The hunt had ended quickly. Adebar had not enjoyed the ride back as much as the chase, and he kept his distance from the other participants. The Count’s words had struck at the core of Adebar’s tortured soul. Yes, the bonds of blood were very tight. He felt them, shackles on his guilty hands.

By the time they returned with their catch, it was early in the evening. They brought with them ten deer, two bristly boars, a veritable flotilla of smaller prey, and empty stomachs and parched throats. The cooks had immediately descended on the meats and hauled them off to the cook-house, as the hunters and a great amount of other guests settled down outside, behind the manse, in a prepared square of tables and benches. The middle of the square was free, four poles had been driven into the ground and ropes tied between them, marking out a 50 foot arena for the fencing competition later in the day.

The thought of that test of his skills tore Adebar from his melancholy, doubly so when he saw Lady Emilia standing by one of the tables, the one closest to the main-house of the manor-complex. He considered moving over to meet her, but the close presence of her father, who settled on a wooden throne, and the appearance of young men, who he assumed were her brothers, dissuaded him from such an undertaking.

Instead he was called over by a group of people he didn't know, recognising only two men from the gathering of the hunt before. Before he knew it, he had been bound in conversation with members of the nobility of neighbouring townships and Diesdorf merchants, their friends and relations, as well as retainers.

“So, Herr von Bolstedt,” began Berchthild von Rassermett, a distant grand-cousin of the Count, who struck him more like a curvy salon-lady than countryside-nobility; “how is life on the road? I am sure one filled with such zeal finds strength in the hardship of his chosen path?” Sigmar, look at those round eyes, filled with wanton interest in this young nobleman in front of her. She’d been making moves on him since they’d come back from the hunt, forcing him to take the seat next to hers, squealing into his ear about her admiration for strong-willed men, how she regretted that priests of Sigmar didn’t take wives, and so on. Originally he had told her that he wasn’t aiming to become an ordained priest, but once he had picked up on her inclination he had quickly come to regret the decision. He truly, really, verily could not find the slightest hint of attraction in himself. Berchthild was a plump, pig-nosed thing, too open with her womanly needs and frankly her voice was as grating as rusty nails. And she liked raising it a lot, squealing in joy at this thing and that or clapping furiously at a polite joke shared by their neighbours.

Adebar took the time to inspect the Count’s table, trying to match what Holzer had told him to the faces. To the left sad the women of the house. Emilia wasn’t alone. To her left sat a smaller girl, thirteen, fourteen years of age, who was visibly struggling with keeping up an interested appearance, forcing smiles that spoke of pure vitriol whenever she was addressed.

Emilia herself looked as stunning as before, showing her perfectly controlled attitude, granting the guests small nods and pleasant smiles, though she made a point of ignoring everything to her right. This included Adebar, another unfortunate effect of his seating. He was sure the Count had planned all this. It didn’t seem like the man cared much for a wayward suitor, much less one come to kill his mad son.

The Count himself looked largely indifferent, not even casting a single glance Adebar’s way. He did not know whether he preferred it that way or not.

The next in line, however, was most definitely eyeing him, the mother of the family, by appearance, dressed in a modest but fine dress, hair covered by a pure, white head-wrap.

The matron seemed highly interested in von Bolstedt, half wary, half intrigued. Adebar found her intense investigation uncomfortable, and decided to move on to the two sons that were present too. The eldest was of dark brown, short hair, and looked for all other intents and purposes like a facsimile of his father, only lacking a full beard, instead sporting a fashionable moustache. He decided this was Gutrecht the younger. The last in line was incredibly gaunt. Had he not sometimes twitched, looking at his surroundings like a dreamer roused from his slumber, von Bolstedt would almost have mistaken him for a corpse. staring vacantly into random people, or empty space, like he could see something beyond them. Or, maybe, Adebar thought a bit nonsensically, within them.

A runner came from the cookhouse, whispering something to the Count. Gutrecht the Elder nodded slowly, before clapping his hands and rising from his throne, raising a silver wine cup high, almost knocking over a bowl of the white bread the guests had been given to tide them over until the first meats were prepared. The true meal, Adebar knew, would only begin at the onset of dark.

“Friends, esteemed guests, I thank you for your coming.” The Count spoke firmly and with a distant warmth that made it easy to see why he was so liked.

“Now, we have all been waiting for a long time for the main course,” he looked around with a raised eyebrow, earning him some content agreement, “but soon the wait will be over. Before we can eat, however, some of us could certainly use some exercise, so that our belts wouldn’t snap in twain!” The Count indicated some of the merchants, who mostly seemed to appreciate being included in the meeting at all. Adebar glanced over to Berchthild, who had again put a hand on his shoulder, leaning rather very close for his liking.

“I open up the yearly sparring! All who are willing may compete, not only for my respect, but also for this fitting reward!” The Count reached down to Emilia, who, like a damsel from a folk-tale, held in her arms a longsword in its scabbard. Gutrecht the Elder drew it, and showed off the decorated blade to the onlooking guests.

“Oh you simply must compete, my noble knight!” Berchthild squealed into his ear. ‘I will;’ Adebar thought, smiling slightly as his eyes finally found Emilia’s. She smiled back.

The first few duels had been rather uninteresting, sparring between merchant sons, some of the more ambitious men at arms, and one or two fat old noblemen that just wanted to show they could still move in a halfway dexterous manner. Adebar had no eyes for all of that. He simply mused about his newest object of fascination, until, suddenly, it was his turn. His opponent was known, his foil was short, his face a pallid hue.

He’d seen Schlosser earlier, but thought little of him, too preoccupied with his own, sullen thoughts. Now, however, he felt invigorated. A bit of revenge, a bit of putting the lower classes in their place, and all of it under the watchful eyes of a Lady? Von Bolstedt allowed himself a self-indulgent smile, producing his rapier with a flourish, drawing some interested looks from the guests all around.

The rules were simple. No dirty tricks, no grapples, the fight continued until one of the duelists conceded.

Schlosser held his blade in a cramped, middle guard, pointing the foil toward his foe as if he could save himself from needing to fight at all. It would take a bit more than that.

With a shout, the duel began.

Von Bolstedt charged, closing the distance between the two men swiftly. He’d always been a proactive fighter, dexterous and direct, and this fight would be over all the quicker for it.

His rapier was raised in a high ox-guard, then sent flying around the right side, clashing against the thin steel of the merchant’s foil. Thus diverted above the boy’s head, Adebar brought the blade back around for a return strike at the fool’s face. The tip of the blade caught him on the cheek, while he was still bringing over his blade to his right side.

First blood went to von Bolstedt.

Schlosser would not give up like that, however, wildly swinging his foil at the nobleman, forcing Adebar back two steps, then a further two with an almost blind stab into the nothingness where he’d been. His grip was loose, his posture awkward and far too far forward, unbalanced. Adebar smiled as he simply forced Schlosser’s weapon from his hand with a light cut at the merchant’s forearm. The boy yelped in pain, dropping the thin side-sword. He didn’t deserve such a fine duelling weapon anyway. It was clear he hadn’t ever used it.

Schlosser jerked backwards, glaring at his opponent, but before his petulant anger led him into a headlong charge, Adebar pressed the tip of the rapier into Erwin’s throat, with enough delight to draw a drop of red vitae, just to press home his utter victory.

“I...but…” stammered the merchant-boy, making Adebar concerned he was going to press out some pitiful tears.

“Please, Schlosser. Do not make this more shameful for yourself than it already is.”

The youth seemed ready and willing to disregard his advice, but he finally stepped back, shoulders slumped in defeat, eyes wide and cast down. Turning to regard the Count’s table, von Bolstedt bowed slightly, before returning to his seat, the awkward silence that had descended after Schlosser’s pitiful showing only now broken by a few congratulations.

The evening went on, and soon the light began to fade, its warm glow replaced by braziers and lanterns, the fresh forest air now enriched by the hearty smell of roasted meats. Adebar had participated in four further duels, his muscles were tense, frankly he was, at this point, a bit disappointed this wasn’t an Altdorf Student’s meeting. There he could’ve already retired, without risking to sully his clothes with the sweat of exertion. Given, he hadn’t been truly challenged. From everything he’d heard and seen he was the last contestant in the race. As such he couldn’t truly put into words his surprise as he was called up for one last duel, the crowd of approving guests seemingly as interested as he was in what would come next. The challenge had not come from the Count, but from a trembling voice, hate filled. It had been the madman himself, Reibert.

Adebar rose and produced his rapier, giving his opponent a once over. He wore, Adebar realized, rather plain clothing, mostly white and black, a simple shirt protected by a leather jerkin that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a shepherd. His face was gaunt, only reinforcing the impression of a hateful corpse in the orange light of the braziers. As to his weapon, the madman carried a rapier much like Adebar, so there was nothing to be exploited on that front. They’d have the same reach and probably the same weight. So it’d come down to how skilled the madman was.

“You are good, Bolstedt, but here I am the only one they listen to!”

His voice was like he’d eaten chalk, raspy, like nails dragged on stone.

“So I will now cut you out of the story, and all will be as it should!”

What was he even saying? Adebar shot a doubtful look at the Count, who stared at the two with absent apathy, while his wife stared in mortified horror. The daughters studied the scene intently, while Gutrecht the Younger was hidden behind his brother’s gangly form.

Before he could pose the question, the madman was already flying at him, driving his rapier toward Adebar’s guts. A wild flurry of attacks followed, seeing the nobleman on the defensive, wildly trying to parry the incoming blows, and still suffering many cuts to his arms, and a painful, but unimportant gash across his temple.

He tried to swing an overhead cut at his opponent, but needed to bring down his blade rapidly to ward himself against another jab he had nary seen coming. When he tried to draw his blade back, a backhanded stab toward his foe’s chest, Reibert simply pranced out of the way, and, as if to mock him further, twirled around a bit, swatting away a well aimed stab at his exposed back. He hadn’t even been looking!

“What are you?!” Von Bolstedt spat the words without belief, but the madman just broke from his twirling little lonely dance, driving his blade into Adebar’s thigh.

The pain was excruciating. Reibert giggled, mad eyes wide in murderous glee. This was no longer a duel. Acting purely on instinct, Adebar shouted his defiance, forcing his blade forwards, swaying to his left as that leg gave out, driving the point of his rapier into Reibert’s right shoulder. He cursed silently. He’d aimed for the throat.

Reibert glanced at the blade, then back at Adebar. Then he delivered an ear piercing shriek, a mournful cry that drove the chill into von Bolstedt’s veins.

Finally, Gutrecht the Younger tackled his brother from behind, pulling the sobbing madman back and away from Adebar. The rapier was still stuck firmly in von Bolstedt’s thigh. He stared at the thing, feeling a sense of exhausted vertigo creeping into his mind.

He staggered a bit, before closing his left hand around the blade lodged in his left leg. The steel was cold and firm, somehow reassuring. His next step he hadn’t even thought of, simply acting when he pulled the blade out. It didn’t hurt at all, he found with some confusion. Why didn’t it hurt? Was his blood still up, washing the pain away?

He looked around at the guests, most of which now broke out of their shock. His gaze drew a circle, staring at all four tables, ending on the Count’s table. Much to his shock, Emilia stood right there, before him. Was she clasping his hand? He couldn’t see, couldn’t look down. She was talking to him, no, talking to someone else. His vision focussed on the man behind her. The Count stared over at him, a grim, unreadable expression on his features.

Slowly, like the onset of the longest night, darkest, hopeless night, his vision faded away, blackness enveloping his senses.