacred duel had been reduced to an embarrassing wrestling match between two screaming brothers.
Comments
SirWinsALot
Very vague. I hope there is a more systematic explanation of it. It seems flexible and i guess it also seems that everyone has a different application of holy aura. Are reincarnators cut of from it because they don’t have a connection with the world? Is it a soul thing? Most of these questions I guess would be answered eventually.
Ace Green
I'd say as far as sword strikes, probably this passage from chap 57 during the sparring with Camille describes it best: "Ailn’s biggest worry had been that an aura-imbued sword might produce enough force to break his blade. The original Ailn had managed to break Aldous’s sword, of course, but there was no guarantee that Aldous had employed his aura in the same manner. He’d learned that when their blades met, Camille’s aura would burst, almost seeming to spill over. As Ailn blocked an overhead blow from Camille, he could feel the surge of energy pushing his sword back slightly, almost as if he were resisting the flow of water. The moment she pulled back her blade, her aura reformed—it took about half a second." Hope the next few chapters too might clarify any questions you have! Thanks for reading and becoming a patron. :)
SirWinsALot
This is… certainly not what I expected. I assumed holy aura would be like having a huge gap between the two. Is he not using it fullforce? Is there a way to better technically explain the difference it makes? Is it more of a force multiplier or what? Seems vague to me as of now.
Jodrod
thank you for the chippy chap
