At first, the quiet halls of Castle Petrice were only minorly disturbed by a faint pitter-patter of light footsteps as a tiny figure raced sharply around a corner and up the next hallway, but suddenly the entirety of that space began to rumble and shake violently as the silhouette of some strange, colossal beast appeared before dashing forward on all fours to crash violently against a wall! In the haste of its pursuit, this mysterious monster had dug its claws into the carpet below it in an attempt to slow its momentum, but it was to no avail. All it accomplished was to leave shredded and toppled decorations in its wake as it continued its dogged pursuit of the little Count.
Niklas’ face was a mask of determination as he ran, even as his poor lungs burned painfully from the effort and his heart beat rapidly in his chest.
After all, he was fully aware of the gravity and danger of this situation, for the violently enraged creature that hunted him was none other than the strongest and most fearsome warrior in Petrice, capable of crushing his frail body with a single touch: it was his Noble wife, Uldred!
As Niklas passed another bend and frantically scurried down the next hallway he kicked a wooden bucket which had been purposefully set in the way ahead of time. Its contents immediately spilled out, spreading a pool of warm, soapy water across the cobbled stone floor just behind him. This simple, yet cunning trap caused his wife’s massive form to slip and topple into a haphazard sprawl just as she had been about to catch up to him.
“Belfort!” He cried out then, uncaring of the spittle flying from his lips, as he drew near to the end of that hallway and leapt into the door that lay open before him.
No sooner had he made it through that portal than did the two servants hiding on the other side of the wall inside slam its two heavy wooden doors shut behind him. They quickly followed that up by sliding a pair of thick iron bars across their slats to reinforce their defenses.
The young Count leaned forward over his bent knees to gasp for air as perspiration dripped down his face, which had gone red from his exertion. Even as he recovered the tremors and noise preceding the oncoming threat grew greater, before a massive CRASH rang out against the reinforced gate. Its iron bars groaned and the thick wood visibly bowed from the violent impact, but they nonetheless held firm, and after a few moments all was silent and still once more.
“G-good work lads!” Niklas panted out between heaving breaths.
Hemsley put his hands upon his hips as he strode over to stand in front of the doors peering dubiously at it. “Are you sure this will hold her?” He asked.
Belfort turned back to him and his eyes widened with sudden horror. “Don’t-” He began to cry.
“I’m jus’ sayin’, she punched down a city gate before, didn’t she?” Hemsley elaborated skeptically before the older man could continue.
The very moment after he finished speaking was when the massive, reinforced door gave way under the unyielding strength of the Monster Countess.
The heavy iron bars snapped like twigs, and the gigantic double doors the servants had used all their strength to close were toppled over as easily as if they were playing cards. Hemsley was flattened and disappeared from sight under them as the now-unblocked doorway revealed the form of a furious, four-legged creature whose eyes burned with vengeful anger.
“We must flee!” Cried Niklas as he pushed his weak, jelly-like legs to run forward once more, reaching out as he went to pull old Belfort along behind him, whose hand was also extended back in a futile attempt to save his young protege from his fate.
The two small men managed to clamber up the nearby tight spiral staircase which led to the third floor, only evading capture due to the fact that their pursuer could not comfortably fit inside it herself. Uldred was forced to squeeze herself inside and writhe like a snake crawling through a narrow tunnel to follow after them.
She finally reached the threshold of that torturously tight stair just in time to see the two small men reach the end of this next hallway, one which split off into corridors to the left and to the right. As she clambered back to all fours both men separated and darted in opposite directions and out of sight.
The primary target of her fury was her mischievous, traitorous little rat of a husband, so Uldred didn’t hesitate as she raced around the corner leading to the right, hot in pursuit of him. She turned just in time to see him cut sharply to the left at the next fork of the hall.
Considering the stark difference in their respective gaits it was only a matter of time until she caught up to him, and soon enough a long, thick arm reached its massive hand forward and grabbed the small, fleeing man by the hem of his distinct emerald-colored jacket. However, when she finally spun him around to face her, the Countess’ eyes widened in surprise, for the man now caught in her clutches was in fact old Belfort, who must have sneakily donned his master’s jacket.
He put on a small, sheepish grin, and with great irritation she tossed the old servant aside as if he was little more than a used dish-rag. Her inhuman strength sent his small body careening through the air until he crashed bodily into a cabinet full of new and gleaming china, all of which shattered with the force of his impact.
“NIKLAS!” the Countess roared out then, in a sound much resembling the howl of a Lycan who had assumed the shape of a beast beneath the light of a full moon.
With the gift of time that Belfort’s brave sacrifice had bought him, Niklas had managed to slip away to regroup with the old seamstress. With her assistance he had donned a new armor which had been set aside for the next stage of their plan: it was a sleek, well-tailored black suit pulled over a crisp white button-up shirt. The suit jacket was long-sleeved and hung down in stylish tails at the back. It resembled the uniform of a servant, except its design was grander and more elaborate, and it was made from higher quality materials to distinguish his lofty class.
No sooner had the young Count slipped on a pair of dress gloves to complete his ensemble than did the dark, writhing mass of hatred that was his wife come tearing out from around the far bend. Each door leading down the hallway and into the room he currently occupied had been purposefully left ajar so that Uldred could clearly lay her eyes upon him from a distance.
“YOU!!”
Such a cry billowed out within the strict confines of the halls with the force of a howling gale. However Niklas neither retreated nor recoiled as Uldred approached, even as she began bounding towards him like a monstrous hound coming to pounce upon its prey.
The Count stood upright and with proper poise even in the face of this terrible oncoming danger, although as she grew larger and larger within his vision with every step closer, he slowly slipped his hand behind his back to let it rest upon the hilt of some unseen weapon. His confident and steady gaze in that moment showed that the attack he had planned was one that not even she, the great warrior Countess, could hope to survive.
Meanwhile, the old seamstress’ gaze moved back and forth between the Count and Countess with an anxiety that thickened and spiraled with every passing breath.
“Hold.” Niklas commanded his aged companion, much like a commander stood before his front line troops. “Hold.”
Finally Uldred passed the final opening and joined them inside the wide room wherein the seamstress worked. She was not twelve paces from him when the small Count finally gave the command.
“Now!” He cried.
The old woman immediately passed a spear into his hand, and he then thrust its length directly towards the vengeful beast in order to bring her to heel. This spear, however, was tipped not with a blade of steel or iron, but rather with many dozens of colorful and blossoming petals growing from long green stems, which had all been bundled together with a wrapping of artisan-crafted decorative paper!
In a blink Uldred’s blazing red eyes cooled and transformed back to an enchanting, deep violet. Still on all fours, she hurriedly slammed both of her hands to the ground to brake her momentum, and such force it was that she cracked the polished stone floor beneath her, as she skid to a halt directly in front of Niklas.
“Uldred!” He cried, holding his enormous, vibrant bouquet aloft between them. “Would you do me the honor of being my partner for the Founding Day Ball?”
The Countess’ face contorted into an expression of sheer terror. Nothing remotely like this had ever happened to her before, and the sudden and drastic shifts in her emotions put her mind into a state of whiplash. For a long moment she could do nothing but stand frozen in place, with wide eyes and gritted teeth.
But after the moment had passed she recovered enough of her senses to take in the space around her. The room in which the three of them now stood—or four of them, if you counted Finona as she peered meekly inside from the open doorway—was lined with massive wooden figures, the height and width of each mirroring Uldred’s proportions, and distributed and displayed across them were a veritable forest of different, finely-tailored garments. There were dresses and cloaks for various occasions, casual-wear and riding suits, and even practical apparel made for travel and protection. Yet amongst the numerous and splendid outfits, the most eye-catching piece of them all stood several paces directly behind Niklas himself.
If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
What the central mannequin wore was a grand gown, although the dress was less structured and looked as though it was meant to flow as the wearer moved about. Its light, silky fabric was dyed with varied hues of black and dark purple in equal parts, and accented with gleaming silver trim and studded with many tiny, polished amethysts that glimmered like stars in a twilit sky.
Slowly, reverently, Uldred raised her hands and clasped them over her mouth, and the image of that heavenly gown blurred as tears began to well up in her eyes.
Finally, the fatal blow that struck to the core of her heart was the bouquet of flowers which Niklas had used to bulwark against her fury. They were violet, perfectly matching her eyes, but she still could make out a few at the bottom-right hand side which had begun to wither and turn gray. Niklas immediately noticed the direction of her gaze and awkwardly cleared his throat.
“I-It is a bit difficult to receive fresh flowers from as far as the capital before they start to fade.” Niklas said sheepishly. But even before he had finished speaking, Uldred had already scooped the bouquet from his grasp with an uncharacteristically delicate touch.
“They’re… perfect.” Uldred breathed out in an enraptured voice, barely louder than a whisper.
Her face was alight with wonderment despite being streaked with tear-tracks. Now it was Niklas’ turn to have his mouth and eyes open wide in astonishment, for in all their days together he had never seen this fearsome, dour woman wear such a bright expression of pure joy. Her dumbfounded, messy, weeping smile in that moment was like a beam of pure sunlight brighter than any Petrice had seen in the centuries since it was first founded.
The adrenaline which had coursed through Niklas’ bloodstream faded then, yet in its wake his heart continued to thump loudly in his throat as it supported the scarlet flush which had colored his entire face. Altogether, he found himself suddenly becoming quite lightheaded, and he stumbled backwards into the startled hands of the old seamstress.
“I can’t believe I made it..!” He declared weakly, his overtaxed body feeling as flimsy as parchment now that they had pacified the imminent danger.
The old lady rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated huff, releasing her hold upon the young Count to let him tumble down to his seat on the floor, with attitude of someone discarding an old, empty sack.
“So, what are we going to do about you, then?” She asked.
“Huh?” Was all that Niklas could say in surprise as he blinked up at her. “...I’m sorry, what do you mean?”
The old seamstress’ wizened face was split by a devilish grin then, one that somehow reminded him of his elder sister. When he was a youngster, she would loom wickedly over him whenever she caught him engaging in some kind of mischief.
“You see, my Lord Count: when nobles are paired together, so too is their attire.”
Niklas’ eyes grew wide as saucers as a cold shiver ran down his spine.
“W-wait!” He stammered. “Surely, surely I can just wear the clothes that I brought with me?”
But his vain protestation went unheard, as the old woman had already snatched the back of his collar to hoist him upright. In the next moment she was already busy dragging him away towards the far door, lecturing him as they went.
“Of course you can’t use those. Her purple gown, paired with a green jacket? No, that won’t do at all!” The old woman cackled like a witch luring wayward children to her black cauldron, never to be seen again.
In a final desperate plea, Niklas reached out his hand towards his wife. “Uldred! Help me!” He cried.
Up to that point the Countess had still maintained her astonished, radiant and beautiful smile, yet now she let her face fall into a dark and twisted cheshire grin. Making no move to save him from his fate, she merely put up one hand and waved goodbye to him as he was tugged insistently through the doorway and out of sight.
“No!” Was all he could cry before the heavy wooden door swung shut behind them, leaving Uldred to admire her exquisite wardrobe in peace.
Clang!
A man clad in full plate stumbled back from the force of impact as his opponent’s strike landed. Although he had properly caught the mighty blow using the base of his sword, the sheer power behind it overwhelmed him, driving him off his feet.
Through the cage visor he wore beneath his skullcap helm, Brudwyn van der Leigh grinned widely as the first man staggered. Intent on pressing the advantage against his vulnerable prey, he lowered his head and charged forward like a rampaging bull.
Yet even while thrown off balance, his opponent was no rank amateur. As an experienced knight van der Leigh in his own right, he grit his teeth, forcibly regained balance and braced himself for their next exchange.
Several more blows rang out as they continued their fight. The knight circled right at a brisk pace, denying Brudwyn the space to muster his full strength. His confident, wolfish grin lingered only another moment before his expression hardened into its usual mask of cold, practiced stoicism.
“Bruder! You’re too slow.” roared the Knight-Captain from the sidelines. “All that muscle’s no good to you if you’re too busy playing catch-up to use it!”
The two combatants locked blades once more—but Brudwyn suddenly wrenched his sword back with an odd motion, not unlike a man sawing through a log.
“Oops!” he barked.
The ill-timed maneuver threw him off balance, and his opponent seized the moment in turn. A flurry of blows rained down upon the noble heir, too swift and precise for him to parry them all. Brudwyn was unable to prevent several strikes from glancing off his armor, each one stinging even through the sturdy metal plates.
“If that had been his true sword, you’d have been disarmed already.” the Knight-Captain chided the other knight from the sidelines even as he continued with his assault. “Never let Brudwyn lock his blade with yours!”
As Brudwyn was forced back and neared the edge of the sandy training pit, his opponent then stepped forward, raising his sword for a final, decisive swing. But in that very moment, Brudwyn swept his back foot in a wide arc, instantaneously pivoting himself around to the man’s other side, and then he lunged.
The knight stumbled as the surprise attack hit its mark, skidding to a halt just within the legal bounds of the match—so Brudwyn struck again. His opponent managed to twist on his heel to face him, deflecting several of the heavy blows despite the weight of his armor, but a solid boot to the chestplate sent him sprawling backward upon the hard-packed dirt.
“Stop!” called the Knight-Captain, even as the fallen knight somersaulted back onto his feet, sword still held at the ready. “You’re out of bounds.”
“Dammit!” the knight growled, tearing off his helmet. A tangle of long blond hair spilled free, damp with sweat.
Rather than basking in his victory, Brudwyn’s attention had already drifted elsewhere.
Across the field, on the next practice ring over, two more armored figures traded blows. Where Brudwyn’s bout had been a contest of strength and speed, this was one marked by grace and precision. After all, anything Lady Frith took part in became an act of elegance, even combat.
Her fighting style was like a firmly rooted tree with flexible swinging branches—her lower body was steady, her strikes economical, and her technique refined. Every blow that struck her guard was immediately followed by a riposte, often delivered in the same fluid movement that had first parried the strike. In this way, as her opponent pressed their attack, it was they who grew more haggard and weary for their efforts.
With a lazy turn of her head, she noticed her brother’s duel had ended. Then—almost idly, as if she had been merely toying with her opponent up til that moment—she struck him twice: once at his knee and then at the back of his helm. The other knight collapsed in a heap, huffing out a dazed and weary ‘yield’ soon after..
Brudwyn, who was himself still gasping in air and slick with sweat from his own fight, watched with a mixture of awe and irritation as his twin removed her helm and shook loose her long, brilliant hair. She looked incomprehensibly immaculate, as if ready to step out of her armor and into a formal gown at a moment’s notice..
That bitch… He thought as he grit his teeth. Was she watching me this whole time, even as she was in the middle of a duel herself?!
Feeling both embarrassed and emasculated despite his hard-won victory, the large man tossed his weapon aside like so much refuse before he turned on his heel and stomped away. Ser Glorifeld followed close behind him, clutching a length of hastily scrawled-upon vellum in his hands.
“A report of your progress, my lord,” the Knight-Captain offered. “What you should improve upon and what you should pursue further. I’ll have another knight ready for hard sparring tomorrow morn.”
“No. I want that one again,” Brudwyn replied, shooting a glare over his shoulder at his former opponent.
The knight with the long blond hair and trimmed goatee met his mean look with one of equal hostility.
“I haven’t put him in his place properly, it seems,” Brudwyn added, his mouth curling into a pompous, gloating smile.
“With respect, Master Bruder,” said Ser Glorifeld carefully, “not many will be satisfied with an out-of-bounds victory—especially with the Grand Tourney approaching.”
The Knight-Captain referred to the grand contest of martial prowess held each year alongside the Founding’s Day festivities. Swordsmen and women from every noble house would compete under the banner of Noblesse Oblige, while for those of lower birth, it was their greatest fighting chance to gain recognition and rise in station through diligence and skill.
“The Countess of Petrice... a Flamberge,” Brudwyn mused aloud, mostly speaking to himself. “Surely she’ll be taking part as well?”
“I... suppose, my Lord,” Ser Glorifeld replied, his tone uncertain.
Brudwyn removed his helmet, openly revealing the hungry, wolfish grin stretched across his face.
Thanks to the farcical marriage Father used to exile the runt, I’ve not been able to blow off steam the way I used to.
He then looked down at his clenched fist, gnashing his teeth as bitter thoughts consumed his focus.
Just imagine how my stock will rise if I defeat one of those overrated mercenaries from Petrice—and I’ll get to see the look on my brother’s face when I do... two birds with one stone!
He chuckled to himself, low and self-satisfied, as the embers of his rage were doused by a wave of sweet, sadistic anticipation. All of the while Ser Glorifeld watched his future Lord’s fluctuating emotions with quiet unease.
