38

Big Changes

‘The boss is gonna fight!’

The guild mercs barged, elbowed, and forced their way to be at the front row of the ring, even those who were still injured from Ludgar earlier.

‘Fuck him up, boss!’

The courtyard of the fort was of ample size for this match, yet it was far too open to the public. It could have been a good idea to charge the locals who wanted to watch. However, the fight seemed far more personal than most of the fights between mercs, so they decided against it. It’s not like they had much time to decide, anyway.

They settled for the training room, which was deeper into the fort, below the ground.

Normally, the residents of Savanti would never allow such a dull and contemporary building to exist in this district, but they found the mercs to be scary and didn’t want to tell them no.

The ring itself was of a simple enough design, just a fenced circle on a wooden floor in a room filled with assorted training dummies and straw archery targets, all still stained from years of battle. There was enough space around the perimeter for an audience to watch as mercs settled disputes, making money on the side from bets on the outcome.

Sethel watched from the side, feeling out of place among the hardened mercs. The two next to him greeted each other with a headbutt. They were amusing to watch from a distance and terrifying to be with up close.

Two wolves stood face to face in the circle. One black and one grey.

On one side stood Ludgar, hand resting on his blade hilt, and the other comfortable in his coat pocket.

On the other, stood an imposing grey wolf of ash grey fur and hair that fell to her waist, arms folded, tense fingers almost digging into forearm muscle.

Her name was Toulmonde, and from what Sethel could garner, they seemed to be acquaintances. She may have wanted to kill him, but as Ludgar’s acquaintances go, that was normal.

All the best duels have a wager between the combatants, and they were discussing theirs.

‘All the money you took,’ Toulmonde demanded. It was a voice that wasn’t used to shouting; it didn’t need to. Toulmonde is the type of person to only tell you something once. If an order is given, it is followed. You don’t find out what happens otherwise. ‘All of it back.’

‘The leader gets one hundred percent of the loot,' Ludgar responded. 'That’s the way it worked back then.’

She slowly raised her arms in disbelief, like one would when addressing someone who forgot to put on trousers that morning. ‘No, he fucking didn’t! No merc band in the entire world does that! And you weren’t even the leader! Not even his son! You were his nephew, for fuck’s sake!’

‘Well… I can’t, anyway,’ he said with a nervous scratch of his cheek ‘I… uh… lost it.’

‘You… lost it?’ Sethel could see the point where something snapped in her head. He was expecting a lunge at the wolf, or for her to throw her sword at him. Instead, she closed her eyes, rubbed the space between her eyes, and went quiet. Deathly so. After a moment, only a single word escaped her. ‘How?’

‘Oh, you know, the usual stuff. And, uh, a few... bad bets in Giltani,’ he ended, descending into quiet muttering.

More silence, even among the other mercs. She released a heavy breath; by her attitude, it seemed like one that could have melted steel. Then she laughed, which worried him even more so. ‘Of course you did.’ She drew her blade and pointed it at his throat. ‘Then I’ll just take your head instead.’

‘Come on. Let’s do this right.' He was unfazed by the blade. A nice polished thing with gilded etching on the silver hilt. Both deadly and expensive. He wondered if she was showing off. 'You know it’s the way he’d want it.’

She pressed the tip closer to his throat, cutting at neck fur. Now he was beginning to feel like he had made a mistake. Then her eyes looked off to the side, as though something had just occurred to her. Something in her expression softened, even if only by the slightest touch.

She brought her blade down while continuing to glare at him, dead in the eyes.

‘Fine, but you’re gonna have to put up something good.’

‘Then I’ll give you this.’ He held out his blade. Nothing special as blades go. Still, it resonated with Toulmonde, given the way her expression changed when he drew it from his scabbard.

‘Kyngstone’s blade? You still have it?’

‘Could never part with it. Last thing I have of his.’

She was always Kyngstone’s favourite. Out of everyone, she boiled the merc lifestyle down to its purest form. Belfry always seemed too sophisticated for it, like it was something below what he should actually be doing, like owning a vineyard and tasting wine or something. Sergrave always seemed like a wolf who wanted more than just money, like there was a higher calling for him. Who knows where he went. And Ludgar himself loved the fight a little too much. Mercs know when to run. That was never an option for him.

Kyngstone was a great leader, but there was always a feeling that he wasn’t right for the position. More honest than a merc should be, and beyond charismatic to boot. Always knew the right people, and made friends easy. He always felt like he should be a commander somewhere, fighting in a real army. Proud and noble, as far as mercs go, and way too trusting for his own good. That’s what got him, in the end.

When it came to winning battles and making money, Toulmonde stood heads and shoulders above the rest. There was no job too dirty and no fee too high. He expected her to be in Giltani, somewhere. Guess they were smarter than Savantians.

‘What about that one?’ She noticed the black blade on his back. He almost forgot about it, given how strangely light it was. ‘That looks ancient. Bet it’s worth something.’

‘Maybe. Found it in a temple. Lots of dead missionaries. Nearly died. Was a lot of fun.’

‘A shame they didn’t finish you off. So, what do you actually want? Money, or do you just want to satisfy one of your addictions?’

She wasn’t completely wrong. Today, he was after something a little different. Satisfying his craving just happened to be a nice bonus. There was also the money, but the swan would provide that.

‘I want the truth.’

‘About what?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘The shit you don’t know the truth about is uncountable.’

‘I’ve been hired by a certain someone, to do a certain something about a certain revolution that’s happening in a certain city of art.’

‘Who?’ She thought for a moment, searching her mind for any clue as to the possible traitorous culprit. ‘It’s the fucking swan, isn’t it? Stay out of this. We’ve got it covered.’

‘Have you? Look. If you’re fighting a revolution, this is the quietest revolution I’ve ever heard. Where the hell are they all? Everyone’s just treating this as a normal Savanti day. You remember when we took Highkeep? Times may have changed since we were that young, but the fundamentals stay the same. Revolutions require revolutionaries. So where the fuck are they?’

‘Traullshit. We’ve arrests left, right, and centre. Earlier today we arrested someone for breaking the window of an artisan spoon shop. Why am I even telling you anything? Fuck this.’

She lunged in, without a moment for Ludgar to think, pushing him back and putting him on the defensive.

He forgot how quick she was. Even after all these years, she hadn’t slowed down at all.

Sparks flew as blade clashed against blade, each slash parried, and each parry countered. To Sethel, it was like watching someone fight a mirror. A rather imperfect mirror, as Ludgar had the strength, while Toulmonde had a more dexterous hand. Still, he could certainly see they had trained together often in their youth. The whole thing almost seemed like a choreographed dance. Only with more blood.

She planted a boot just above his knee. He stepped back, expecting it to be a kick. It wasn’t, since she put a hand on his shoulder, and before he knew it, she was performing a somersault over his head.

He forgot how nimble she was, too.

With a deft land, she swung a leg around, aiming a heel at the side of his torso.

His free hand caught it, an action that surprised her, and surprised Ludgar more.

Not wasting the opportunity, he pulled at the caught leg, and using his body weight, threw her to the other side of the ring. She remained upright for the most part, till she hit the wooden fence and slumped down against it.

‘Not bad,’ she said, using the post to push herself back up.

‘Had enough yet? Come on, we’ve barely started,’ Ludgar said with newfound confidence, all while he didn’t notice her hand reaching behind the fence at her back.

All duels in Artella are fought in strict accordance with the King Horic Single Circle Combat Charter: the rules by which all duels are fought, including a third party umpire to oversee adherence with the rules.

The charter is ridiculously long and few have ever actually read it. Still, some of the laws are so ubiquitous that they have fallen into common knowledge. There was the basic stuff, like how all duels must be fought in a ring of some type; the size and markings of which remain unspecified. Historians still argue on the size used in the battle between King Horic and Battlelord Durmarik. Some say it was as large as Orrick itself. Others say it was the size of Evandis in its entirety.

Then there were the more in-depth rules, like how all parties must declare and agree upon weapons before the battle commences.

However, between Ludgar and Toulmonde, this wasn't an official duel. This was a mercenary duel, a rare treat and highly illegal, which follows another of the many main creeds of mercenary combat: just win. No rules are used, and nothing is off the table. Most wonder why a ring is even used, other than habit.

Ludgar went in, believing he could kick her through and end it. He wasn’t expecting her to lunge forward. This wouldn’t have been a problem, if not for the sudden appearance of a spear in her other hand.

Great, Ludgar thought. Now she has speed and reach.

An old scar ached.

Why do they always use spears? Funnily enough, he wasn’t complaining. A shame they weren’t made out of water.

The spear came at his arm, and he avoided it, not without his coat taking a cut.

He stepped in, and their weapons locked against each other.

All throughout, Toulmonde felt the sudden pangs of severe nostalgia. It was just like the old times, and he hadn’t changed. He may have gotten a little stronger, yet the same Ludgar was there, still smiling like an idiot as he fought. She almost found herself smiling again. Then she remembered the day he left, leaving behind only empty coffers, a broken team, and broken hearts.

The nostalgia flashed back into rage, and she went at him harder. He weaved between the thrusts of her spear. She slashed at him with the blade in her left hand. He stepped to the side, and she used the space to swing her spear at him, the blunt end catching him in the face. A trickle of blood ran down, almost invisible in his dark fur.

She went back around for a second hit. He caught it. She struggled to free it from his iron-like grip.

There was a flash in his eyes, and the blade came down on her spear. It was split in two. She dashed out of the way just as it came down at her.

Ludgar looked down at the broken pieces of the spear, and a strange look crossed his face. She couldn’t quite place it. Shock? Surprise at his own strength? That seemed like it. But was there something more? Almost like fear. It felt like it didn’t fit his face.

Ludgar was always pretty strong; she was willing to admit that much, yet in actual combat, she always had the advantage. Strength can get you so far. It’s technique, tactics, and skill that win battles.

Something was different here, and it’s not like she slacked in her training. She practiced every day. Even so, it wasn’t helping her.

Even with her skill and technique, Ludgar’s newfound strength started to eclipse her.

‘You’re stronger,’ she begrudgingly admitted.

‘Yeah. I think I’ve changed a little over the years.’ His blade came across at her, and she deflected it in time. She may as well not have. The impact of the blade shuddered along her arm, bringing a dull pain up to her shoulder. He wasn’t this strong when he started. Was he holding back this entire time?

If she was going to win, it wouldn’t be clean. That’s fine. Clean fights are a luxury only for the people that can afford them.

It was a little embarrassing, but a little embarrassment means nothing to win against him right now.

‘You’re not the only one who’s changed.’

She turned, removing her coat, and let it hang over the fence.

The mercs had grown much quieter, now down to low mutterings. Some tried to hide their eyes, some couldn’t stop looking.

Two mercs nudged and snickered to each other, till the eagle came behind, and placed a heavy hand on their shoulders, quickly prompting them into silence.

She turned back around, and he found she was right. She had changed. Just not in the way he was expecting at all.