Chapter 19: The Disgraced Knight - Part 1
Winter had settled over Oxenfurt like a cold blanket, freezing the river's edges and driving people indoors. The guild operated through it—contracts still needed completing, monsters still needed killing—but the pace had slowed. Time to think. Time to plan.
Time to find the one piece we were still missing.
"Viktor Crane," Tom said, spreading papers across the planning room table. "Former knight of some minor Temerian lord. Tournament champion three years running. Trained half the fighting men in the northern provinces before..."
"Before what?"
"Before a noble's daughter decided she wanted him more than her arranged marriage." Tom's expression held no judgment, just facts. "She pursued. He refused. Her father didn't appreciate the rejection. False accusations followed—dishonor, seduction, theft. Viktor ran rather than fight the charges."
"Why run? If he was innocent—"
"Because fighting meant killing people. The father sent men to arrest him. Viktor could have cut through them, probably won the whole thing in trial by combat. But they were just soldiers following orders. Men he might have trained himself." Tom shook his head. "So he ran. And he's been drinking himself to death ever since."
I studied the papers. Viktor's history read like tragedy—skill wasted, honor destroyed by politics rather than actual failure. The kind of man who could have been great if the world hadn't decided to crush him first.
"Where is he now?"
"The Drowned Rat. Tavern near the fish markets. He's been there three months, living on whatever coin he can scrape together."
"Skills intact?"
"According to people who've seen him, yes. He broke up a fight last week without spilling his drink. The muscle memory's there. Just the will that's missing."
"A trainer. Someone who knows how to build fighters from nothing. Viktor could be that person—if he can be convinced to care again."
"I'll observe him first. Three days. Then approach."
Tom nodded. He'd learned not to question my methods, even when they seemed excessive.
The Drowned Rat lived up to its name.
The tavern crouched between a fishmonger's stall and an abandoned warehouse, its windows grimy with years of accumulated soot. Inside, the smell of cheap ale and cheaper desperation mixed with fish oil and old smoke. The clientele matched the décor—broken people drinking away broken dreams.
Viktor Crane sat alone in a corner, methodically emptying a tankard.
I found a table with a clear sightline and ordered water. The barkeep gave me a suspicious look—teenagers didn't usually drink alone in places like this—but my coin was good, so he didn't comment.
First day: observation only.
Viktor was older than I'd expected. Mid-forties, maybe, with grey threading through brown hair that needed cutting. His clothes had once been quality—the kind of practical garments a traveling knight would wear—but months of neglect had reduced them to rags. His face bore the weathering of outdoor life, lines carved by sun and wind and, more recently, alcohol.
But his hands were steady when he lifted the tankard. His posture, even slumped, held echoes of military training. And his eyes—when they tracked movement in the room—showed a sharpness that drunkenness couldn't quite dull.
A brawl broke out near the bar. Two fishermen arguing over something trivial, voices rising until fists followed. The barkeep shouted for calm. The other patrons scattered.
Viktor moved.
One moment he was seated, the next he stood between the combatants, hands on both their wrists. The movement had been too fast to track—a blur of efficiency that ended with both fishermen disarmed (one had produced a knife somewhere) and separated.
"Outside," Viktor said. His voice was rough from disuse but carried authority. "Settle it there or don't settle it at all."
The fishermen stared at him. Whatever they saw in his eyes made them reconsider. They left without further argument.
Viktor returned to his table and his drink, as if nothing had happened.
"Muscle memory. Decades of training don't vanish. The skill is there. I just need to give him a reason to use it."
Viktor's Perspective
The boy was watching me.
Three days now. Different tables, same watered drink, same careful observation. Young—fifteen, maybe sixteen—but with eyes that didn't match his age. Eyes that calculated distances and angles, evaluated threats, planned contingencies.
"Assassin? Unlikely. Too obvious, too patient."
"Recruiter? Possible. I've been approached before by mercenary companies looking for warm bodies."
"Something else? Probably."
I drained my tankard and signaled for another. The barkeep obliged—I'd been good for business, or at least good for not causing trouble that drove away business.
The boy stood. Walked toward my table. Sat across from me without invitation.
"You've been watching," I said. "Either ask your question or leave."
"No question." He pushed a plate toward me—bread, cheese, dried meat. Food I hadn't ordered. "Observation first. Now conversation."
"I don't need charity."
"It's not charity. It's investment." He poured water from a skin, set it beside the food. "You're wasting training that people would pay for. I'm interested in buying."
I laughed. The sound was ugly, corroded by years of bitterness. "Sword lessons? Find someone who cares."
"I don't want lessons. I want you to train others." His gaze held mine without flinching. "I'm building something. It needs someone who knows how to create fighters, not just fight."
"Building what?"
"A guild. Adventure contracts, monster hunting, community protection. We have six members, a headquarters, and a growing reputation." He paused. "We also have a lot of raw recruits who fight like blind dogs. They need proper instruction."
"And you think I'm the answer."
"I think you're wasting yourself. Whatever happened in Temeria—the noble's daughter, the false accusations—that's done. Finished. You can spend the rest of your life drinking about it, or you can do something useful."
The accuracy of his information stung. How did a teenager know about my history? Who had he been talking to?
"You've done your research."
"I do research on everyone I consider recruiting." He stood, leaving the food. "The guild's headquarters is at the old riverside warehouse—the one that was haunted until we cleared it. Come see what we're building. Then decide if drinking is better than purpose."
He left. The bread sat on the table, slowly going stale.
I didn't eat it. But I didn't throw it away either.
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