Chapter 22: The Chase (Part 1)
"What if he doesn't pursue?" The green-armored knight asked.
Ian couldn't hide the look of certainty on his face. "Camel needs my blood to wash away his shame. For the sake of his honor, he'll definitely come after me. If he were the kind of man who could stomach such dishonor, he would've agreed when I offered him double Harry's price to kill the bastard."
An honorable man can be deceived through his own virtues. Just as Harry had exploited Camel's honor before, Ian now wielded it as a weapon against him.
"By the way, I haven't asked your names in all this time. What are you called?" Ian suddenly realized.
"Me?" The knight was stunned for a moment, then laughed heartily. "Hound."
"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend," Ian apologized quickly. "I was trying to..." Ian paused, a hint of awkwardness in his words. "I was trying to give those sellswords the impression that no matter their birth, they could rise to knighthood with me. It laid the groundwork for their mutiny."
"My name is Rolf, and his is Kevan," Rolf introduced them both. He suddenly looked up and gave Ian an approving nod. "They're coming. Protect yourself. If things go wrong, flee. With your horse's speed, they can't catch you."
Hearing this, Ian looked west and saw four riders approaching. The leader, wearing plate and mail, was clearly Ser Camel, while the other three wore only boiled leather and mail.
"You bastard! Oathbreaker! Murderer! You have no honor!" Ian heard Camel's furious roar even when they were still over fifty yards distant.
Ian's gaze met a venomous glare.
In that instant, Ian could almost feel the killing intent crystallize in the air—a chill that frightened him, his hand trembling slightly on his sword hilt.
Without slowing or wasting breath on further words, Camel lowered his lance tip and began to accelerate, charging at Ian first.
The smooth, wide Kingsroad was ideal for a charge, and soon his destrier shifted from a trot to a gallop.
The moment Camel accelerated, the black-armored knight Kevan, who had remained silent until now, spurred forward to meet him. After exchanging a quick glance with Ian, Rolf charged as well.
In the blink of an eye, both sides clashed.
Camel, in the lead, aimed his lance directly at Kevan's throat—the gap between helm and breastplate. Kevan shifted in his saddle, expecting to easily dodge the thrust.
Unexpectedly, Camel's lance work was exceptional. He anticipated Kevan's evasion, adjusting his angle so that despite the massive knight's dodge, the lance tip struck the thick pauldron protecting Kevan's left shoulder.
Fortunately, Camel's lance failed to penetrate Kevan's heavy shoulder plate. Instead, the lance—not a proper jousting lance with a resilient shaft, but a common war lance—shattered under the speed and angle of impact.
The powerful collision forced Kevan to wrench at his reins, steadying himself with his stirrups. However, this denied him the chance to counterstrike, and the two horses thundered past each other.
Camel was likewise shaken by the impact. As his shaft splintered, he immediately released the useless weapon and fought to maintain his balance while reaching for his sword. But before he could draw it, Rolf bore down on him from behind Kevan.
Seeing his opponent charging without deviation, Camel had to veer aside to avoid a collision between their mounts. But in the sharp turn, his horse lost its footing and tumbled hard to the left.
Rolf smoothly pulled his reins, easily avoiding the falling Camel. He swung his sword in a wide arc at its maximum reach, shearing through half of Camel's left hand.
Camel lost all control of his mount. The already unbalanced horse beneath him stumbled forward another seven or eight paces before crashing down, pinning Camel's left leg beneath its weight.
A muffled scream echoed down the Kingsroad.
After charging several yards past, Rolf reined in his destrier, wheeled about, and charged Camel again. Rolf lowered his blade, leaning against his horse's neck, and rushed to where Camel lay trapped. He drove his sword through Camel's throat from the side.
The blade pierced Camel's neck, but Rolf's warhorse didn't slow. The momentum of the charge dragged the sword through flesh and bone, severing Camel's spine and nearly taking his head clean off.
After thundering past, Rolf didn't stop but wheeled once more, charging toward Kevan.
Kevan clearly needed his support at that moment.
Well, perhaps Kevan didn't need quite so much help after all.
Rolf eased back in his saddle and slowed his horse, unable to help but smile ruefully. In the time it had taken him to dispatch Camel—whose lance was already broken—Kevan, facing three opponents, had already slain two of them.
Two bodies lay sprawled on the Kingsroad, one nearly cleaved in half by a blow to the chest.
Camel's last rider was terrified by Kevan's brutal assault. With all his companions dead, he simply couldn't muster the courage to face the black iron tower of a knight.
Taking advantage of the gap while Kevan finished another man, the rider wheeled his horse and fled north.
"Catch him!" Ian roared, spurring his horse in pursuit.
He couldn't risk letting the rider escape. Any survivor today was a potential witness tomorrow.
Ian galloped at full speed on his white courser. Benefiting from his superior mount and lack of armor, he instantly overtook Rolf and Kevan, closing on the fleeing sellsword.
Ian held his unsheathed sword in hand, and only when his target was almost within reach did a sudden thought strike him.
Can I even beat this man?
Unfortunately, he had no time to reconsider his actions. His horse had already overtaken the fleeing rider in a heartbeat, and he could only draw on his borrowed experience—the skills inherited from his mercenary knight character—and strike instinctively.
The fleeing sellsword expertly raised his blade to deflect Ian's attack. Ian felt a jarring shock run through his arm, and his seat in the saddle wavered.
The sellsword seemed to realize his pursuer was green as summer grass. He wheeled about and slashed at Ian with his sword. Ian tried to parry hastily, but the blade in his hand was knocked aside.
The sellsword's return stroke came whistling toward Ian's head.
Time seemed to slow. Ian saw the notched steel descending toward him, saw the grim determination in the sellsword's eyes, saw his own death approaching—
Then Rolf's blade took the sellsword in the back of the neck.
The man toppled from his saddle like a sack of grain, crashing onto the Kingsroad in a cloud of dust.
Ian sat frozen on his horse, breathing hard, his hands trembling on the reins.
"That," Rolf said mildly, reining in beside him, "was foolish, my lord. Brave, but foolish."
Ian nodded mutely, unable to speak past the hammering of his heart. He had the stats, the skills inherited through the game system—but he'd never actually killed a man in single combat before. The borrowed experience was one thing; living through it was quite another.
"Come," Kevan rumbled, walking his massive destrier toward them. "We should check the bodies and be gone. Someone may have heard the fighting."
Ian finally found his voice. "Right. Yes. Let's finish this."
As they rode back toward where Camel's body lay, Ian couldn't help but glance at the sellsword Rolf had killed. The man's eyes stared sightlessly at the sky, his blood soaking into the packed earth of the Kingsroad.
This is real, Ian thought. Not a game. Not a simulation. Real men, real blood, real death.
The weight of that realization settled over him like a shroud.
(End of Chapter)
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