Volume One: Knight of the Forest Chapter 34: Defeating the Bear Slayer

The two men had barely begun their idle conversation over ale when the carriage sent by Viscount Melly, the lord of the county, arrived, bearing fine wines and delicacies. The viscount was indeed generous, sending over an entire side of pork, several cured chicken legs, rabbit meat, and five barrels of beer. The soldiers accompanying the provisions made sure to tell Berion, “Sir Berion, the viscount especially instructed us to take good care of the brothers from Norlandon Castle. He also asked me to remind you that, when the time is right, you should attend the banquet at the lord’s residence this evening.”

Berion gratefully acknowledged the viscount’s kindness, though he understood well enough that his superior’s generosity was meant to encourage him to put forth greater effort in the upcoming siege.

After accepting the food and drink, Berion assigned Barin to oversee the distribution to the soldiers and the night watch. Then, together with Eomer, he mounted his horse and followed the carriage bearing the fine victuals to the city of Amondine.

Upon entering the viscount’s manor, servants led Berion and Eomer into the garden where the banquet was held. By this time, nearly all the guests had arrived. In addition to the lords, county soldiers, and officers of the city militia, there were also wealthy merchants residing in Amondine, minor nobles holding posts in the county, and their wives and daughters—after all, many attended with hopes of finding suitable husbands for their daughters.

“Court Knight, Lord of Norlandon, the Bandit Slayer—Sir Berion!” the herald announced in a resounding voice as Berion entered. Every eye in the gathering turned toward him.

This young knight, who had only been granted his fief and title half a year prior and had already vanquished the Blood Wolf Bandits in a duel with the famed Sir Yelun of Lidaburg, was the subject of much curiosity.

For a moment, the crowd stared openly at Berion. Then, as if someone realized such scrutiny might be impolite, a smattering of applause broke out, quickly growing until all were clapping. Berion bowed deeply in acknowledgment, and, guided by a servant, took his seat. Eomer, being but a squire, obeyed the arrangements and went to the squire’s table.

Aware that Berion had few friends or relatives in the county, Viscount Melly had thoughtfully seated him beside Sir Pippin, so he would not be without conversation.

Berion found that Sir Pippin had not yet arrived. On his right was an older knight, perhaps in his fifties, his hair shot through with gray. Berion greeted the elder knight first, and then the younger knights already seated. The old knight and the others responded politely.

But soon enough, the guests fell into their own small groups, conversing in clusters. Though Berion sat amid the noise and bustle, he felt quite alone. This loneliness did not last long, for soon Viscount Melly and Sir Pippin entered, marking the official start of the banquet, the speeches, and the toasts.

“Gentlemen, we gather here today both to honor the valiant men who march to war and to wish for our victory in the coming battle. Come, let us drink this cup together!” With the viscount’s first toast, the hall responded with enthusiasm, draining their cups.

After a few more words of encouragement that heightened the festive spirit, the banquet became a free mingling. The county’s lords and nobles, long acquainted, clustered together in lively groups. Berion, after toasting the viscount and Sir Pippin, returned to his place to quickly eat something.

As the revelry was in full swing, a herald at the garden gate cried out, “Court Knight, Lord of Waterside Town, two-time Champion of the Northern Knights’ Tourney, the Bear-Slayer, Sir Sog has arrived!”

Before the words had faded, a tall, burly knight with a long scar across his face strode in. His arrival sent a fresh wave of excitement through the guests, who applauded and cheered “Bear-Slayer!” Sir Sog saluted Viscount Melly, then took his place at the table—directly opposite Berion.

Unlike Berion, who courteously greeted those around him upon sitting, the celebrated warrior sat with proud indifference. The others didn’t seem to mind; many hailed him warmly, and several from other tables hurried over to toast him.

Sir Pippin, noticing Berion did not know Sog, offered an introduction. This, he explained, was a renowned knight of the northern marches of Brick, twice champion of the Northern Knights’ Tourney in Youngwick, and, most famously, the man who slew a full-grown brown bear with a short sword—a warrior of the highest order.

He had come only after Viscount Melly had promised him a reward of three thousand denars. Though he was the last to arrive, his presence gave the assembled nobles fresh confidence that the scales of battle would tip in their favor. Sir Pippin added that Sir Sog was cousin to the late Sir Sack, who had been murdered not long ago.

At this, Berion’s heart gave a start, though he kept his face composed. He replied calmly to Sir Pippin, “No wonder. From my first meeting with Sir Sack, I knew he was a remarkable knight. Now, seeing another outstanding member of his family, I must say their house truly is a cradle for fine knights.”

Sir Pippin smiled slightly at Berion’s words. He knew the young knight beside him, though not yet twenty, was already a seasoned hand—one of those courtiers who always wore a pleasant smile, spoke with careful measure, praised where praise was due, drank heartily yet never to excess, and could be as warm as a brother or as cold as an adversary in the next breath.

“Sir Berion, you too are a fine knight. Your father and uncle are men of great martial skill and virtue, and the honor of House Tuck is well known in Brick,” Sir Pippin replied, raising his cup in a toast.

They chatted on, and Berion casually inquired, “Any findings from the reconnaissance of Maple Grove?” Sir Pippin replied that scouts would be sent once the army set out the next day.

Berion was taken aback. These men were bold indeed—to march without first scouting the enemy! Disappointment flickered across his face, which he quickly hid behind his cup, not wishing Sir Pippin to see.

As they conversed, a knight in the central square of the garden challenged Sir Sog to a friendly duel. Their squires handed them their swords, and the two crossed blades, fighting only to entertain the guests. Sir Sog, unsurprisingly, won with ease. Berion saw that Sog’s style was fierce and relentless; few could withstand his assault. Others tried their luck, but all were defeated.

With Sog’s last victory, no one else stepped forward. Applause thundered through the crowd. Human nature, ancient or modern, was much the same—admiration for strength lay deep within.

“Magnificent! Our Sir Sog is truly the bravest in the county. I believe these challengers knew they would lose, but still fought with courage. Come, friends, let us raise our cups—to the victor, and to the courage of the challengers!” Viscount Melly declared.

All laughed and drank with him.

Setting down his cup, the viscount continued, “Tonight, among us is another famed hero of Brick—a man who entered the bandits’ den alone, took the head of an outlaw wanted by the duke himself, defeated the renowned Sir Yelun of Lidaburg with three strokes, and last winter, with only a handful of men, wiped out the Blood Wolf Bandits in Stagwood Forest. I speak of the disciple of the Dawn Sword, Sir Berion!”

With that, Viscount Melly approached Berion, pulling him from his seat and leading him to the square.

The crowd applauded in understanding, playing along with the viscount’s praise. At the sight of Berion, Sir Sog’s eyes flashed with fury. He said to the viscount, “My lord, I wish to challenge Sir Berion. Let us see whether the Dawn Sword’s pupil deserves his fame.”

The viscount shrugged. “Very well, I will not stand in the way of a contest between warriors, but it is up to Sir Berion whether he will accept.”

With that, he quickly withdrew into the crowd, leaving the two knights amid the growing clamor of, “Accept! Accept! Accept!”

But as the shouts died down, Berion bowed deeply to Sog and said, “Honored Sir Sog, you are my elder and a knight of great renown. I am surely no match for you and must respectfully decline your challenge. Please forgive me.”

“Hah!”
“Who would have thought him a coward!”

Murmurs of contempt and derision rose from the guests. Berion’s refusal was a breach of noble etiquette; even if defeat was certain, one was expected to accept a challenge and lose with honor.

Yet Berion’s refusal was not from fear. He had trained with the most skilled masters in this world and had been a scout in his previous life—his skills were formidable. Though Sir Sog was strong, Berion was confident he could win.

But what would be gained by fighting? Winning would only make him another enemy, invite jealousy, and give Viscount Melly an excuse to push him and his Norlandon men into the vanguard. The risks far outweighed any fleeting glory.

A man who had lived two lives, Berion had no intention of suffering for the sake of pride. What was a small loss of face compared to real advantage?

As Berion turned to leave, Sir Sog suddenly swung his sword at him. Fortunately, daily practice had kept Berion’s skills sharp; he dodged deftly.

Annoyed, Berion said, “I already told you I wouldn’t fight, and acknowledged your skill. What are you doing? This is hardly the conduct of a knight.”

Sog sneered, “You may not want to fight, but I do. What’s the use of talking about knightly conduct when you’re a coward like you?” With that, he raised his sword, intent on attacking again.

“Master, your sword!” Eomer drew Berion’s sword and tossed it to him, which he caught.

“Fine, if you’re so eager, don’t blame me for not going easy,” Berion replied, taking his stance.

Sog, seeing Berion accept, became even more excited. He pulled off his great helm—he’d worked up a sweat in the earlier bouts and found it uncomfortable—tossed it aside, gripped his sword with both hands, and lunged at Berion. Their swords met with a resounding clash.

“What a strike! Spectacular!” exclaimed the onlookers.

Berion, however, felt his arms go numb from the impact—Sog’s strength was astonishing. He fought with brute force, using only a little technique. Berion knew he could not meet him head-on; he needed to find a way to defeat Sog in a single move.

But Sog pressed in like a wolf on the hunt, trying to force Berion into close quarters. Berion’s agility allowed him to evade, but he still had to parry Sog’s blows twice more, each time his arms aching.

Most of the audience had already decided Berion was doomed. After their second clash, as they passed each other, Sog hissed, “You killed my cousin Sack, didn’t you?” Berion’s brow tightened, but he replied quietly, “I had no quarrel with him. Don’t slander an innocent man. Watch your sword!”

They fought on. Sog, unable to pin Berion down, grew desperate, repeating the same attacks. But Berion, having read his tactics, was ready.

As Sog charged, Berion stepped in with his right foot, bending his knee into a low stance. His sword swept from behind to the left, slashing at Sog’s unarmored side.

Sog, seeing his weak spot threatened, moved to parry, which was precisely what Berion awaited. Before Sog’s blade could block, Berion swiftly shifted right, striking the back of Sog’s knee with his sword’s flat, then tripped him as Sog, enraged by pain, lunged forward.

Sog, charging with full force, was easily tripped. He crashed face-first onto the granite paving, blood smearing his face. Berion kicked away Sog’s sword, placed his own blade at Sog’s throat, and with a fierce gaze, declared to all present that he was the victor.