Chapter 66

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Valeri waited in the preparation tent for his next match. Outside, he could hear the hubbub of the crowd.

Wearing only his trousers, he sat on a chair cooling off while Ivy fanned him diligently. Lucas and Yorik were guarding the horses, and Knut was cleaning and inspecting his fighting gear.

For tournaments and duels like these, it was customary to entrust the inspection of one's equipment to the person one trusted most. A fighter could do it alone, of course, but needed someone else's help to settle his nerves, maintain his concentration, and enter the fight in peak condition. That was why knights traveled with squires.

"There's quite a lot of blood on this," Knut said.

Valeri had sliced through Walter's neck with his sword only partly drawn, apparently leaving a great deal of blood on the scabbard. If it dried and stuck, it could cause trouble in the next fight.

"It's fine. Just give it a quick wipe."

With another match coming up, he could hardly replace the scabbard now. Scabbards had to be made to order to fit a sword's length and thickness. The one Valeri used had been made by the dwarf Regin, but scabbards were essentially consumables. Being dwarven-made did not give it the near-permanent durability of a blade.

"That's enough. Wipe me down instead."

Valeri took the fan, little more than a thin wooden board, from Ivy as he spoke. She soaked a towel in water and wiped his back. He could feel her hands trembling.

A deep groove ran along his spine. Well-developed muscles bulged around his shoulder blades, and his long, broad back muscles tapered to a narrow waist, forming a perfect inverted triangle. To the young girl, this seemed less a difference between man and woman than between entirely different species.

Above all, whenever Valeri moved even slightly, his muscles rippled as though some enormous insect were moving beneath his skin. It gave her a strange, unfamiliar feeling—fascination mixed with revulsion and an odd attraction. In a way, it was shocking.

"How's the priest doing? Sigbold, I mean."

Entirely oblivious to Ivy, Valeri addressed Knut. Sigbold had entered the combat contest rather than the joust.

"Oh, he's smashing them even bare-handed. You're the one in danger, Valeri. Swordsmanship is your specialty."

Skill certainly mattered in jousting, but mindset, concentration, and above all courage mattered far more. Luck played a part, too.

Merely holding a lance in one hand on a jostling horse was difficult. Aiming its tip at an opponent and keeping it as steady as possible all the way through demanded tremendous concentration, stamina, and strength. Neither horse nor rider could afford to hesitate.

The slightest fear made the lance tip waver, and that tiny difference decided the outcome. In other words, this was a different matter from competing through finely honed technique.

The most important factor was the horse. In truth, a horse's capabilities accounted for seventy or eighty percent of a joust's outcome. The rider's skill and luck made up the remaining twenty or thirty percent.

Of course, owning a good horse and handling it well could also be called ability—or skill.

Valeri was good at jousting because he had fought countless battles before returning to the past. What those experiences had taught him was that shrinking back and hesitating only made a man more likely to die.

On the battlefield, there were men who walked boldly upright even beneath a rain of arrows, leaving their fate to luck. Surprisingly, such men seldom died.

One misstep would send them straight to the next world, of course. But once a man developed some sense that let him detect or even control those missteps, he became a seasoned veteran, a warrior worth a hundred men.

There were distinctions even among such warriors, but that was roughly where Valeri had stood before his return. Now that he had awakened the power of the rune and become an Einheri, he could not judge his precise level.

Without passing through the great sieve of war, there was no knowing what powerful fighters the world held, or how far a human being could grow.

Valeri took the towel from Ivy and wiped his front himself. Once his body and mind had recovered somewhat and he felt settled again, he put on a thin shirt and went outside.

The arena greeted him with its distinctive taste of dust. Judging by the cheers he had heard inside the tent, there had been about two matches. By the time he emerged, the last match of the first round was just getting underway.

"The final contestant of the first round! Another newcomer! Will he cause a sensation like the Frog Prince? Or suffer an ignominious defeat? He's hopped all the way from the south! The Red Rabbit—Siguuurd!"

The herald shouted the introduction. Hearing the nickname, Knut remarked,

"What kind of nickname is that?"

"Have you no shame?"

Valeri's entry into the joust as the Frog Prince had been a sheer accident, and Knut was the one who had caused it.

"What? Frogs? Frogs are cute."

"Aren't rabbits cute, too?"

"Have you never seen rabbits mating, Valeri? I saw it when I was little, and I've been put off them ever since."

"Frogs mate, too..."

"I've never seen that."

While Valeri and Knut bantered pointlessly, the contestant called the Red Rabbit entered the arena.

Surely no contestant had ever been more flamboyant. He seemed to have sacrificed safety for style: no matter how one looked at them, his armor, helmet, and shield were not tournament equipment.

His helmet had a faceplate like an iron mask, fashioned into an expressionless human face, with wings attached to either side. It looked ceremonial, suited neither to tournaments nor real combat.

His scale armor gleamed gold—could it actually be gilded?

Most magnificent of all was his horse. It was so red one could scarcely believe such a horse existed. With its mane streaming, he looked as though he rode a flame.

He seemed to glance around before taking his position. Once both contestants were in place, the herald shouted,

"Begin the match! Begin the match!"

The two horses burst forward with explosive speed.

THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD!

Without consciously trying, Valeri watched their bout with a keen eye. The Red Rabbit's opponent aimed his lance at his face.

At that distance, the shield was the proper target, but aiming at the face was one technique for making an opponent flinch. He was probably exploiting the fact that the Red Rabbit was not wearing a tournament helmet.

But the Red Rabbit did not flinch at all.

THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD!

THUMP! CRACK!

The Red Rabbit's opponent all but flew into the air before falling from his horse. His fall was so clean that his injuries did not seem severe.

The watching crowd erupted in admiration, and the herald cried,

"The winner! The Red Raaabbit!"

After winning, the Red Rabbit circled the arena as though showing off. The eyes visible through the holes in his faceplate were so blue that their color was clear even from a distance.

As he approached the spot where Valeri and his friends stood, their eyes met. He pointed at Valeri, then drew a hand across his throat.

"?"

Bewildered, Valeri pointed at himself as if to ask, Me? But the Red Rabbit simply rode away without answering.

"He's as bold as he is flashy. Does he see you as a rival because you're both newcomers?" Knut said.

"More importantly, isn't that a woman?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't know. Something about them just seemed like a woman."

There were occasional women warriors known as shieldmaidens, or skjaldmær, but they were not a common sight.

Of course, Valeri had no intention of losing to anyone, man or woman. He took the gesture directed at him as a bit of theater to stir up interest. Popularity raised the value of one's name, after all.

Valeri fought once more after noon, winning cleanly this time without descending into a brawl. The Red Rabbit also won his next match.

That left Valeri and the Red Rabbit to face each other in the final. It had been a long time since two newcomers had reached the final together in the tournaments held since the Valkyrie began seeking a husband.

Excited by the appearance of new contenders, people flocked to the arena in greater numbers than usual. Rumors were already spreading everywhere, fact mixed with exaggeration: the Frog Prince was as handsome as a real prince, the Red Rabbit wore armor made of gold.

Returning to the preparation area after the second match, the Red Rabbit flung off the stifling helmet first. It revealed a flushed, fair face: none other than Brynhild's.

Her hair was tied up, with stray wisps plastered to her face by sweat. With the help of her friend and bodyguard Randgrid, she removed her armor, then immediately stripped off her gambeson to cool down.

She wiped her neck with a wet towel and raised her arms to wipe her armpits. Tugging aside the undergarment that bound her breasts tightly, she wiped thoroughly beneath it, then fanned herself vigorously.

"Whew. Now I can breathe."

Randgrid brushed the dust off her friend's armor and hung it neatly on its stand.

"It's the final."

"I know."

"Be careful. Above all, don't fight him with swords. If he unhorses you, accept defeat gracefully."

An Einheri herself, Randgrid had recognized at once from Valeri's first match that he was no ordinary fighter.

Highly skilled fighters tended to value judgment and decisive action more than technique. Rather than struggle to stay mounted, Valeri had immediately applied a wrestling move; he had wrapped his arm around his opponent's head and sliced through his neck with a partly drawn sword. Such details had immediately struck her as out of the ordinary.

"If he cut off a head from that position, his sword is no ordinary blade. It must be at least as good as an Ulfberht."

"Well, more importantly, am I hoping to lose right now, or do I want to win?"

"He was handsome. Wouldn't he do?"

"... It's not so much that. His eyes were a little..."

"What about his eyes?"

"... He looked pitiful."

"He's not someone you should pity. Worry about yourself."

Randgrid did not fully understand what Brynhild meant. She merely undid her friend's hair and tied it back up again as she spoke.

"I hope you won't need it, but I'll lend you my sword."

She unfastened her sword from her belt and handed it over, scabbard and all. It was a dwarven steel sword named Fate—Urðr.

Brynhild accepted it, gazed at it for a moment, then said,

"Thank you. One of us is going to die."

There was a superstition about dwarven steel swords: their blades were so durable and sharp as to be almost magical, and once drawn, they would inevitably hurt someone. Their owner or their enemy.

A fairly long interval was allowed before the final so that both contestants could rest fully. The match took place near sunset.

The red evening sun shone over the city and arena as Valeri appeared in his plain tournament gear and familiar frog-mouth helm. Brynhild's equipment was already in shades of red, and in the sunset's glow she looked like something from a dream.

As befitted the final, the herald introduced the two with even greater vigor and volume. But whether because of the hour or because he was wearing a helmet, his voice sounded muffled to Valeri, like something heard underwater.

Unable to make out much of what was being said, he simply took his position. It was the same for Brynhild.

Brynhild kept repeating to herself that she wanted to win, wanted to lose, wanted to win, wanted to lose.

She felt both relief that she might finally find a husband and fear that doing so would mean the end of her life.

This was not a matter of choice. It was something she had to confront head-on. If her opponent lost, he was not husband material. If she lost... she did not know.

It was no good entering a match with a troubled mind. When the herald announced the start, she changed her thinking in an instant.

She would kill him. Or die herself.

The black horse and the red horse kicked off the earth and charged.

THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD!

Charging furiously toward each other, the horses flashed past one another like lightning.

THUMP! CRACK!

Both lances broke at once, and both riders snapped backward at the waist. The broken lances fell to the ground and bounced violently.

CLATTER! CLACK! CLACK!

Fortunately, neither rider fell entirely from the saddle. Almost flat on their backs, their bodies jolted limply as their horses reached the ends of the lists.

Valeri felt his consciousness vanish for an instant, then return. Before he had even sat up, he shouted,

"A lance! Bring me a lance!"

An attendant hurried over with one. As though aware of his master's desperate condition, Snow lifted his forelegs high and wheeled around.

NEIGH!

Valeri hastily braced himself and found his balance.

But Snow did not wait to move in concert with him. He charged wildly forward, heedless. Astonishingly, the same was happening to Brynhild.

Valeri's lance tip wavered violently. So did his opponent's. Both struggled to keep aiming at the other's shield until the very end.

THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD!

CRAAACK!

They passed one another again, and once more both riders snapped backward. Neither was unhorsed.

Cries of wonder and dismay rose from the densely packed crowd.

Valeri lost consciousness completely. What brought him back were his friends' shouts.

"Valeri!"

His eyes flew open. He forced himself—forced himself—to sit up. Looking hastily back at his opponent, he saw the other rider struggling upright as well.

An attendant brought him another tournament lance, but Valeri waved it away, discarded even his shield, and charged with Wound drawn. Lance or whatever else stood in his way, he intended to cut through it and kill his opponent.

Though his head swam, his eyes seemed to blaze. This battering, hardly an injury yet an injury nonetheless, had stirred his fighting spirit for the first time in ages.

Perhaps it was because Valeri was a Nord after all, or perhaps it was his bloodline. The more he was hurt, the greater his fury grew, driving him into a fight to the death.

His was a temperament that would not be satisfied until one of them was dead.

Seeing him, Brynhild drew her own sword and charged without hesitation.

Unlike when he held a lance, Valeri rose slightly out of the saddle and pointed his sword at his opponent. Brynhild held hers raised to strike downward.

When the two blades met, an enormous metallic clang rang out.

CLAAANG!

Spectators clapped their hands over their ears in pain as a sword flew spinning through the air. Was it over? Whose sword was it?

It did not matter. Even as the blades met, Valeri had hooked his arm around his opponent's and forcibly hauled the rider off the horse, dragging them along. It was a close-combat technique for unhorsing an opponent in mounted combat.

Caught in Valeri's arm and pulled from her horse, Brynhild was dragged against the central barrier, her armor scraping along it.

THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD! THUDDA-THUD!

SCREEEEEECH!

As Valeri tried to throw her down, Brynhild instead wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and hung on.

Still dizzy from the earlier impacts, Valeri finally fell from his horse at the end of the lists.

They tumbled together and grappled briefly on the ground. In the struggle, both their helmets came off.

Valeri swiftly straddled her, seized her hair, and pinned her head down, pressing Wound's edge against her throat. Their eyes met.

She looked about his own age. But he seemed utterly oblivious to that, staring down with his characteristic intensity as though he would burn her alive.

Brynhild, by contrast, looked unexpectedly unburdened. That blazing gaze seemed to burn away all the frustration and resentment in her chest. With the matter settled and no regrets left, she felt strangely relieved.

"Say you've lost."

Whether he understood any of that or not, Valeri spoke in a growl. Yet Brynhild showed neither surprise nor fear. She answered with a gentle smile.

"Not even if you kill me."

"Then die."

Valeri pressed Wound down like a chopping blade, intending to slice through Brynhild's neck.

Just then, the herald shouted,

"The champion! Valeriiii!"

Valeri's hand stopped before he could kill Brynhild. For a while, he looked down at her and she looked up at him.

The fury blazing in his eyes slowly cooled.

"My head hurts. Let go..."

Brynhild spoke with a slight grimace. Only then did Valeri release her hair and stand.

He staggered away with his sword, Wound, in hand. His head swam so badly that he could not even sheath it. One wrong move and he would stab his own hand.

His friends hurried over to take charge of Snow and help Valeri walk.

As he walked, he saw the sword that had flown far away and embedded itself in the ground.

It was the sword named Fate.

Part 15 — The Frog Prince and the Rabbit Princess. End.