Volume One: The Forest Knight Chapter 76: The Trial by Combat (Part Four)

At this moment, they had already reached their designated positions. Berrion took the lance that Bran handed him, secretly amused. In his previous life, he had been a master of verbal sparring—Soger thought he could get the better of him? He had certainly found the right opponent.

Yet, the contest ahead had nothing to do with clever words. Berrion had enjoyed his verbal triumph, but now he would have to endure a much harsher blow.

As expected, when the flagbearer, the squire in charge of giving the signal, raised the flag from the ground, Sir Soger immediately spurred his horse forward into a rapid charge, and Berrion urged his own steed to meet him head-on.

With a loud “thud,” both their lances struck the other's shield on the left shoulder at the same time. The lances splintered, fragments scattering through the air. Both men, jolted by the force of the impact, leaned backward from the recoil.

Sir Soger, seasoned by experience, leaned back and pressed his body flat against the horse, skillfully dispersing the tremendous force. Berrion, however, had no experience with jousting. The blow sent sharp pain shooting through his left shoulder, his whole arm numb and aching, leaving him gasping for breath. Worse, the force had nearly twisted his waist; now a searing pain burned in his lower back.

Though he had barely withstood the strike, Berrion knew he could not endure another. If he tried to take another hit from Soger, he would likely be unhorsed—or worse, end up a cripple with shattered legs, just like the challenger from Castle Nuda.

But gritting his teeth and enduring the first blow was part of Berrion’s plan. Only by withstanding this initial attack could he deceive both Soger and the watching crowd.

Feigning agony, Berrion motioned for Bran to hand him the specially crafted lance. He lifted it unsteadily, swaying in the saddle as if he might fall off at any moment.

The spectators’ reaction was swift and scornful; jeers and hisses erupted from all sides. No one had expected Berrion to be so feeble—worse even than the challenger from Castle Nuda. Disappointment rippled through the crowd.

Across from him, Sir Soger wore a look of smug satisfaction as he watched Berrion barely clinging to his horse after withstanding the heavy blow. Soger knew that while Berrion was a master swordsman, his horsemanship was lacking. Just one more solid hit would leave Berrion a broken, crippled man.

To strip a knight of the ability to ride into battle—was there any fate more cruel? Soger doubted it. Soon, he would have his revenge for the humiliation he suffered at the viscount’s banquet before the nobles of the liege county.

Soger’s warhorse, sensing its master’s excitement and battle lust, neighed triumphantly, as if heralding victory in advance, its spirit ablaze.

Without pausing long after switching lances, Soger saw that Berrion was ready as well and charged forward decisively. Berrion charged to meet him.

Twenty paces... fifteen... ten. Both men dropped their lances, leveling them forward. From the stands, it was clear Berrion, still reeling from the previous blow, could barely hold his lance straight—it wobbled, unable to aim properly at his opponent.

The nobles in the stands—Count Gry, the bishop, and others—along with the crowd, were certain Berrion would lose. This so-called bard who boasted of winning duels with a few clever moves was being unmasked as an empty braggart.

Miss Jessis, seated beside Count Gry, was tense beyond words. She gripped the arms of her chair, teeth clenched, eyes fixed on the field. Though she did not want to believe it, she, like everyone else, was convinced Berrion would lose.

Just as the outcome seemed certain, a sudden, anguished whinny rang out. Soger’s horse collapsed, dragging the knight down with it.

Soger’s lance had not broken, but Berrion’s had. The reason: Berrion had struck Soger’s horse squarely on the head.

Knowing he had no chance against Soger in mounted combat, Berrion had commissioned a lance from the master at the Twin-Ring Armory that was a full hand longer than standard—a deviation permitted at the tournament. His feigned weakness, barely able to lift the lance, was a ploy to aim it at the head of Soger’s steed. The extra length, combined with the fact that the horse’s head was furthest forward, allowed Berrion to strike before the clash, felling Soger’s mount in an instant.

Horse and rider, weighed down by armor exceeding a thousand pounds, hurtled forward at full speed. The blow to the horse’s head sent it crashing to the ground, where it soon ceased to twitch, dead.

Returning to his starting position, Berrion looked at the fallen animal, feeling a pang of guilt. He would not have resorted to such ruthless tactics against an innocent creature if not for dire necessity. But with his own and Pru’s lives at stake, he had no choice. Silently, he prayed to the Fire God to grant the poor beast a better fate in its next life.

Berrion dismounted, picked up his mace, and strode on foot to face Sir Soger in the next phase.

Though Soger had been thrown and suffered some minor injuries, he rose, grabbed his double-bladed axe from his horse’s weapon pouch, and charged at Berrion in fury.

The two armored figures clashed, wielding their heavy, deadly weapons with all their might. The battle was a spectacle.

Soger poured all his strength into an overhead blow. Berrion, knowing he couldn’t withstand it, dodged aside. The axe smashed into the wooden barrier at the center of the field, splintering a log as thick as a man’s arm.

Glancing at the shattered timber, Berrion couldn’t help but reflect that no matter how thick his armor, if that blow had landed on him, he would certainly have been killed.

As Soger’s axe met only air, Berrion seized the chance to swing his mace at Soger’s back. Soger, agile as ever, dodged, and Berrion’s mace struck a nearby wooden box used by the flagbearer, smashing it to pieces and sending splinters flying.

The two men continued to trade blows—axe against mace—in a fierce and relentless exchange.

Both wore armor weighing fifty pounds or more. Such a burden, combined with the ferocity of their struggle, soon had both men drenched in sweat, their faces running with perspiration inside their visored helms.

Yet neither dared relax. This was a trial by battle, where life and death hung in the balance; a single misstep could mean death and defeat.

With a resounding “crack,” the shaft of Berrion’s mace collided with the handle of Soger’s axe, both wooden hafts snapping under the force, the heads of the weapons falling to the ground.

Berrion tossed aside the broken shaft and punched at Soger’s chest. Soger responded in kind. Having only iron-plated and chainmail armor, Soger staggered back a few steps, his chest tight and breath coming short.

Berrion, though also knocked back, suffered less from the blow. His outer layer was made of iron-plated cloth, with thick linen padding beneath, absorbing much of the force.

The audience was stunned by this sudden reversal. Soger, who had seemed certain to win, was now forced to fight on foot—Berrion’s preferred combat.

Miss Jessis, witnessing the turn of events, finally felt her heart settle. She let out a long breath and slumped back in her seat, releasing her death grip on the armrests, her hands red and swollen from the strain.

Count Gry, noticing her sigh, turned to his only daughter with a concerned smile. “Such an intense battle—doesn’t it set your blood racing?”

Jessis nodded. “Yes, Father. It’s incredibly tense. Only true heroes could play such a game.”

Count Gry smiled at her response, said nothing more, and turned his gaze back to the field.

By now, the squires of both knights had brought them their shields and swords—no knight could fight without weapons.

Sword in hand, shield on arm, Berrion knew his plan had succeeded and the advantage was now his. If he could defeat Soger once with the sword, he could do so again; this time, he would make sure his enemy lost all honor.

Soger, upon receiving his sword and shield, was visibly less confident. He knew he was no match for a disciple of the Dawn Sword with the blade, just as Berrion had not been his equal at the lance.

But there was no retreat. Unless he knelt and surrendered, he would have to fight to the end.

Yet for a champion who had bested countless knights from Brick, Orian, and Valentia over the past three years, to kneel and beg for mercy before a young knight of lowly birth was more shameful than death itself.

Pride would not allow it. Soger reasoned that if he pleaded for mercy, Berrion would surely humiliate him before the crowd. Rather than live with endless disgrace, better to fight on—perhaps he could still win.

With this thought, Soger raised his shield, advanced in short steps, and prepared for a final, desperate contest.

Berrion, seeing his intent, tossed away his own shield, raised his left hand, and gave Soger an obscene gesture for all to see.

Enraged, Soger let out a furious roar and charged. But this was exactly the trap Berrion had laid—provoke him, then defeat him.

Soger lunged, thrusting his sword at Berrion’s neck. With both men armored in at least two heavy layers, only a strike to a vital spot could do real harm.

Berrion twisted nimbly aside, dodging the attack, then kicked at Soger’s shield with all his might. At such close range, the force broke the bones of Soger’s left hand gripping the shield.

Soger heard the sickening crack, followed by a wave of agony—several fingers had been broken by Berrion’s kick.

His left hand crippled, Soger could no longer hold his shield. Though he tried several times, each grasp at the straps sent fresh waves of pain, forcing him to abandon the shield.

Throughout, Berrion stood by, watching without attacking—a cat toying with its prey, able to kill at any moment, but choosing instead to prolong his victim's humiliation.