Hohenfels

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

As Friedrich stormed down into the arena to grab a semi-blunt practice weapon, Arne leaned back in his seat. ‘This is perhaps the worst possible way to start our stay at the academy,’ he silently despaired. They had immediately gotten roped into a very violent and very public conflict with a ducal house. Depending on the outcome of this battle, Friedrich’s – and by extension, his – reputation at the academy might start off heavily tarnished. ‘Mother would cry tears of blood…’

“I greet Young Lord Arnold of Hohenfels.” While Arne was lost in his thoughts, a young man with dark hair and a very prominent nose had approached him and was now bowing in the manner of the northern countships. The emblem on his chest reminded Arne of Landgrave von Schonach’s coat of arms, but the variations denoted him as a member of a somewhat distant branch family.

“Prince,” he absentmindedly corrected.

“Ah, I- Uh, I deeply apologize, Prince Arnold. Please forgive my transgression!” Shock. Surprise. Annoyance.

“Consider it forgotten. The change in title is a recent development after all,” he offered the still bowing young man. “Who am I talking to?”

“I must apologize again, Prince Arnold. My name is–”

Both of them winced when the initial exchange between the fighters produced a horrible sound of clashing metal, accompanied by a gust of wind.

“Ahem. My name is August von Schonach-Arfeld. I hope your voyage to Halden went smoothly, Your Highness?” August had reasonable control over his aura, more than enough to ward off any tentative probing by his peers. Unfortunately for him, it was far from enough to keep Arne in the dark about his utter disinterest in the prince’s well-being.

‘And so it begins,’ Arne complained to himself, bracing for the type of conversation he hated most.

Down in the arena, Klara von Eisenberg felt like a fool. Well, not quite as foolish as the backwater idiot right in front of her, but still – this was, perhaps, the worst possible way to begin her stay at the academy. Why did she have to insult the Hohenfels heirs in such a crude way? With an audience, as well?

She involuntarily paused her self-deprecating contemplations, as her opponent’s heavy saber crashed down on her in a wide arc. She avoided it gracefully, noting grudgingly that it would have been extremely dangerous to face head-on.

Klara’s smallsword struck out in response, stabbing – though not quite penetrating – his shoulder as he recovered from the swing. The brute let out a ferocious roar befitting his savage ancestry and continued his aggressive assault.

There was no point in letting him dictate the flow, so she seized the initiative. A well-aimed stab at his face made Friedrich flinch away instinctively and left him open for a followup attack. She released her hold on her magic, let it flow freely through her legs, and took a lightning-fast step forward. Her sword lashed out painfully at his upper thigh to reduce his mobility, eliciting another roar.

Now it was only a matter of repetition. Let the savage’s instincts work against him, tire him out. Death by a thousand cuts. The best way to deal with his ilk.

She flooded her legs with magic again, this time approaching from a different angle to avoid falling into patterns. She stabbed at his neck–

–and doubled over when his magically reinforced fist impacted her solar plexus with a painful ‘thud’, sending her flying.

It took all her experience and self-control to land safely, struggle back on her feet, and avoid vomiting on the arena floor.

‘Shit.’

Friedrich von Hohenfels-Steinberg was furious. That damnable woman was absolutely humiliating him! So far, he had only gotten a single hit in, while she was chipping away at his defenses, and more importantly, his self-control. Something he had precious little of anyway, at least according to Father.

At least he had the satisfaction of seeing the dainty princess almost lose her breakfast to his punch.

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He steeled himself, shook off the persistent aches in his arms and legs, and took up his stance once more. ‘What would Lisa do here?’

His Father’s commanding voice rang mercilessly in his head. ‘Approach in Plow Guard. Parry her toothpick, then an upward cut into Ox Guard.’

Allowing her to take the initiative again was out of the question. He had to press the advantage now, before she managed to recover from his blow.

Friedrich charged.

Up in the seating area, both Arne and the minor noble whose name he hadn’t bothered to remember had long forgotten their meaningless conversation. They were engrossed in the intense battle unfolding down in the sand.

After Friedrich had sent the princess flying, the atmosphere in the arena had shifted. The constantly growing audience, who had previously seemed almost disinterested, were now raptly following every exchange. The two fighters’ styles were as different as they could be, but neither seemed to have the advantage, at least at first glance. Princess Klara’s immense magical reserves apparently matched Friedrich’s sheer stubbornness and raw talent.

Arne, however, could feel a good deal more from their now completely uninhibited auras. Klara’s iron grip on her magic was growing brittle, a clear sign of strain. Friedrich’s mental state was spiraling out of control, and his countless minor injuries obviously infuriated him. It was only a matter of time before one of them would fall.

Personally, he would put his money on Friedrich winning. While his cousin’s talent was nowhere near the levels of his own, it was prodigious in its own right, not dissimilar to Lisa’s. Their aura senses, when employed in the unrestrained environment of direct combat, afforded them an uncanny intuition for their opponents’ next move, something other houses could only achieve through decades of specialized magical training. This gift had given House Hohenfels a well-deserved reputation as fearsome warriors and brilliant duelists.

“Haaah!” Friedrich’s scream rang through the arena, as he attacked his rapidly retreating opponent with yet another wide swing. Klara tried to dodge, but her dwindling magical power slowed her down. Blood splattered into the sand as his saber opened a wide cut on her shoulder.

“Who’s the dog now, huh?!” he shouted, eyes blazing with fury.

Klara hissed at him, spitting some insult that he was too far away to hear. Friedrich, however, was not. He fell for the obvious bait and charged her mindlessly.

She dodged with none of the earlier grace to be seen, and rammed her sword into his side, drawing blood once again. Klara desperately struggled to stay upright, having exhausted every drop of magic in her body. Friedrich fell on one knee, clutching his side – and then, as if overcome by madness, started to rise again.

“Enough.”

Arne heard his own voice ring through the arena, every face turning towards him as it grew deathly quiet.

“Friedrich, do not disgrace yourself. This battle is over,” he stated as calmly as he could, growing more nervous with every word. ‘Don’t let it show. Don’t let it show.’

“But Arne–”

“Silence. Princess Klara, would you be willing to consider this a temporary draw?”

“That is–” she wheezed painfully, “acceptable, for now.”

“Very well. Friedrich, with me.”

“...Yes, Prince.”

Their brisk walk back to Hohenfels Hall was a quiet affair, only interrupted by instances of Friedrich spitting blood into the grass. After Arne successfully dragged him up the stairs and into his suite, he went to grab medical supplies from the Castellan’s office and began patching his cousin up. His wounds, though undoubtedly fatal to a commoner, would be healed within a few days thanks to the salve he applied and Friedrich’s own resilience.

“Arne, I could have beaten her!” he finally complained, breaking the silence.

“Yes, probably. But it would not have been worth it.”

“What do you–”

“Brutalizing a duke’s daughter before classes even begin is not a good look, you know.”

“She started it!”

“Technically, you accepted her open challenge. She goaded you, and you fell for it like a fool.”

“But–”

“The way it ended is the best possible outcome in this situation. Get your revenge another day, all right?”

Friedrich heaved a long sigh that ended in a very anticlimactic cough and a few droplets of blood landing on his pillow. “Fine. And sorry for the trouble.”

“Don’t worry about it. Now wash up and get some rest, yeah?”

As Arne turned to leave and take a well-earned bath, he almost missed his cousin’s uncharacteristically quiet plea.

“Hey… Don’t tell my Father or Lisa about this, please?” Desperation. Shame.

“...Sure thing. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”