Three years ago. Hans's crew were the village's headache. They stole a cow, set fire to its tail and sent it galloping through the middle of the village to smash into someone's wall, and thought nothing of it. That much, of course, was the tip of the iceberg. They had once brawled with a crew from a neighboring village and brought watch officers out from the lord's keep.
But they were all sons of the village's men of standing, and their parents stopped the holes with money one way or another, so the worst was always avoided.
"Hey, Suleiman!"
"Yeah, what."
"Hand over some of that vodka you lifted from the distillery yesterday."
"Kekeke. You think there's any of it left?"
"Kekeke."
"Moron."
"......."
The heap of stones at the village entrance, the place they called the stone hill. It is where stone is quarried to build defensive works against monsters. In the slack season the village men do their corvée there, and in the busy season it is left alone. This was the punks' hideout.
"Hey, Hans. Are we just going to leave that son of a bitch alone?"
"Who?"
Hans, lying on his side on a well-dressed flagstone taking the sun, asked it back in the idlest voice in the world.
"The tax collector's son, you know the one."
"What's he done?"
"Mm? He hasn't done anything, exactly, but......."
Hans twisted onto his back and scratched hard at his belly.
"Mad bastard. What's the use of provoking the wrong man? And he's a graduate of the knight academy. Provoke him wrong and you get pounded. Forget it."
"Hey, son of a bitch, have you gone soft? Who are we? Eh? The Gale Village......."
Hans cut Suleiman off.
"Punks."
"Hah. Kekeke."
"Heh heh heh."
Suleiman wore the look of a man briefly at a loss for words, and then conceded.
"Tch. Punks, right enough."
"Kekeke."
That is the sort they were.
***
"Cadet Malavich Parminen. Have you anything to say, finally?"
He had been driven to the limit. Having come this far, hesitating would leave him a cripple either way. He had to say his piece and go.
"I acknowledge that I used physical force to protect my own body against a senior cadet's coerced demand for sexual relations. I acknowledge also that in the course of it I lost my reason for a moment and injured the senior cadet more than was necessary."
—Murmur, murmur.
"But I do not believe that this was a violation of chivalry."
—Clamor, clamor.
"If the way of a knight includes licentious sexual relations between seniors and juniors and the sexual exploitation of junior cadets, then I will throw chivalry away."
"Cadet Malavich, choose your words. This statement may work against you."
"......That is all."
***
"Judgment on the trainee knight Malavich Parminen is as follows."
"One. On the charge of assault upon a senior knight, not guilty."
"One. On the matter of maintaining the dignity of a trainee knight, guilty."
—Murmur, murmur.
"Accordingly, Malavich Parminen is stripped of the status of trainee knight for a period of one year. That is all."
'What in the world is the dignity of a knight?'
The moment the trainee knight's badge was torn from his collar, Malavich let go of everything in the capital.
***
—Glug, glug.
A few mouthfuls of daytime drinking and the world spun in front of him.
"Kekeke."
For this moment at least everything was fine. His heart was at ease.
—Stagger, stagger.
He had killed his temper and trained for three years. And one disgusting son of a bitch had cut in and ruined it. He had wanted to kill the man in a duel, but he was far outmatched by the weight of that family.
If he killed him in a duel, someone from that house would challenge him afterward, and taking them on one after another, in the end he would die.
Pull himself together and push on and one day he might see the light. But not now. He could not shake this disgust off.
—Hurrrk. Blleeurgh.
"Whoops."
"Ah, fuck, what's this."
"Ah, this son of a bitch is that son of a bitch. The tax collector's boy."
"Ah, that's filthy. Fuck."
"Come on, let's go."
"Fil. Thy?"
Throwing up the drink he had swallowed so pleasantly brought his wits back a little. The drunkenness eased, and in its place the anger came climbing.
"What? Hey. What did you just say?"
"Something about filthy, I think?"
"Hah, fuck. Hans said to leave him be, but I can't take this."
—THUMP.
Suleiman charged in and an uppercut silenced him.
—SMACK, THWACK.
Mikhail blocked the hook that came in but could not block the headbutt, and went down.
—THUMP, WHIP. CRASH, BANG.
Offerman, who came in on a tackle, was caught by the collar and thrown backward.
"Hurgh, hurgh. Trash, you sons of bitches......."
—Tromp, tromp.
Hans, arriving late, saw the scene and came over.
"That we're trash, I'll grant. So what are you?"
"......?"
"Can you prove you're not trash? Eh?"
Hans kicked the friends sprawled on the ground awake.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Hey, Suleiman. Mikhail. Get up, you punks. Offerman, get up, you fat son of a bitch. You lot are punks, so you've nothing to prove. Easy, isn't it? Kekeke."
"Nngh. Yeah. Kekeke."
"Ergh. Hey. That son of a bitch is strong. Hans was right."
"Kekeke. Ow. I think a rib's gone."
"Morons. A man trained properly against men who only ever scrapped in the street — is that a contest? Try using the thing called common sense."
'What are they? These punks.'
They snickered as though the insult he had given them did no damage at all. They acknowledged what they were and recognized their fault, however late. They spared no particular thought for what was already done.
The anger climbed. What had his five years of patient training been for? What was he, who could not carry that weight and had fled to the country? What was this confidence coming off punks like these?
"Hey. Get your arm over my shoulder."
"Ugh, get off. Away with you, fuck."
"What. I try to help and you carry on."
"Nngh. Never mind that son of a bitch with his firm sense of identity, hold me up instead."
"Kekeke."
He called out to them as they held each other up and started away.
"Stop."
He could not master the anger boiling up in him.
Hans waved his friends off and stood in the way.
"What is it?"
Yes. That confidence. That posture, not shrinking even before a man who plainly looked stronger. Malavich reached inside his coat and drew out a glove.
"I challenge you to a duel."
I will eat your confidence, your assurance, your purity. I will eat them and make them mine.
"A duel? Do we have to do that?"
Hans caught the glove Malavich threw and looked puzzled.
***
It was as it had been then.
As he had three years before, Malavich stood in the center of the square in full plate mail, correct in every form. Hans came out and stood opposite him. He wore only a chest plate, in the abbreviated fashion.
—Murmur, murmur.
"Tsk, tsk. The gear is far too uneven."
"Just so. Look how that one gleams. Against that, Hans......."
"Can you be sure of that? Each man does as suits him."
The village common was packed with people.
"Three years ago Hans lost and was hauled off to the army."
"Now, you should call him 'Sir Zimmer.'"
"So I should. Earned merit in the war and became a noble, they say?"
"Ah, did he? Then we can't be careless with him now."
"Ah, what use is becoming a noble? If he loses today's duel it's a washout, same as three years ago."
"That's so."
"True enough."
—Murmur, murmur.
"Step forward."
—Tromp, tromp.
At the inspector's direction, Hans and Malavich came close and stood.
"Touch your blades to signify your intent to duel, then withdraw ten paces each."
—CLACK.
The two set their blades together. Malavich's eyes burned with fighting spirit, but Hans only looked back with an expressionless gaze and did not respond.
"Hmph."
Malavich snorted, turned and walked ten paces.
Only once Malavich had turned did Hans turn, walk his ten paces, and face about.
The inspector raised a hand and brought it down, shouting.
"Duel — begin."
The duel began with Malavich's first strike.
—CLANG, WHACK.
—CLANG, JOLT.
There was overwhelming power drawn from that long body, and clean movement with nothing wasted. It was the skill of a knight-aspirant — no, already of a knight.
'So this is his real ability? Then three years ago he had no need to show it.'
Hans's attacks were blocked again and again on the shield, and Malavich's blade came stabbing into the gaps.
"Waaah!"
"That's fierce."
The two blades caught the sunlight and threw it off.
—CLANG, CLANG, KA-CLANG!
A furious exchange went on, throwing sparks in broad daylight.
—Wheeew.
A few idlers whistled.
—Murmur, murmur.
The onlookers' heat made the early-winter common warm.
"Huff, huff."
"Hoo-ff, hoo-ff."
'This is no different from before, is it?'
"Huff, huff. Here, Hans. Somehow you seem weaker than you were."
As his tension eased, Malavich began to bait him.
"At least you had venom in you before. What is this? They said you came back from a battlefield — you didn't run from it, did you?"
—Murmur, murmur.
—WHSSH, CLANG.
Malavich blocked Hans's honest attack from a settled stance.
"Huff, huff. I'm tiring."
Hans said it with his blade locked against Malavich's.
"Hoo-ff, hoo-ff. I'm nowhere near done. Come on, put your back into it."
Malavich dragged his breath in and did not stop baiting.
"Kh kh kh. Three years ago you wore yourself out too. Is it over already?"
Three years ago Malavich had come home.
He had met his parents' expectations and completed the academy with good marks, but a single outburst had branded him 'the trainee cadet who assaults anyone, senior or not, when his temper goes.' He had come home dejected and lonely, and he had gone to ruin.
'It is the fault of you lot, who caught my eye then.'
Malavich had challenged Hans and his crew after a quarrel, and the innocent country boys had accepted without knowing what it meant.
To the usual squabble of a gang came some fellow called an inspector, and his father was summoned and stood there with a stunned expression.
For Hans, who did nothing but trade fists with boys his own age, a contest against Malavich, who had completed a formal knight's education, was an empty thing. When Hans went on bleeding under Malavich's precise strikes, the inspector stopped the duel.
It had ended with the defeated Hans volunteering for the army and his father handing over half the family's property.
—CRASH! JOLT.
"Hoo-ff, hoo-ff."
Malavich caught the strike on his shield and dragged in a rough breath.
"Huff, huff."
Hans's breathing had gone rough too.
For a soldier to beat a knight is close to impossible. A knight is the summit of force, made by joining excellent natural quality to verified training. Which is to say that one against one, a knight may be called invincible against a soldier.
'No. A knight is not invincible.'
Hans saw Malavich tiring by degrees.
'Full plate armor weighs between twenty and forty kilograms. With a heavy iron shield on top of that, how long can he rampage?'
"What kills a man in a fight is his strength running out."
"......."
"Today you will see the result of your filthy arrogance."
Hans closed with a changed air about him.
"You haven't changed. Fellow who talks too much."
It had been so then as well. That Hans had been the captain of the village boys. A head shorter than him, and he had looked up with insolent eyes and said, 'What are you?'
Malavich met Hans's attack with the flat of his blade. At that Hans took his sword in a reverse grip, tackled, caught Malavich at the side and put him down. Both of them rolled across the ground.
And they came up almost at the same moment. But there was a blade in Hans's hand, and Malavich's hands were empty.
The instant Hans's reverse-gripped blade spun in his palm and came into a proper grip, a red line was drawn across Malavich's throat.
"Mali!"
A guard steadied Paget, who was crying out his son's name.
"It is not over yet, sir."
"A pity. I could have opened the carotid."
Hans said it with a smile. To Malavich it looked like the face of a devil.
His expression back to its dry state, Hans ordered.
"Take up your sword, Malavich."
Malavich scrambled to pick the blade off the ground. But his legs had already gone, and his arms shook as though the weight of the sword in both hands were too much. Blood ran from his neck a little at a time.
Hans stepped in and brought his blade down.
—CLANG!
Plainly overborne in strength, Malavich gave ground.
"Are you afraid of dying?"
Hans asked it with their blades locked in a contest of strength. Malavich answered with his face screwed up.
"Afraid of what? A man dies in the end, whatever he does."
—CLANG.
"Right. Then die."
—WHSSH!
At the instant they shoved each other's blades away and came out of the lock, Hans's sword opened the gap beneath Malavich's left pauldron.
"Krrgh."
Staggering, Malavich watched his own blood spring up and was shaken.
'Is this how I die?'
The blood, seeping through in beads, ran down his body and wetted the ground.
"Hoo-ff, hoo-ff. I'm tiring. Now let's finish it."
Hans came in. Despair came over Malavich's face.
—CLANG, CLANG, CLANG, THUD. THUD. CRASH.
With a body whose strength was spent, Malavich fended off Hans's blade, and at some one moment he set everything down. The flat of Hans's blade struck his helm and sprawled him on the ground. Then Hans took his sword reversed and beat at the plate mail as though swinging a hammer.
—CRASH, CRASH, CRASH!
"Stop. Please, stooop!"
Seeing his son's wretched state, Paget cried out.
In place of Mali, who had lost consciousness and lay stretched out, the inspector confirmed the concession with Paget.
"Collector Paget. Do you concede defeat?"
"I concede. Please, spare him."
"The duel is ended. Victory to Sir Hans Gale Zimmer!"
—Clatter.
Hans threw his blade to the ground as though he had no regrets about it.
—Clack, creak, splat.
He stripped off even the chest guard and let the cold wind cool his body.
'It's all over.'
"Waaah!"
"Wheeew."
The people cheered.