Prologue—Klause Schuar, The Grand Bastard V

This bastard knew how to swing a sword!

Arlian moved back, putting more space between him and the other man, but that distance was quickly closed as the mercenary pushed forward, his blade arcing.

Arlian parried, their steel glancing loudly in the hall.

Stomping up the stairs, Gracian came up behind him. Arlian heard him grunt, and then his blade hit the mercenary in the chest, the knife scraping off his blue-grey cuirass.

The blow stunned him, if only slightly from the surprise of Gracian’s attack. Arlian used this moment to his advantage and pushed forward, swinging his sword in quick short arcs, the tip of his blade coming dangerously close to his enemy’s face.

The nature of the mercenary’s parries were quick and panicked. He screamed, deflecting Arlian’s blows desperately.

Fainting, the man parried, but instead of arcing his blade directly toward the mercenary’s side, Arlian curled the tip in a smaller arc, forming a thrust.

His opponent still managed to glance the blade away from himself far enough to save his life, but not far enough to avoid the red gash that appeared in his cheek.

The sudden shock of the wound forced him to lose his balance and Arlian came at him with a powerful overhand strike.

Stumbling backward, the mercenary blocked it, but the cost put him off his feet.

“Palovar!” the mercenary called desperately.

With more powerful blows, Arlian knocked the man’s blade aside, and he’d have let the man live—to question him afterward—but he heard the other man’s boots on the floors behind him.

“Look out!” Gracian called.

A quick thrust to the wounded mercenary’s neck ended him as Arlian twirled on his heel to meet the second attacker.

Too late.

He hardly had time to raise his blade to defend himself when the second mercenary snarled through his strike.

The sudden impact knocked Arlian into the bannister and he rolled over it, falling to the stairs below. To protect himself from the impact, he intentionally buckled his knees and fell hard on his vambraces, grunting loudly as he rolled down the last few steps to the floor, his sword clanging against the floorboards.

The man who had nearly killed him stomped down the stairs so quickly, Aralian didn’t have time to get up. He turned, raising an armored forearm for defense, but it was Gracian, bending to pick up his sword.

“Get up, Arlian!”

Gracian thrust the weapon—blade firs—at him, and he grabbed it, yelling “Move!”

Gracian jumped, narrowly avoiding a beheading as the mercenary attempted to end him right there.

Unable to get up in time—the mercenary was even quicker than his friend—Arlian raised his sword in a half-sword defense to stop the overhead strike for his chest. The impact of his blade shook him, sending waves of pain into his palms.

With better maneuverability due to not wearing his armor, Arlian thrust his blade sideways and catching the mercenaries sword with his guard, putting the armored man into a bent-forward position, whereupon Arlian kicked the man in the side of the head.

Crashing against a small table near the wall and sending two vases to the floor in a mess of cracked ceramics and wet flowers, the mercenary flailed, grunting with what Arlian thought, pain.

Arlian rolled in the opposite direction, not taking the time to see what had happened to the mercenary as he got back to his feet.

Gracian grunted and a chair went flying toward the wall.

The mercenary cried out as the furniture fell on him. Arlian sucked in a lung full of air and lunged forward, his sword cutting half circles at the mercenary, who parried furiously before Arlian managed to unintentionally, fling it out of his grip.

The mercenary’s eyes followed his weapon, then shot back toward Arlian, alarm in his eyes. In his fury, Arlian cut him through the jaw, his blade passing through the man’s flesh and bone like rotting wood, making the mercenary’ life’s blood fly out of him onto the ornamental wooden planks bellow the staircase whereupon he dropped to the floorboards in a heap of armor, dead as a statue.

Breathing heavily, Arlian cut a glance toward Gracian. He wasn’t sweating profusely like he was, but still breathing hard from his exertions, and probably from the shock of what had just happened in the last few moments.

“The”—he gasped—“Councilor,” Arlian said, then stamped his way back up the stairs. He made it into the sun room where he found the woman seated in a plush chair with wooden arms. He came up short. “My lady?’

“Yes?”

“You are rescued.”

Gracian came in behind him as she put a hand to her breast. “I appreciate your efforts, sir. Aren’t you the Commander of the City Watch?”

“I am.” He bowed. “Arlian Brennovo, at your service, Lady Councilor.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “That’s right. I’ve heard your named bandied about before. Good man, you are—or so I hear.”

“Thank you. I think it best that we leave now.”

“But what of the other councilors?” she asked?

Arlian glanced toward Gracian. The question was a good one by the councilor, but Arlian felt mostly unconcerned.

“She Schuarists,” he said, “are here for you, Lady Councilor.”

“Really? Why not the others? Surely Fenra and Marlerion are as much targets as I?”

“I’m afraid not,” Arlian said. “They’ve already cast their vote.”

“But they can change their votes!”

“Indeed,” Arlian said. He felt awkward still holding his bloodied sword out in the open, but he couldn’t sheath the weapon like that. He needed to wipe the blade. “You’re an immediate threat, Councilor Jorrissiana. You can swing the vote.”

“Ah, of course.” She touched her thumb and forefinger to her chin, tapped it there lightly. “I see.”

“I think it wise that we leave, Councilor. More of those mercenaries are probably about, and I’d rather not have to deal with them.”

Her eyes opened more. “Indeed,” she said, standing. “Please lead the way, Commander.”

Arlian and Gracian preceded her out of the room into the hallway.

When the older woman entered after them she stopped suddenly. “Oh gods!” Jorrissiana gasped. “Poor Melia.”

She was referencing the corpse he’d tripped over when he’d rushed up the stairs before the fight. “I’m sorry,” Arlian said.

“And such a good poet, too.” There was a pause, and then Jorrissiana, tilting her head slightly as she regarded the body, said, “It must hurt.”

Arlian frowned, looked at the pool of blood. She was definitely dead. “I assure you, Councilor, your servant is quite passed on from this world.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, nodding certainly. “She’s an isekai, you see? Melia’s patron god, Seericanarus probably zapped her away.” As she said “zapped” she swiped her arm in an underhanded half arc. “Just the husk is left.”

The subtle look on Gracian’s face told Arlian that he’d heard this kind of talk from the councilor before—whatever an isekai was—and so he made no further comment, simply nodded, unsure of what to say.

“Oh bother,” Jorrissiana finally said. “Are you going to get me out of here or not?”

Arlian gestured toward the stairs. “This way, Councilor.”

“Ah, Gracian! You’re here. I barely noticed you, good man.” She patted him on the shoulder and made her way down the stairs.

The councilor, Arlian thought, was… interesting, to say the least. Now how were they going to get her—seventy and three years old—down that rope?