After their meal, Lancecain left his mentor with the rest of the Herbanacle and went for a walk. There wasn’t much in the way of scenery in the north. The same for entertainment. One of his favorite pastimes was watching the large-scale drills of the Bleak Moons during the warmer months, seated in the snow with a few of his fellow Duelists and sharing a bottle. On clearer days, which for Victory meant slightly less cloudy, he brought a picnic to the wall, savoring rare dried fruits and cider as he looked over the land.
Given it was winter, the best Lancecain could do was a walk by his order. The Polar Duelists didn’t have anywhere close to the distinguished history of the Bleak Moons but they were well-respected in the north. Bringing down titans was no easy feat. Alana’s lovers made it look simple but normally, even the smallest titan required a high degree of coordination and trust between a dozen or more fighters. The frontline put themselves in grave danger for indefinite periods, trusting someone else to strike down the monster that could slaughter them at any moment. The Duelists expended everything they had, usually in one attack. The resulting mana strain left them helpless as babes, no matter their strength, in the most hostile land on the continent. They had to trust their comrades to keep them safe.
Many times, that was a tough responsibility, as titans rarely moved alone. In the scarce environment of the north, life attracted life. Where titans walked, monsters followed. It was hard enough to preserve one’s own life in the midst of battle, let alone someone else’s. That’s how the Duelist developed their style of one man, one kill. Better for a hundred to keep an eye on one man suffering from intense mana strain than a dozen men suffering from a minor case.
Their unique relationship bred a strong goodwill between the Duelists and the other orders. When the time came for Victory to expand, the Duelists got a piece of the land closest to the wall. It was meant to be a position of honor but it had no benefits besides shortening his commute.
Their order was one of the least ostentatious of those outside the walls. It was a square and squat thing, with a slanted roof and narrow windows. The white and yellow paint was almost cheerful by Victory’s standards, matching the fiery nature of the Duelists.
As he approached, Lancecain noticed a commotion in front of the building. A group of trainees sparring in the snow. He knew they were trainees because they wore nothing besides pants and the odd pair of boots. Knights always fought with their heavy armor on, as going bare-chested like the young men was a death sentence beyond the walls and experience had robbed them of the youthful inclination.
“Oi, Lance!” One of the young men standing on the sidelines called out to him and waved him over. “What are you doing here?”
“Do I need a reason?” he returned, keeping his gaze trained on the fight. What drew his attention was the swords they wielded, as it was his specialty, even more than the light magic he would inherit. Martial prowess had never been shadowed by magical prowess in Harvest. Mainly because it took a lot less time and training for a man to stab another man with a sword than to hit him with an arrow of fire. Also, physical exhaustion hurt but could be overcome with will while mana strain laid even the most experienced soldier out for the duration of a battle, at least.
Physical strength was especially prized in the north. They spent hours marching and fighting. Mana needed to be preserved so the more that could be done with simple steel, the better. Where melding was a rare privilege in the south, it was a standard of the northern guilds. Only those with the greatest potential were raised above the heights of mortal power but every soldier received a little of their attention, ensuring each fighter was capable of enduring the rigors of the campaigns.
“Nope. Just thought you’d take a few more days to relax. It hasn’t been that long since you returned.”
“Mm. It wasn’t the worst campaign I’ve marched in. I think I would have needed to do more if I was carried through the north on a palanquin. I’d at least have to direct my servants which way to go.”
The young man laughed, slapping Lancecain on the shoulder. “Look at you bragging. Was marching with the monsters really that good?”
“You shouldn’t call them monsters. Trainees should know better than anyone how easily nicknames stick and you do not want those women angry with you.” He chuckled at the other man’s wince. “No campaign is good, but it was much easier than other years. To give you an idea, I didn’t collapse from mana strain once.”
“Ancestors. Then how’d they bring down that goliath? I saw the skull, it had to be massive.”
“Would you believe that the elf climbed inside it?”
“What? Wouldn’t she have been crushed? How—"
“I don’t know, wasn’t there. Busy fending off the dogs. One moment, the world is quiet and the next, I hear its dying screams in the distance. I planned to check on the situation once the camp was secure but everything was over before I got the chance.”
“Crazy. With that kind of strength, they could have gone much further. If only that traitor hadn’t gotten in the way. A James, turning on the north. The mountain will fall on us next.”
Lancecain let out a slow breath to control his reaction. The situation with Khan had surprised all of Victory. He wasn’t convinced that it ended with the enemy’s abusing the mental affinity, despite the show put on for them at the Witness Circle.
If it did, the duke would have executed his son and been done with it. Sending him away from Victory said there was something else at play. It almost made Lancecain wish he shared his master’s ambitious spirit. If he was a James, he wouldn’t have to wonder what secrets they were keeping.
“That’s not something for us to stick our noses in. Khan has suffered enough without enduring your condemnation.”
“Ah, don’t tell me you buy into that mental nonsense. I heard some of the others talk about those lizards and they were nothing special. They’re supposed to have caught the best scout in the north and scrambled his brains? Pah!”
“Is it so hard to believe? They call themselves the estrazi and I don’t think what we’ve seen is their best.” Otherwise, the north would have been conquered long ago.
“Yeah, I don’t suppose they would send their best to get back a traitor. Bet they already squeezed out everything they needed. Ancestors must be turning in their graves. Khan was always a bit of a coward, but you would think he had the stones to end it before they could bleed him for information.”
The younger knight paused to let out a short cheer as the bout finished. “Hey, did you want to join in for a bit? Ah, you don’t have your sword. Surprised you haven’t fallen over with a part of you missing.”
Lancecain smiled. “Maybe I can borrow a blade.”
“Sure, sure. Not like it’s going to slow you down. Oi! Lance needs a sword. Don’t give me that look, it’s not like he’s going to bang it against a rock.”
Lancecain stripped off his heavy cloak and shirt as the trainee fetched him a weapon. The previous fighters vacated the vaguely defined ring formed by their peers and were greeted by others holding salves and bandages, their shallow cuts not warranting the attention of the limited number of healers that stayed back from the campaigns in case of emergency. The pain would also temper them. Teach them not to flinch in the face of wounds, of which they would accumulate many throughout their lives.
As Lancecain swung his borrowed weapon to familiarize himself with it, he thought about the trainee’s words. His views weren’t unique. Too much had happened in too short a time. Khan was especially a problem. The duke’s display had quelled the worst doubts but the unassailable belief in the James family had been scratched.
In the south, someone badmouthing a single son of a family that wasn’t even an heir wouldn’t be worth a raised eyebrow but the James was no ordinary family and Victory was no ordinary place. No one talked bad about them, ever. The fact that they were talking, even against a traitor, was a big problem. There wouldn’t be a revolt anytime soon but if it wasn’t addressed, perhaps another crack would appear. Then another and another until the scratches became a hole in their immaculate history.
The James needed a win. A loud win that would drown out Khan’s misfortune. Hopefully, the heir apparent, as Zachariah liked to think of himself, would come back with accomplishments. Ancestors knew he was motivated.
In recent years, he had grown lax, assured that he would succeed his father. Even Yulia’s marriage hadn’t roused his fears, the Northern Devil being an impressive soldier but a poor choice for a leader. Lancecain knew enough to know that Yulia would make a solid support for him but the fort didn’t and the opinion of the people did matter somewhat.
Alana had certainly woken him up, having returned home riding dragons so to speak. She could do nothing but drink that amazing liquor she brought with her for the next few years and Lancecain would still put odds on the duke giving her the title. If Zach didn’t make a name for himself over the next couple of campaigns, he would have no chance of ruling the north.
His opponent finally stepped in front of him, a boy shorter than him by a head with a voice that hadn’t deepened. Lancecain hadn’t expected a real match, as mere trainees weren’t his equal, but he was a little amused they seemed to have sent the least experienced for a lesson. Either that or the boy was some kind of genius. “Come on then,” he said encouragingly, lazily holding his sword at his side to encourage the boy to show his abilities. Teaching the next generation was also a part of being a knight of the north.
After their meal, Lancecain left his mentor with the rest of the Herbanacle and went for a walk. There wasn’t much in the way of scenery in the north. The same for entertainment. One of his favorite pastimes was watching the large-scale drills of the Bleak Moons during the warmer months, seated in the snow with a few of his fellow Duelists and sharing a bottle. On clearer days, which for Victory meant slightly less cloudy, he brought a picnic to the wall, savoring rare dried fruits and cider as he looked over the land.
Given it was winter, the best Lancecain could do was a walk by his order. The Polar Duelists didn’t have anywhere close to the distinguished history of the Bleak Moons but they were well-respected in the north. Bringing down titans was no easy feat. Alana’s lovers made it look simple but normally, even the smallest titan required a high degree of coordination and trust between a dozen or more fighters. The frontline put themselves in grave danger for indefinite periods, trusting someone else to strike down the monster that could slaughter them at any moment. The Duelists expended everything they had, usually in one attack. The resulting mana strain left them helpless as babes, no matter their strength, in the most hostile land on the continent. They had to trust their comrades to keep them safe.
Many times, that was a tough responsibility, as titans rarely moved alone. In the scarce environment of the north, life attracted life. Where titans walked, monsters followed. It was hard enough to preserve one’s own life in the midst of battle, let alone someone else’s. That’s how the Duelist developed their style of one man, one kill. Better for a hundred to keep an eye on one man suffering from intense mana strain than a dozen men suffering from a minor case.
Their unique relationship bred a strong goodwill between the Duelists and the other orders. When the time came for Victory to expand, the Duelists got a piece of the land closest to the wall. It was meant to be a position of honor but it had no benefits besides shortening his commute.
Their order was one of the least ostentatious of those outside the walls. It was a square and squat thing, with a slanted roof and narrow windows. The white and yellow paint was almost cheerful by Victory’s standards, matching the fiery nature of the Duelists.
As he approached, Lancecain noticed a commotion in front of the building. A group of trainees sparring in the snow. He knew they were trainees because they wore nothing besides pants and the odd pair of boots. Knights always fought with their heavy armor on, as going bare-chested like the young men was a death sentence beyond the walls and experience had robbed them of the youthful inclination.
“Oi, Lance!” One of the young men standing on the sidelines called out to him and waved him over. “What are you doing here?”
“Do I need a reason?” he returned, keeping his gaze trained on the fight. What drew his attention was the swords they wielded, as it was his specialty, even more than the light magic he would inherit. Martial prowess had never been shadowed by magical prowess in Harvest. Mainly because it took a lot less time and training for a man to stab another man with a sword than to hit him with an arrow of fire. Also, physical exhaustion hurt but could be overcome with will while mana strain laid even the most experienced soldier out for the duration of a battle, at least.
Physical strength was especially prized in the north. They spent hours marching and fighting. Mana needed to be preserved so the more that could be done with simple steel, the better. Where melding was a rare privilege in the south, it was a standard of the northern guilds. Only those with the greatest potential were raised above the heights of mortal power but every soldier received a little of their attention, ensuring each fighter was capable of enduring the rigors of the campaigns.
“Nope. Just thought you’d take a few more days to relax. It hasn’t been that long since you returned.”
“Mm. It wasn’t the worst campaign I’ve marched in. I think I would have needed to do more if I was carried through the north on a palanquin. I’d at least have to direct my servants which way to go.”
The young man laughed, slapping Lancecain on the shoulder. “Look at you bragging. Was marching with the monsters really that good?”
“You shouldn’t call them monsters. Trainees should know better than anyone how easily nicknames stick and you do not want those women angry with you.” He chuckled at the other man’s wince. “No campaign is good, but it was much easier than other years. To give you an idea, I didn’t collapse from mana strain once.”
“Ancestors. Then how’d they bring down that goliath? I saw the skull, it had to be massive.”
“Would you believe that the elf climbed inside it?”
“What? Wouldn’t she have been crushed? How—"
“I don’t know, wasn’t there. Busy fending off the dogs. One moment, the world is quiet and the next, I hear its dying screams in the distance. I planned to check on the situation once the camp was secure but everything was over before I got the chance.”
“Crazy. With that kind of strength, they could have gone much further. If only that traitor hadn’t gotten in the way. A James, turning on the north. The mountain will fall on us next.”
Lancecain let out a slow breath to control his reaction. The situation with Khan had surprised all of Victory. He wasn’t convinced that it ended with the enemy’s abusing the mental affinity, despite the show put on for them at the Witness Circle.
If it did, the duke would have executed his son and been done with it. Sending him away from Victory said there was something else at play. It almost made Lancecain wish he shared his master’s ambitious spirit. If he was a James, he wouldn’t have to wonder what secrets they were keeping.
“That’s not something for us to stick our noses in. Khan has suffered enough without enduring your condemnation.”
“Ah, don’t tell me you buy into that mental nonsense. I heard some of the others talk about those lizards and they were nothing special. They’re supposed to have caught the best scout in the north and scrambled his brains? Pah!”
“Is it so hard to believe? They call themselves the estrazi and I don’t think what we’ve seen is their best.” Otherwise, the north would have been conquered long ago.
“Yeah, I don’t suppose they would send their best to get back a traitor. Bet they already squeezed out everything they needed. Ancestors must be turning in their graves. Khan was always a bit of a coward, but you would think he had the stones to end it before they could bleed him for information.”
The younger knight paused to let out a short cheer as the bout finished. “Hey, did you want to join in for a bit? Ah, you don’t have your sword. Surprised you haven’t fallen over with a part of you missing.”
Lancecain smiled. “Maybe I can borrow a blade.”
“Sure, sure. Not like it’s going to slow you down. Oi! Lance needs a sword. Don’t give me that look, it’s not like he’s going to bang it against a rock.”
Lancecain stripped off his heavy cloak and shirt as the trainee fetched him a weapon. The previous fighters vacated the vaguely defined ring formed by their peers and were greeted by others holding salves and bandages, their shallow cuts not warranting the attention of the limited number of healers that stayed back from the campaigns in case of emergency. The pain would also temper them. Teach them not to flinch in the face of wounds, of which they would accumulate many throughout their lives.
As Lancecain swung his borrowed weapon to familiarize himself with it, he thought about the trainee’s words. His views weren’t unique. Too much had happened in too short a time. Khan was especially a problem. The duke’s display had quelled the worst doubts but the unassailable belief in the James family had been scratched.
In the south, someone badmouthing a single son of a family that wasn’t even an heir wouldn’t be worth a raised eyebrow but the James was no ordinary family and Victory was no ordinary place. No one talked bad about them, ever. The fact that they were talking, even against a traitor, was a big problem. There wouldn’t be a revolt anytime soon but if it wasn’t addressed, perhaps another crack would appear. Then another and another until the scratches became a hole in their immaculate history.
The James needed a win. A loud win that would drown out Khan’s misfortune. Hopefully, the heir apparent, as Zachariah liked to think of himself, would come back with accomplishments. Ancestors knew he was motivated.
In recent years, he had grown lax, assured that he would succeed his father. Even Yulia’s marriage hadn’t roused his fears, the Northern Devil being an impressive soldier but a poor choice for a leader. Lancecain knew enough to know that Yulia would make a solid support for him but the fort didn’t and the opinion of the people did matter somewhat.
Alana had certainly woken him up, having returned home riding dragons so to speak. She could do nothing but drink that amazing liquor she brought with her for the next few years and Lancecain would still put odds on the duke giving her the title. If Zach didn’t make a name for himself over the next couple of campaigns, he would have no chance of ruling the north.
His opponent finally stepped in front of him, a boy shorter than him by a head with a voice that hadn’t deepened. Lancecain hadn’t expected a real match, as mere trainees weren’t his equal, but he was a little amused they seemed to have sent the least experienced for a lesson. Either that or the boy was some kind of genius. “Come on then,” he said encouragingly, lazily holding his sword at his side to encourage the boy to show his abilities. Teaching the next generation was also a part of being a knight of the north.
