Last knight

Chapter two: The Storm's Herald (Continued)

The storm surged through the open window of Phrixus’s hall, ripping cheap imitation paintings from the walls and sending poorly crafted goblets flying from the wine cabinet. One struck the envoy’s ornate armor—real, unlike the rest of the room’s decor—before Oryphmus lunged forward and slammed the window shut.

Phrixus raised his cup, now diluted with rainwater, and took a deliberate sip. The envoy sneered inwardly. Barbarian. Even with a fief, he’s still no noble.

Then Phrixus spat.

A jet of water hit the envoy square in the face, and before the man could draw his slender ceremonial sword, Phrixus’s foot hooked the hilt of a fallen saber. With a single fluid motion, he sent the blade spinning into the air, caught it, and pressed its edge to the envoy’s throat. The man’s skin was so smooth it might have made noblewomen jealous.

Behind the envoy, Oryphmus leveled a spear at his back. The clatter of the saber’s scabbard hitting the floor echoed through the room.

Phrixus grinned. “You’re too tall. I’d have to stretch to keep this blade at your neck. Or I could just… shorten you.”

The envoy dropped to his knees.

Oryphmus spoke calmly, his voice dripping with disdain. “The War Ministry and the Prime Minister sent you to ask who’s fit to govern that border town, didn’t they? We knew your mission before your horse even left the capital. Did you really think we’d fear offending you? Lady Phrixus’s little plaything, did you even ask her about us before riding out here?”

Phrixus chuckled. “Every rookie needs a lesson.”

On the training field, the rookies were getting their own lesson. Ares stood before a door, his scarred face impassive as the rain soaked through his uniform. The militia—still more farmers than soldiers—huddled behind him, their grumbling drowned out by the storm.

“Open it,” Ares said, gesturing to the door.

The men hesitated, then began to argue. Some tried to leave, but a well-aimed stone from Ares’s hand sent the third deserter sprawling. After that, they focused on the task.

The rain grew heavier, the wind howling like a pack of wolves. Lightning split the sky, and a tree shattered in the distance, its flames extinguished almost instantly by the downpour. The militia, now drenched and desperate, divided into three groups, each trying a different approach.

Ares stood motionless, a statue in the storm. He felt the cold, the fatigue, but he couldn’t show it. His men needed a leader, not a coward.

Finally, one of the men shouted, “This isn’t a door! It’s just—”

“My order,” Ares interrupted, his voice cutting through the rain, “was to open it.”

The “door,” mounted on a rock, was eventually smashed to pieces. Ares lined the men up and ordered them to fight. Winners and losers alike were dismissed, but four men remained.

Back in the castle, Ares changed into dry clothes and sipped soup while the steward, Varucule, fussed over him. The four militia recruits watched in confusion as the stern commander from the field transformed into a sheepish boy under the old man’s scolding.

“Varucule,” Ares said finally, “could you fetch Oryphmus for me?”

Oryphmus took three of the men for a swordsmanship test. The fourth, a wiry man named Croitzner, stayed behind.

“Your acting was good,” Ares said, leaning back in his chair. “But you tipped your hand when you fell to the right to avoid crushing that flask in your pocket. Why throw the fight?”

”

Croitzner stammered, too afraid to admit the truth: I just wanted this to be over so we could all go home.

Ares let him off with a warning and sent him to eat.

Phrixus appeared, leaning against the doorway. “I didn’t think you’d find talent in a place like this.”

Ares smiled. “Even the finest horses are found in the wildest places.”

Phrixus stroked his chin. “Is that so? Well, my friend, let me give you another surprise.”