Chapter 22: Kill That Bastard Lord
"Father!"
"Walker!"
Two sharply different cries of alarm rang out. Arthur and Florian glared fiercely at each other across the courtyard, their expressions equally terrifying.
"Don't be rash! It's all a misunderstanding!" Ignatius frantically waved his hands, turning back to Arthur with a tear-stained face: "My Lord, there must be some misunderstanding here you know Walker?"
Arthur's knuckles were white, and the sword's edge performed a dangerous little pas de deux near the Lord's neck: "Walker is my friend. What did he do that you would treat him like this?"
"Walker is your friend? You… I… he…" Sweat instantly beaded on Ignatius's forehead. He tried to salvage his life by saying something, but in the end, he could only choke out: "The Vyrillis family is willing to compensate you for all your losses. Please accept my condolences…"
"Hehehehe…" Arthur let out a hoarse laugh. In his ear, Kolgrim's earlier prophecy about Hoffer Village echoed: "The Lord has already gained the advantage; he shouldn't retaliate too fiercely… at most, he'll demolish Hoffer Village, and perhaps no one will even die. The matter will be over."
Even a Witcher who had traveled the North for over a decade had misjudged this situation…
He suddenly released Ignatius and flashed him a gentle smile: "Compensation won't be necessary…"
The sword flashed, making a sharp whooshing sound as it cut the air. Before the smile could even form on Ignatius's face, his head spun high into the air: "Offer your condolences to your son, too."
"Father!" Florian cried out again, his voice mixed with sorrow and possibly excitement. He slammed his hand down: "Kill them both!"
The courtyard erupted into chaos. The retainers behind the young Lord rushed forward, brandishing their blades and spears, while the old Lord's men, almost all unarmed, scrambled towards the corners.
The steward was the worst off, stuck between Arthur and Kolgrim, wanting to run but too terrified to move. His body shook like a sieve as he muttered to himself: "Plug your ears, or do you want to get stabbed?"
Arthur didn't use the Battle Cry. Instead, he handed the bastard sword to Kolgrim: "Don't join the fight. Just protect yourself."
"And you?" Kolgrim asked.
Arthur reversed his grip, pressing the mechanism on the scabbard, and the long hilt of the Temerian Silver Blade fell into his hand. He swung the massive sword a few times. The great blade was agile and tame, and a surge of exhilaration welled up in his heart.
He didn't use the Battle Cry immediately the soldiers here weren't exceptionally well-equipped or well-trained. This was a perfect opportunity to practice his new weapon!
"Don't be afraid! It's only two people!" Florian hid behind the crowd, shouting desperately for the soldiers to attack bravely.
The soldiers exchanged glances and instinctively spread out when facing a greatsword, launching probing attacks from multiple directions was the safest tactic.
But Florian yelled in exasperation: "Protect me, you fools!"
One spear-wielding soldier hesitated slightly, creating a momentary gap between himself and the others. Arthur did not miss the opportunity. His footwork was like the wind, and he was instantly upon the pikeman.
"Ah!" The pikeman thrust his spear, but he missed his timing. The spearhead slowed down a foot short of Arthur. When he tried to retreat, the greatsword whistled, slicing the spear shaft cleanly in half.
Clang.
The pikeman tried to flee, but as he turned, he realized Arthur was actually advancing alongside him. He let me go? The moment this thought surfaced, the pikeman suddenly felt himself falling uncontrollably. He hit the ground and immediately began to roll.
As he rolled, he saw a pair of legs, severed at the waist, slowly kneeling to the ground.
The soldiers were already afraid of the greatsword, a massive killing tool on the battlefield. Now, seeing the horrific death of the pikeman, they scrambled to flee out the gate.
"Don't run! The first one to kill this fellow will be made a Knight!" Florian grabbed a soldier, snatching a shield from his hand, and screamed hysterically: "The one who wounds him can choose a family from the village to be their serf!"
The Lord allowing his subordinates to choose serfs was tantamount to tacitly endorsing their independence.
Those who had been running slowed down, and the bolder ones actually turned back, forming a ragged line, attempting to try their luck again.
"Archers in the corner tower!" After forcing back one of Arthur's attacks, a veteran began trying to take command.
"We don't have enough competent archers!" someone shouted.
"Just pull the bowstring! Shoot from close range!" the veteran snapped, thrusting his spear forward like lightning. When Arthur swung his sword to cut it down, the spear was already withdrawn.
The move was truly skillful. A low cheer erupted among the men, and they instinctively began to gravitate toward the veteran.
Florian was still yelling and demanding the soldiers rush in and butcher Arthur, but no one was listening to him anymore.
Someone ran toward the corner tower, but halfway up, they let out a scream, throwing their arms wide as they tumbled head over heels down the stairs.
Kolgrim was sitting quite leisurely on the steps, holding up a dining knife: "Do you want to try this out? At this distance, a throwing knife is much faster than an arrow."
The Witcher's intervention completely shattered the soldiers' morale. They exchanged glances and immediately turned to run.
"You dogs! Don't run!" Arthur had no intention of letting these blood-soaked men escape.
He flicked his toe, launching a broken spear shaft from the ground towards the rope holding up the portcullis. The spear accurately struck the center of the rope, but the gate merely shuddered slightly; it didn't fall immediately.
The emergency gate used to close off the fort was an iron-over-wood structure, so heavy it required a winch to be raised, and the supporting rope was thicker than a man's arm. Although Arthur's throw had severed the rope halfway, it hadn't snapped completely.
"Run! If you don't run now, you're dead!" The veteran, with the most experience, immediately saw that the remaining rope wouldn't hold for long. He dropped his weapon and armor as he ran, quickly snatching the lead in the fleeing group.
"I told you, no one is leaving!"
Seeing the frontrunners approaching the gatehouse, Arthur grabbed Ignatius's rapier and flung it at the remaining rope. The exquisite noble's longsword cut a dazzling arc through the air, embedding itself in the brick-and-stone wall, right next to the broken spear.
This time, the remaining rope could no longer bear the weight of a thousand pounds. With a sharp snap, it broke completely.
Gravity, like a demon, dragged the portcullis down, gathering speed with every inch. The soldiers screamed in horror and despair, stopping in their tracks. Only the veteran threw himself forward in a desperate leap, attempting to snatch a sliver of life from beneath the descending gate!
Fate did not favor the brave man. The veteran was, after all, old, and his burst of speed was far inferior to the younger men. His upper body managed to escape into the gatehouse, but his waist and legs were crushed to the ground by the heavy portcullis. Red liquid spurted and hissed, staining the ground, walls, and the gate itself with a bloody splatter.
Listening to the veteran's inhuman shriek, one of the soldiers suddenly broke into hysterical laughter, charging Arthur with a short sword.
"Haha, haha, we're dead!"
Arthur swung the greatsword, mercilessly cutting down the fool looking for death: "Come on! Don't think I'll let any of you go." He lowered one end of the greatsword to the ground, adopting a somewhat unorthodox Fool's Guard a stance that sometimes indicated a swordsman's stamina was flagging.
"Kill him, or we'll all die!" Someone yelled. The soldiers swarmed him.
"Die! Die!" A pikeman in front screamed, thrusting his long spear at Arthur through tears. The greatsword, however, effortlessly parried the spear upward, and the pikeman's vision spun into darkness as he was lifted into the air.
Someone tried to flank and attack from the side. Before he could get close, the rapidly whirling greatsword swept across his neck. He clutched his throat, stumbled out of the fight, and staggered toward the portcullis, but collapsed five or six steps away.
.......
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