Volume One: The Forest Knight Chapter 70: Winning Money

At this moment, the tournament in the arena officially began. The two knights first rode their horses to the center of the field, raised their lances in salute to one another—a standard gesture of courtesy—and then returned to their starting positions, preparing for the contest ahead.

As the match commenced, the spectators in the stands fell silent, holding their breath in anticipation of the duel between the two knights.

A squire under Count Grieb’s banner raised his flag high, and at the signal, both knights spurred their warhorses into a gallop. One hundred paces vanished in mere heartbeats as the two riders, separated by the barrier, rapidly closed the distance. Lowering their lances and leveling them, they struck each other’s shields with a thunderous crack. Both lances shattered, splinters flying in all directions.

After this first pass, the knights quickly exchanged their broken lances for fresh ones handed to them by their squires, and charged again. This time, the young knight from Upper Saintlake County was visibly more reckless. He initiated his charge before the older knight from Carvey County had fully turned, hoping to seize an advantage by launching his attack a moment earlier.

Yet, when the older knight had finished turning, he betrayed no sign of panic. Instead, he waited until the young knight was nearly upon him before commencing his own charge. By then, the young knight had already lowered his lance.

“It looks like I’ve won this first round for certain, Berrion, my friend!” Gamgee said smugly. “That mountain knight can’t pick up any speed at all—he’ll be unhorsed any moment now.”

“He lowered his lance too early. He’s bound to lose,” Berrion replied briefly.

No sooner had Berrion spoken than the older knight, waiting until only five paces separated them, finally lowered his lance. Bracing his shield on his left shoulder, he absorbed the young knight’s blow, but his own well-timed strike landed squarely on the youth’s chest, knocking him clean off his horse. The sudden reversal drew a collective gasp from the crowd.

The young knight’s three squires rushed to his side and removed his helmet. Though conscious, blood streamed from his mouth and his face was etched with bitter regret. He had lost—dropped from his horse in the second round of a best-of-three contest. It was a humiliating defeat.

Especially after the rousing speech his squire had given before the match, which had earned him cheers and applause. Now, so easily bested by a middle-aged mountain knight, he would not only forfeit the prize money but also his armor and horse.

While he wallowed in his distress, the crowd’s scornful murmurs rose around him. Such is the nature of the masses: as fervently as they praise you in victory, they trample you in defeat.

In the noble’s box, Gamgee stared in disbelief and demanded of Berrion, “How could that happen? He started out so far ahead—he had the speed! How could he be unhorsed?”

“You all underestimated that mountain knight,” Berrion said with a sigh. “He’s very experienced. The young one from Upper Saintlake County thought only of speed, too young and impulsive, believing an early charge would secure victory. He didn’t consider the force of the blow. Even if the older knight had stood still and let him crash into him, he would have been unhorsed by his own momentum. The mountain knight saw through his impatience, baited him into charging early, then simply waited. It was cunning, but also skillful. To strike his opponent’s chest so accurately, absorb a direct blow with shield and body, yet remain unharmed—that takes real ability.”

After hearing Berrion’s analysis, Gamgee tore up his betting slip in frustration, muttering, “You really can’t just listen to what others say or be dazzled by fancy armor. It’s true skill that wins the day. I’ll consider this hundred dinars as tuition. Next time, I’ll just follow your lead.”

As they waited for the second round to begin, the owner of the Central Tavern—the bookmaker for the tournament—arrived, piquing both Gamgee’s and Berrion’s curiosity. He entered, greeted them warmly, produced Berrion’s betting slip and a money pouch, and said respectfully, “Sir Berrion, you were the only one to bet on the mountain knight’s victory. Here are three hundred dinars—congratulations, a wise wager!”

Berrion accepted the pouch, withdrew ten silver coins, and handed them to the owner. “I owe my winnings to your establishment. Let these ten dinars buy you a drink.”

Berrion wasn’t sure of the local customs, but from novels he’d read in his previous life, he knew it was customary to tip the house after a win.

The owner’s smile broadened as he accepted the coins. “Thank you, Sir Berrion! You not only have a discerning eye, but you’re generous as well. Allow me to treat you and Brother Gamgee to lunch. I’ll have my staff bring it up, along with a jug of Sarion wine as a token of gratitude.”

A jug of Sarion wine was worth more than ten dinars—a generous gesture, but Berrion understood the motive. The owner anticipated they would keep betting, and Gamgee’s earlier loss meant the generosity was funded by his money anyway.

Still, Berrion and Gamgee expressed their thanks. After all, it was wise to keep relations cordial with such local figures.

Over the course of the morning, two more matches were held. Gamgee followed Berrion’s bets and won both times. With an expert like Berrion, the odds were ever in their favor. After three consecutive wins, Berrion’s initial stake of one hundred dinars multiplied to two thousand, and Gamgee’s earnings reached eight hundred dinars.

Looking at the money in his hand, Berrion mused on the thrill of gambling—the euphoria of winning, the agony of loss, and the desperate urge to recover what’s been lost, all leading one step by step into ruin.

At noon, the tavern owner personally brought them wine and food. Though still courteous, Berrion sensed a certain coldness beneath his smile—naturally, the house was not pleased after Berrion’s string of successes. If everyone bet like Berrion, there’d be no profit in running the game.

After enjoying the lavish meal, Berrion gave Bran two silver coins to buy extra provisions for both their attendants. Gamgee was struck by Berrion’s thoughtfulness—such attention to detail and care for his servants was rare in one so young. No wonder his retainers were so loyal.

During the midday break, the two reclined in their box with the curtains drawn, keeping out the sun. Gamgee had brought blankets, and after sharing a jug of Sarion wine, they dozed off, waking just as the afternoon matches were about to begin.

The afternoon matches offered nothing extraordinary; the format was unchanged, and no outstanding knights competed that day. The middle-aged knight who had won in the morning was defeated in the third match by another mountain knight, but the victor did not claim his armor or horse as ransom—a gesture of camaraderie that drew warm applause from the audience.

Of the four afternoon matches, Berrion broke even—one loss was due to a misjudgment, costing him a thousand dinars, with Gamgee losing five hundred as well.

Another loss was intentional—a courtesy to the tavern owner—with both of them forfeiting six hundred dinars. Still, with two wins, Berrion netted a profit of fifteen hundred dinars, and Gamgee gained six hundred.

In the day and a half that followed, as the weaker contestants were eliminated, the competition among the elite knights grew fierce. In this time, Berrion witnessed firsthand the terrifying might of these armored giants—on average, one valiant knight died every half-day.

Berrion saw it clearly: a young knight from Krivo Hills, skilled and well-equipped, fell in his third match due to a moment’s carelessness, struck in the visor and thrown from his horse. When his squire removed his helmet, his face was a bloody ruin—he was already dead.

Not only the crowd, but Berrion himself mourned the loss. The young knight had been exceptionally skilled and brave; had he not fallen by chance, he would surely have become a renowned knight.

But the tournament was unforgiving. A single misstep meant defeat—or death. Berrion felt relieved he hadn’t entered the lists himself; otherwise, he might have shared that young knight’s fate, for luck is never guaranteed.

As the remaining knights were evenly matched, Berrion’s betting accuracy declined. Accordingly, he reduced his wagers to three hundred dinars each, never more. Though he lost a fair amount, he still ended up six hundred dinars ahead—not as much as on the first day, but profit nonetheless.

Moreover, watching the tournament for two and a half days greatly increased Berrion’s desire to field his own heavy cavalry. Seeing those knights in full armor, their warhorses bringing their total weight to over eight hundred pounds, charging at full speed—the image of such a force thundering into enemy lines was awe-inspiring. Only the finest spear-armed infantry could hope to withstand them; common levies and poorly drilled county troops would surely flee at the sight, or be cut down like butter beneath a hot knife.

Yet, maintaining heavy cavalry was ruinously expensive. A baron might field ten knights at best. In the entire province of Yanwickshaw, excluding viscounts, barons, and lesser barons, there were perhaps fifty or sixty landed knights. Including their squires, at most a two-hundred-strong heavy cavalry force could be mustered.

The cost of warhorses and armor alone was prohibitive. There was a saying that “it takes a village of three hundred to support a single knight”—a testament to the enormous expense. And this didn’t even account for the decade or more of training from boyhood required to forge a true knight.