Volume One: The Forest Knight Chapter 77: Trial by Combat (V)

Sir Soger, seeing Berion take off his barrel helmet because of the heat, removed his own as well. He glared fiercely at Berion and shouted, “Well done, boy! Looks like today I’ll die at your hands, ha ha ha! How humiliating! Someone as unknown as you, yet you can claim my life!”

“Hmph!” Berion replied with a soft snort, “Stop wasting your breath, son. Come on, keep fighting your father.”

They were barely five paces apart. Berion could hear the grinding of Sir Soger’s teeth; he glared back with equal ferocity, their eyes locked in a battle of wills.

“Ah!” Sir Soger charged, sword in one hand. This time, Berion did not toy with him. Dodging the blade, he kicked at Soger’s knee, forcing him painfully to the ground. Berion seized the chance to press his sword to Soger’s neck.

Without the protection of his helmet, Berion’s sharp blade pressed against the exposed flesh of Soger’s neck, ready to claim his life at any moment.

Feeling the cold steel, Soger knew this was not a comforting chill, but the prelude to death. He closed his eyes, waiting for Berion to sever his head.

The spectators, witnessing Berion’s turnaround from dire disadvantage, shouted in unison, “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” They believed this to be the will of the Fire God: the vanquished must die.

When the shouts subsided, Berion withdrew his sword from Soger’s neck. He picked up the shield emblazoned with Soger’s family crest, planted his sword in the ground nearby, and raised the shield high, declaring his victory and his mercy towards his fellow Brick Court knight.

The crowd was stunned by Berion’s gesture, then erupted in thunderous applause and cheers. Even the nobles in the viewing gallery applauded his magnanimity.

Though tradition dictated that if Berion killed Soger, the latter’s family could not seek vengeance, it would still breed deep animosity. More friends make more roads; more enemies, more walls. Berion did not wish to make unnecessary foes.

At first, Berion intended to kill Sir Soger, but during the fight, he realized that though this knight was hostile, he was capable, brave, and honorable. There was no need to slay him; defeating him would suffice. Berion’s true aim was to rescue Pru, not to kill.

From the viewing gallery, Count Gribb’s eyes shone with admiration and surprise. He said to the bishop beside him, “A splendid duel! Far more exciting than the tournaments of the past two days. And not only exciting—it showed us true knightly virtue.”

The bishop, though displeased at the defeat of the knight representing Sister Myura, was shrewd enough to reply with a smile, “Indeed, my lord count. Sir Berion is truly a remarkable knight. I am satisfied with the outcome of this trial by combat; the Fire God has spared all lives.”

Hearing her father and the bishop, Jessis was overjoyed. She thought, “Do I need your approval? This is the knight I chose. Of course he wouldn’t disappoint me. Berion is just as impressive as I knew he’d be.”

But just as everyone believed the trial by combat was over, the defeated Sir Soger suddenly grabbed his sword from the ground and, with a furious roar, lunged at Berion’s back. The unexpected turn caught all off guard.

Berion, now weaponless and holding only Soger’s shield, sensed the danger behind him and dodged quickly. Still, the sword’s edge grazed him.

Though not injured, Berion’s linen mask was sliced open, revealing the iron plate beneath.

Berion, gripping the shield, shouted angrily at Soger, “You madman! I spared your life, and you repay me with treachery, attacking from behind! Do you even deserve to be called a knight?”

“Bah!” Soger spat contemptuously onto the ground. “When you killed my horse, did you consider your knightly status? You have no right to judge me. Besides, in trial by combat, only the one left alive is the victor. If I still breathe, you haven’t won! That little girl will remain on the pyre!”

The audience, witnessing this betrayal, rebuked Soger fiercely. His actions were too much—spared from death, yet he tried to kill Berion in return. He should have been beheaded earlier.

Though the nobles in the gallery were disgusted by Soger’s conduct, none spoke to stop him. The bishop had not yet declared the trial over; the fight was still part of the proceedings. Besides, they were eager to see more drama.

Seeing the silence, Jessis, anxious for Berion’s safety, rose to appeal to the bishop, “Your Grace, that Soger fellow has gone too far. Please call a halt, stop his vile behavior, and protect our upright and courageous Sir Berion.”

“Oh, my child, if I had declared the trial ended, Sir Soger’s actions would be severely punished. But since I haven’t, they’re both still in the trial. We cannot stop them; such would violate the Fire God’s will,” the bishop replied lazily.

“You mustn’t do this! Sir Berion has no weapon—he’ll be killed!” Miss Jessis was furious at the bishop’s attitude.

Count Gribb pulled his daughter back to her seat and sternly reprimanded her, “How can you be so rude! You must not speak to the bishop that way. Sit quietly and wait for the trial to conclude.”

Jessis, both angry and anxious, burst into tears. The countess hurried to her side, comforting her and warning not to defy her father’s will or offend powerful figures like the bishop in public, for such would hinder her future rule.

The events in the gallery were unknown and irrelevant to Berion and Soger. In the space of a dozen breaths, they had fought fiercely.

Berion, now armed only with a shield, managed to avoid damage from Soger’s dozen attacks. Instead, he landed a heavy punch, nearly breaking two of Soger’s ribs.

Panting, Berion looked at the equally exhausted Soger and suddenly burst out laughing.

Soger, annoyed by Berion’s inexplicable laughter, barked, “What are you laughing at? Soon, I’ll gut you like a pig, to satisfy my hatred!”

“I laugh at you—champion of three northern tournaments, yet you’re nothing but a failure! I haven’t even a sword, you’ve tangled with me this long, panting like a summer dog, yet you haven’t hurt me at all. Shouldn’t I laugh?” Berion retorted, full of sarcasm.

“You’ve truly angered me, boy. You don’t know what an angry Bearslayer looks like. You’ll see! Soon, I’ll crack your skull and use it as my drinking bowl!” Soger shot back, equally fierce, though Berion’s words had truly enraged him.

The furious Bearslayer Soger howled, charging at Berion with his sword. This was just what Berion wanted; without a weapon, he needed to provoke Soger to defeat him.

Rage clouds judgment, leading to mistakes. With Soger now mad, he charged recklessly, caring nothing for his own safety, his sole thought to kill Berion.

Even if it cost him his life, it mattered not. If he killed Berion, Soger would die with honor as the victor, not as a defeated dog dragged off to a nameless grave.

Eyes bloodshot, Soger swung wildly, hacking and slashing, but Berion dodged every blow. Both men were flagging, but Soger’s strength faded faster; his swings grew weaker and slower.

Berion waited for this moment. As Soger’s sword missed, Berion rushed in, closing the distance. He struck Soger’s sword hand with his shield.

Soger, his right hand struck hard, dropped his sword in pain. Before the sword hit the ground, Berion kicked it up, preparing to seize it.

Seeing his sword knocked loose and Berion about to claim it, Soger ignored his injured hand, lunging forward to grab it himself. He was a step too late—Berion snatched the sword.

Now barely half a step from Berion, Soger tried to wrest the sword back, but Berion gave him no chance. With a swift twist of his wrist, Berion slashed at Soger’s right hand.

At the same time, he kicked at Soger’s left leg. With a scream, Soger, clutching his severed arm, collapsed, howling in agony. His right hand had been cut off, his left leg broken—he was now a cripple.

Tormented both in body and spirit, Soger writhed on the sand-strewn arena floor, his severed wrist leaving trails of blood across the white sand.

Red blood on white sand formed a striking abstract painting. In this era, abstract art was unknown; none could appreciate it.

Berion glanced at the writhing Soger, sighed, and turned toward the gallery.

He had given Soger a chance—they could have ended as friends. But Soger lacked the insight, clinging desperately to the fight, abandoning knightly honor for victory.

As Berion walked toward the gallery, Soger’s agonized face haunted his thoughts. Berion felt regret for this knight, so skilled in mounted combat. Who would win the next northern tournament, he wondered?

Soger, obsessed with victory, was like an addicted gambler—unable to stop, disregarding honor and virtue, caring only to win the trial.

Reflecting thus, Berion reached the gallery, bowed deeply to the dignitaries above, and declared, “Court knight Berion requests the trial by combat be ended. The outcome is decided; the Fire God’s will is clear.”

The audience on the tiers, hearing Berion’s words, erupted in jubilant cheers. Their excitement and cries reminded Berion of football fans from his past life—no different at all.