The Black Bear's Duel
“Get up right now!”
Lucas, face buried in his pillow, jerked his head up at the shrill shout. Rubbing his sticky eyes, he twisted around to find his wretched little sister planted firmly beside his bed.
He clutched his throbbing forehead and grumbled,
“For heaven’s sake! How many times do I have to tell you not to barge into my bedroom whenever you please?”
“This is no time for manners! Get up! It’s an emergency!”
Laina shook his shoulder without mercy, screeching at the top of her lungs. Lucas shoved her away and pressed hard at his pulsing temples.
He had spent the entire day ranging the hunting grounds with the young knights of Wolfram, then drowned himself in ale at a tavern. His head already felt ready to split, and now this.
He glared at her through half-lidded eyes.
“What in the world is it? Have the Zramians invaded Laedgo Castle or something?”
“Stop spouting nonsense and get up this instant!”
Laina yanked his arm with brutal force, stamping her feet.
“It’s a real disaster! The ‘Black Bear of the South’ is going to duel our brother!”
Sleep fled Lucas in a single heartbeat. He sat bolt upright and stared at her, dumbfounded.
“Who’s fighting whom?”
“Ugh, honestly!”
Whatever scrap of patience she had left vanished. Laina flung his arm aside as if discarding trash and strode toward the door. Still dazed, Lucas scrambled out of bed, snatched the tunka he had flung over a chair, and threw it over his bare torso before bolting after her.
Servants were already pouring down the corridor, lanterns in hand. He glanced around in confusion, then caught up to his sister with long strides as she hurried down the stairs.
“Is Brother really going to duel?”
“That’s what I said!”
Laina snapped, taking the steps two at a time. Lucas frowned. He knew guests had arrived at Laedgo Castle, yet he could not begin to guess how the foremost lord of the southeast and the heir of House Seorkan had ended up in a duel.
Clutching his hangover-pounding skull, he asked,
“Why on earth are they fighting in the middle of the night?”
“Why do you think? The incarnation of discord finally caused a disaster!”
Laina ground her teeth.
“That woman stormed into the banquet hall, dumped wine all over Sir Gutban, and even slapped him!”
Lucas’s mouth fell open.
“That woman… you mean the Second Princess?”
“Who else could it be!”
Laina thumped her chest in frustration.
“Because of her, an argument broke out between the Black Bear and our brother, and now it’s come to a duel!”
She crossed the hall in a single rush and burst outside, ranting at full volume.
“See? I told you over and over she’d be a catastrophe! I was right after all!”
Lucas pulled the open front of his coat closed and rolled his eyes. Strictly speaking, what his sister had predicted was a cunning vixen who played the fragile flower in front of their brother while scheming behind his back—not a raving lunatic who would publicly thrash the strongest lancer in the East.
Still, there’s no denying she’s become a problem.
He raked back his tangled hair and cut swiftly across the broad courtyard. The stairs leading to the training grounds already swarmed with hundreds of people, each clutching a torch or lamp.
Lucas pushed through the crowd into the wide practice yard. Nobles who had come to serve as witnesses and the elite knights of Wolfram were gathered there. Spotting a familiar face among them, he headed straight over.
“Tyron!”
The spear knight, mid-conversation with his men, turned. He too looked as though he had been dragged from rest; a loose coat was the only thing covering his bare chest. He glanced between Lucas and Laina and let out a deep sigh.
“How can you wander around at this hour without an escort?”
“Skip the lecture. What the hell is going on?”
“I only just arrived myself, so I don’t know the full story.”
Tyron shrugged as if it were nothing serious.
“One thing is clear, though—our future leader has a far more warlike streak than his looks suggest.”
He jerked his chin toward one side of the vast cavalry ground. There stood Barcas, fully clad in black iron armor, waiting beside a massive gray stallion.
Lucas ran a dazed eye over him. Amid men built like mountains, Barcas looked almost like a finely wrought statue. The lithe body sheathed in armor was neither small nor frail, yet neither was it bulky or towering like the other spear-and-sword knights; the way he tightened the joints of his armor seemed closer to a dancer’s grace than a warrior’s.
His opponent, by contrast, was little more than a beast wearing human skin.
Lucas shifted his gaze to the far side of the yard and swallowed dryly. The man stood nearly seven feet tall and weighed well over three hundred and eighty pounds—closer to four hundred and sixty. Add the steel plate encasing him and the total would be greater still.
Leading a muscular giant of a horse that matched his own bulk, the man strode to the center of the training ground. The leaping light of the bonfires laid bare his terrifying presence in full. Admiration, excitement, and awe burst from the onlookers in successive waves.
Lucas let out a low groan.
“This is madness.”
Four soldiers who appeared to be the man’s subordinates then staggered forward, lugging a halberd of such monstrous size it might as well have been a lump of raw iron. When the man seized the shaft in one hand and hoisted the enormous axe-blade high, the roar of the crowd swelled even louder.
Laina, face ashen, seized Tyron by the collar.
“Why aren’t you stopping him right now!”
“That gentleman over there has been trying his hardest for some time, but no one is listening.”
Tyron pointed with his thumb toward a figure standing beside Barcas and sighed. Following the gesture, Lucas spotted the small silhouette berating his brother and widened his eyes. The woman was shaking her fists as though her temper had completely snapped.
Curiosity pulled him closer; the sharp, high-pitched voice that rang out made him frown. Without a shred of fear she was shouting at a man a full head taller than herself.
“Are you an idiot? A complete moron? You could just crush a bastard like that with sheer authority! Why are you stupidly picking a contest of strength!”
Lucas gave a hollow laugh. He had not known another woman besides Laina who could spew abuse like that—and to his own brother, no less.
He stole a glance at Barcas’s face. His brother was calmly inspecting the horse’s condition. The woman punched him square in the back.
“You fell asleep in mathematics class, didn’t you? That man looks three times heavier than you! Don’t you even know that weight and strength are proportional?”
“Bring me my helmet.”
Barcas ignored her existence entirely and gave the order to his squire. Enraged, the woman rolled up her sleeves as if she meant to slap him; Daren hurriedly caught her by the shoulder.
“Your Highness, there is no need to worry so much. This sort of thing is common among warriors. Neither of them will cross the line—”
“Who said I was worried about him!”
She shook off the knight’s hand roughly and snapped, voice sharp as a blade.
“I’m worried about myself! If I become a widow the moment I’m married, my future is finished too!”
Daren recoiled a step, cowed by the venom. Yet Barcas showed no reaction whatever to her curses. He jammed the helmet onto his head and vaulted lightly into the saddle.
“Give me the weapon.”
The squire immediately held out a halberd fitted with a crescent-shaped silver axe-blade. Barcas took it and spurred his horse into the center of the yard before anyone could stop him.
The woman scrambled after him. Watching from a short distance, Lucas found himself running forward and catching her arm. A frigid gaze struck him like a dagger.
He held his breath. For an instant his mind went blank. He was staring down at a face of almost uncanny beauty when a powerful trumpet blast announced the start of the duel.
Lucas’s head snapped up. He groaned as he watched Alec Gutban slowly circle the stands, spinning the massive halberd in one hand. The axe-blade, heavy as a mace, carved great circles through the air with a sound like a cracking whip.
He felt the woman trembling against him as though she might collapse at any moment, but there was no time to check on her. The beast, still parading his power along the stands, suddenly put spurs to his horse.
Heavy hoofbeats shook the earth. Dust billowed as the man on the giant steed whirled his halberd and charged Barcas at terrifying speed. Screams erupted from the crowd.
It was no wonder—they looked for all the world like an enraged buffalo hurtling toward a deer. Lucas clenched his fists. The giant, forged of living iron, seemed certain to crush his brother in a single blow.
What met his eyes, however, was a sight he could scarcely believe even as he watched. The axe-blade, nearly the size of a man’s body, was flicked aside as lightly as a bird’s wing by a spear tip that flew in with elegant precision.
Lucas’s eyes flew wide.
The miracle did not end there. The moment Barcas spurred his horse, the man’s massive frame reeled backward as though it had slammed into a solid fortress wall. Barcas did not waste the opening.
He drove his heels into the stallion’s flanks and thrust the spear straight forward. The needle-sharp point flashed like lightning, punched through the thick breastplate, and drove clean through the man’s chest.
All of it happened in the blink of an eye.
With the spear still buried in the man’s breastbone, Barcas spurred again. He lifted the tip high; the giant’s body rose into the air. Weird, strangled screams broke out on every side.
Barcas galloped the length of the open ground, spun the shaft in one great circle, and drove the halberd down into the earth. The enormous body crashed onto the dirt with a heavy, ground-shaking thud.
A choking silence fell.
While everyone stood stunned by the duel that had ended in an instant, Barcas rode up beside the half-crushed corpse, tore off his helmet, and flung it to the ground. Then, face cool and utterly composed, he issued an order toward the waiting stands.
“Summon a priest and see that he is given a funeral.”