Готовый перевод Ойкумена / Oikumena: Глава 17

Chapter 17
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There were thirteen of them, a good, interesting number that promises unusual events and sudden turns of fate. Shotan loved surprises, he knew for a fact that no scheme or cunning plan ever goes as planned. And where there is a sudden moment of uncertainty, there always begins a contest of pure will, intelligence, and quick decisions. The Count loved such contests, not unreasonably considering himself a strong player in the tournament called Life.

Shotan knew that the plan was good, that it would break down and require improvisation, and that the only question was how far the deviations and necessary corrections would go. Thirdly, it would be interesting anyway.

So there were thirteen of them, and the Count saw through them. Young, yet not children. From poor families, but wrapped up in family pride like a tattered cloak with more holes than wool. They put on their best clothes, having cleaned and repaired them with the last of their money (but there was not enough money for the decent appearance of the servants), but they suffer terribly and secretly envy looking at Shotan and his gendarmes. They are worried about worn and darned cloth, weapons, from which all the jewelry has long ago been removed and pawned, and the treacherous gilding of noblemen's chains and rings. They want very much to look like Shotan and his men, to dress the same way, to look at the world from the heights of luxurious saddles. They will do a lot for it. Some would do anything.

He liked them.

The first acquaintance had already taken place, and Shotan had used his refined knowledge of etiquette and diplomacy to reproach the young men, to point out to them the difference in position, to point out the gulf separating the young, landless noblemen from the captain, a personal friend of the Emperor. Their attempts to preserve their proud self-importance were amusing in themselves, but the Count had another aim in view: to weed out at once the most ardent, the most incapable of wise restraint.

"And now, gentlemen, we have to..." Shotan thought about what word or even a turn of phrase would be best, something beautiful, catchy, memorable. But he could not think of a word and decided there was no need to weave precious lace where a simple batiste would suffice. "Work"

With a broad gesture, he pointed to a fascinating structure made by the palace carpenters by the Count's designs. It was a combination of a collapsible fortress and the skeleton of a not-very-complicated labyrinth. Made of boards, poles, and ropes, it apparently could be easily remodeled or even moved from place to place.

The young men looked at each other uncertainly, trying to understand what their mentor was expecting but Shotan waved to the servants, who following the command removed the covers from the tables that had been laid out on the sand of the arena. There was a wide array of training weapons, battered but sturdy. Apparently, the Count had ordered some of his company's arsenal to be brought in. Shotan walked along the table, or rather the wide plank placed on the gantry, and ran his hand over the tried and tested weapons, as if caressing the hardwood, mottled with the marks of hundreds and thousands of blows. Some he struck, many struck him, for a warrior must exhaust himself with military training from his first to his last breath, and the earl never thought it shameful to be beaten in training.

"I suppose you expected us to get on our horses and indulge in the amusement due to the Emperor's cronies, didn't you?" Shotan turned to the disorderly ranks and smiled, a little wryly. "The breaking of spears, beautiful flags, chilled wine, and heated infusions to temper the fervor of the soul and warm the weary parts. And, of course, fine horses from His Imperial Majesty's stables. Isn't that so? After all, your horses are too bad... if there are any."

The confusion among the young men increased. Now the Count walked along the line of future pupils, looking inquisitively into the faces of the young men with an unblinking gaze. Shotan already knew that he would sift them like precious grains of gold through a set of sieves, separating out the empty, useless rock. He would measure and evaluate each one, like emeralds on a jeweler's precise scales, leaving only the very best. He would reject the worthless, afflicted with flaws and sins unforgivable for a warrior. And this long journey would begin today, now.

As if responding to the Count's unspoken thoughts, one of the nobles stood up straight, put his leg out, lifted his chin, and put his hands behind his back. In other words, he assumed the typical pose of an insecure person who is trying to balance the confusion of his soul with his body.

"Yes?" Shotan decided to help him with the inevitable, and at the same time shorten the wait.

"Your speeches… are devoid of the respect that we deserve by virtue of our origin and position," the guy said proudly. What was it… Damn, he forgot, or rather, he never remembered it. Shotan preferred not to litter his memory with useless knowledge for the time being. Neither the coat of arms nor the family of the young nobleman was worth knowing. For now, at least.

"It is quite possible, if you think so, then it is probably so," Shotan smiled, and then with a wide gesture pointed to the exit from the arena, silently and very eloquently, as if to say, if you don’t like it, you know where to go.

The nameless youth's face trembled, his gaze quickly jumping to the right and left, as if begging for support from his companions. They were silent, even slightly turning away, as if emphasizing: no, we are not with him. Shotan waited with the same smile, crossing his arms over his chest over the metal plate. The young nobleman suffered. He was forced to make a decisive choice in his life. The Count did not drive him away by word or deed, but a gesture... a movement of the hand is just a movement of the hand, nothing more. Now the boy had to either remain consistent and leave, or significantly lose face, immediately dropping somewhere to the last places in the general rank of young warriors.

Arrogance is a grave sin, thought Shotan. No, the quality is neither better nor worse than others; moreover, in reasonable doses, it is necessary for a man of honor, like salt, which with just a pinch seasons food. But one must understand well when and to whom it is worth demonstrating. And also not to confuse it with pride. For a young and poor cavalier, standing before a narrow crack into the shining world of powerful wealth, arrogance is an unforgivable sin and evidence of a not very sophisticated mind.

The young man finally made his decision; he bowed silently to the Count, then to both sides, to his now former companions. He turned around silently and walked towards the exit of the arena. To his credit, the cavalier tried to keep up appearances to the end, but the blow was too strong. With each step, the young man's shoulders sank lower and lower, and his feet began to scoop up loose sand.

The first, however, is unlikely to be the last. However, the Count made a note in his memory to take a closer look at the guy, perhaps invite him to dinner, and have a thoughtful conversation. A man ready to sacrifice everything for the sake of honor and principles cannot be completely hopeless. He just needs to find a reasonable use. The guy will not become a hetairoi anymore, but to serve the empire and the Count personally... why not? He just needs to figure out what capacity.

So, there are twelve of them left. Also a good number and again not final.

"Let's get back to our studies," with these words, Shotan once again carefully looked at the line of candidates, which seemed to have straightened itself out and become more like a line. A silent question was read in the count's gaze. Does anyone else want to follow number one? But no, there were none. If anyone felt the unbearable pain of wounded pride in their souls, they successfully hid it.

"So, you dream of glory, of getting closer to the body of His Majesty, and also of the privileges, positions, and gifts that come with it. Of land, finally," Shotan said sternly.

Two infantrymen from Guyot's subordinates were passing by, apparently relieved after the night watch. Seeing what was happening, they slowed down, then stopped completely, looking around with interest. However, at a respectable distance, so as not to disturb the noble gentlemen in any way.

"And all this will be given to you," the Count unexpectedly promised. "However, not immediately. And only to the chosen ones."

He moved along the line again, feeling the cold breeze and the dim light of the morning sun on his face. Here in Milwesse, winter ended early, and although there was still a month and a bit left until the calendar spring, the snow had melted almost everywhere, hiding in dark corners where the sun's rays did not penetrate, and in the cellars of thrifty housewives who had arranged an icehouse for the warm season.

++++"The Hetairoi, according to the ancient charter, are the guardians of His Majesty's body. This is their main and primary duty. As long as the Emperor's combat companion is alive, he is ready, at the first call or without it, to stand between the sacred person of the Bread-Giver and any danger. Neither age, nor illness, nor unhealed wounds can be grounds for failure to fulfill his duty. The Emperor, if so desired, can manifest his will and endow his faithful bodyguard with an additional duty to be performed on a permanent basis or a one-time task. But this is always secondary to the main and primary obligation. Such is the law of the Empire, which even its ruler cannot change."

Shotan looked searchingly into the boys' eyes, making sure he had created the right mood and prepared them for the inevitable. Now the time for bright words was over, the hour for real action had come.

"Sometimes the rulers are killed by despicable conspirators," the Count said, cutting off the cruel truth without hints or crookedness. The guys began to exchange glances quietly, with a silent question in their eyes.

"And it happens not in tournaments, not under the bright sun of the arena, but in the chambers of palaces, in the quiet of temple halls, and in the streets of the city. Horses, spears, shining armor, all these things will be given to you by His grace. But later. For now, you will learn the craft of a true bodyguard. And that is exactly what it is, a hard, tedious craft. One that leaves your body sore and bruised."

The infantrymen came a little closer, one of the Count's servants bowed respectfully, and handed the gentleman a canvas pouch in which something clattered woodenly. Shotan weighed the object in his palm, then continued:

"The first thing you will do is put on your gambesons and helmets, the ones you will be given. Then each of you will draw a blind letter. It will have one of three symbols on it. This will divide you into groups of three, in random order. The first will put a sack over his head and represent the wounded person, the other two will defend him. The defenders will take the weapons from the kit," Shotan pointed to the tables with the training wood. "But not the one you like and are used to, but the one you are the worst with, and believe me, I will see if you try to cheat. The task is to guide a blind and helpless man through a maze. It's like a cramped street or castle chambers. You will be obstructed, you will be tried to “kill” by my handlers, and believe me, they are quite skilled at it."

Shotan was well aware that he was now recalling the rumours that had been circulating quietly in certain circles that his gendarmes had played the most important role in the plot against the late Emperor Gotdua. And some directly pointed to the ‘soldier count’ as the murderer whose hand had cut short the lord's life. However, Shotan didn't care about the rumours as long as they were toothless.

"After all the triples have passed the maze, you will draw lots again to change the composition of the groups. And we'll do it again. And again and again and again. The maze will be rearranged from time to time. The challenges will also change. For example, you may be shot at from crossbows from the first floors, bolts without tips, and your only task will be to cover your precious body with your own, enduring the pain."

Shotan took a few steps back, the metal of his armor clinking and creaking slightly with each movement.

"Thus, you will learn, no matter what happens, the first thing to do is to look for the nearest comrade and join forces. To fight in any environment and with any weapon. To defend your master at all costs, even sacrificing your own life. And when you have mastered this science to a decent level, only then, not before, will it be time for mounted combat."

Shotan was silent for a moment, assessing whether these simple but wise words had achieved their purpose, had fertilised the minds of his listeners with useful thoughts. The Count's speech had come as a shock to everyone, for in essence they, true nobles, albeit low-born nobles, had been told that they would treat men of honour as if they were ordinary infantry. Most, however, accepted the rules. Most, but not all.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" Shotan deliberately sharpened his voice, addressing the tallest gentleman, who was at the same time the best dressed. Moreover, he was the only one who appeared in full (well, almost) armour, even holding his helmet on the bend of his elbow. He was a native of the Northeast, with a mixture of blood from the savages of the far archipelago, if the combination of blond hair, sloping forehead, and hooked nose was to be believed.

"I'm listening."

"Yes, I wish to tell you..." The blond man glanced at the gate where the first eliminated man had already disappeared, his voice trembling slightly, betraying a traitorous doubt. And yet he made up his mind. "My dissent."

"And in what way is it expressed?" encouraged the Count.

Listening half-heartedly to his opponent's energetic, though somewhat confused, speech, Shotan thought about how to unfold further events. Having finally decided what to do, the gendarme simply snapped his fingers almost in the middle of the blond man's phrase, calling for the squires. The Count's gloves were very expensive, not ‘mittens’, but with a separate protection of each finger with thin chain mail and overlapping steel scales.

"A horse," Shotan ordered. "And a lance."

The blond man was watching the boorish Count with a sidelong glance. The infantry came closer, their curiosity undisguised, and the young men seemed to stop breathing, catching every moment, every sound.

"Please," the Count kindly and cordially pointed to a raven-haired beauty, a premium animal with which he took payment for one battle won. The horse had been given instead of gold and was worth it.

"I don't understand," the blond man said, taking the spear from the servant's hands. A real one, with a faceted tip designed to pierce through wrought armour.

"You say that the exercise on foot does not justify the time spent," Shotan reminded him patiently. "For every knight is a perfect warrior in his own right, above all others."

One of the infantrymen snorted loudly, unable to contain his laughter, and the other immediately slapped his younger colleague, reminding him of the need to remember the class differences.

"You already have the spear, now get on your horse and kill me."

"B-but... I can't..." The blond man turned grey, which could be attributed to the cold breeze, though the Count wouldn't have bet on it. "Your Lordship."

The young man was silent and bit his lip, obviously solving a difficult dilemma for himself. It was not necessary to order a horoscope to realise that the Count was provoking his opponent, and that he was seeking a real fight, and under unequal conditions. The young man had already lost; if he had fought Shotan, everyone would agree that it was not a great honour to defeat a man on foot. And if it is the other way round, it is a disgrace, not to say indelible, but it will be remembered for years. But why did the Count intend to stake his life, or at least his health, on it?

Guisson, that's his name, Shotan remembered. The coat of arms was something florid on a green background, calligraphically fanciful, like the symbols of small families without a good pedigree. I think it was the Duke's protégé. Well, it would be amusing to jab Wartensleben.

"Do you find the forces too unequal?" Shotan smiled. "Well, let's fix it. Hey, over here!" he called the servants again.

Guisson turned pale, then red, as if all his blood boiled with rage. It seemed that the shaft was about to crack. The boy clutched the spear with such force. Meanwhile, the servants undressed the Count, removing the cuirass, leaving the protection of his hands. God knows why, but today Shotan wore armor of new work, however, made according to the traditions of a hundred years ago, or even more. The hands here were protected by thick sleeves, on which chain mail and metal plates no larger than half a palm were sewn. The sleeves were not attached to the cuirass, but tied with wide belts, crossing the chest and passing under the arms. This design ensured remarkable mobility and mediocre protection, especially for the elbows. Without the cuirass, Shotan seemed like a mountain demon with hypertrophied limbs.

"Hey, you," Shotan addressed the foot soldiers from the palace guard. He added a few words in the mountain dialect, more like the growl of a hyena. They looked at each other, twisted themselves into unkind smiles, one bowed his head, and, approaching, handed the halberd to the count. Shotan weighed the weapon in his hand, trying to balance it. The halberd turned out to be good, however, one could not expect anything else from high-class mercenaries. The weapon was a new model, shorter than usual, with a small hook, without a clear division between the tip and the striking part. Most of all, it resembled a wide knife with an asymmetrical blade, set on a hexagonal shaft. An excellent thing, not the best in traditional combat, but very convenient for actions in small detachments on the streets and in other cramped conditions. Just what was needed.

"So, worthy sir?" Shotan smiled encouragingly, unobtrusively emphasizing the low position of his opponent with his tone. This was the last straw; Guisson's composure and common sense finally failed him. He literally flew into the saddle, and without letting go of the spear, he turned his horse and, with a face distorted with rage, hit the animal on the croup with the shaft, urging it on. The other young men began to whisper quietly, generally disapprovingly, at the same time with undisguised curiosity. The highlanders immediately and without ceremony began to place bets. The younger one was confident of the horseman's victory, but the older comrade with a characteristic scar on his face, a jab from top to bottom with a conch, sucked his teeth, looking closely at the strange nobleman with an open belly. Finally, having made up his mind, he bet on the count, not mincing a penny, a silver chain.

Guisson moved away, turned, and began to accelerate. The disapproval among the young men increased, even those most inexperienced in horse combat understood that a murder was being prepared here. Sand flew from under the hooves, the young mountaineer whistled through his teeth, encouraging the promising bet, no one even looked in his direction - what can you expect from a savage?

Shotan gripped the halberd tightly and thought about how the foolish boy would attack. You can trample the footsoldier head-on without any frills, that's a good, sure way. Or you can take it a little to the side and strike with your left or right hand. Moving the spear to the right allows you to strike further, and you can steer your horse with your left hand, but the movements are constrained, the weapon's control is low, and the torso is more open to a counterattack. A thrust to the left is "shorter", but you can put the shaft on your left forearm, or even take it with both hands, although for this you need to be able to steer with your knees, holding the reins in your teeth or throwing them on your belt hook. The Count raised his weapon almost vertically, at a slight angle, preparing to jump to the side, from under the hooves, but Guisson decided to attack most simply, with a thrust to the right, holding the spear under his armpit.

It was scary, really scary. Even though the count's stallion had no armor now, carrying only a horse blanket. No infantryman does not experience a mad horror when he sees a four-legged monster in front of him. Often, horsemen do not even have to use weapons; a "boot to boot" attack scatters the infantry formation, like dry leaves in the wind. Shotan felt his heart stumble, missing one beat, and then began to beat faster, driving hot blood through his veins. Some warriors live for these moments, enjoying the fine line, like a razor blade, between death and life. Shotan was not one of them; for him, violence was always a tool, not a goal. But ... Why not experience the pleasure of a moment of controlled risk?

And the attack! A deadly thrust from the shaft of a stone apple tree in a strong and skillful hand. Guisson aimed at the middle of the chest, so that if he had hit the target, Shotan would have immediately gone to a better world, like a beetle on a needle. But at the last moment, the Count took a long step with his right foot, extended his halberd forward and up, deflecting the rider’s spear to the side. Despite the glancing contact, the blow responded harshly in the hands of the foot soldier, the wood creaked briefly and shrilly, as if it were not an apple tree and an elm that had collided, but metal files. The rider realized that instead of a swift victory, something strange and wrong had happened, and he tried to stop. But the Count had already taken a step with his left, still holding the shaft with outstretched arms, “locking” his joints with the usual tension of his muscles.

If Shotan had wanted to kill, the young man would have died in a matter of moments, the poor helmet without a bougiver opened his neck, especially for a blow from below upwards. But the Count did not plan to die right now, and the wide blade only rang flat on the steel dome, causing the owner to stagger in the saddle. For a few seconds, Guisson struggled with nausea, loss of orientation, and the horse. During these moments, Shotan, with quick, economical movements, showed the future hetairoi how he could prick the enemy in the thigh and under the arm, and then imitated a hook and pulling out of the saddle. Finally, the count grabbed the dangling spear and tore it out, disarming Guisson.

"I think this will be a lesson to you," Shotan nodded to the infantryman and tossed him a halberd. The middle-aged mountaineer grinned, catching the weapon with one hand and weighing his newfound gain with the other. The chain seemed weighty, and his young, gambled partner looked dejected and impoverished.

"There is no absolute superiority and no vulnerability that guarantees defeat," commented the count. "Everything can turn against you, and everything can bring victory."

Shotan gritted his teeth as pain shot through his long-healed thigh again, reminding his master once again that even a footman could hurt a horseman. However, he was not going to let the boys in on such details of his biography. Those who had eyes saw, those who had sense understood.

One of the Count's squires helped the rider to dismount, another led the horse away. The animal was agitated and, obeying the learned techniques, squinted with a mad eye, looking for someone to kick here. Guisson dealt with the strap and took off his helmet, just one look was enough for the Count to understand - no, the lesson was not learned. Words were superfluous here; wounded pride completely knocked the guy out of his mind, leaving only the desire to wash away the public insult and, of course, not with water. Guisson, wiping his face wet with sweat, looked around in search of a weapon and finally picked up a spear sprinkled with sand from the ground. In the hands of a foot soldier, it seemed not so much a deadly weapon as a disproportionate shaft. The Count needed a couple of seconds to make a decision.

"Give him an axe," Shotan ordered imperiously.

The old mountaineer leaned on his halberd in the classic mercenary pose, immortalized many times by engravers. His trousers, like a skirt with many ribbons (which could be torn off as a substitute for money or even for bandaging in battle), hung in picturesque folds. He winked at the younger man, offering to argue again, but the latter, well taught by his recent embarrassment, only shook his head.

Shotan took a man-sized poleaxe from the squire, with faceted spikes on both sides, and a small hatchet looked like a toy. The opponent was given the same. Guisson put on his helmet again, this time without wasting time on tying the strap. A stupid mistake, considering that the guy was using a typical sallet with a visor, and this is a heavy thing, prone to slipping and sliding without a firm fixation on the head. One of the young men hinted at an official exchange of written challenges through heralds and notification of His Majesty, but the pettifogger was immediately shut up. What was happening, of course, went far beyond the permissible procedure of a duel of honor, but ... the very presence of such a number of fighting nobles seemed to sanction the fight in the case when the opponents acted purely voluntarily. And voluntariness was obvious. Guisson had the opportunity to act as a man of honor, to even the odds, then Shotan, if victory had been his, would have let the young man go alive. But the enemy did not even refuse the helmet, now for the guy, the desire to wash away the insult with blood overshadowed everything, even considerations of further glory or rather inglory.

The Count gripped the shaft tightly, taking the classic position: left leg forward, poleaxe held in a wide grip across the body, the tip at face level. Guisson took a more "narrow" position, lowering the axe and extending it further, like a shortened spear.

"Gentlemen," the elderly halberdier said with a noticeable accent, but loudly and correctly. "The opponents are not equal in defense," he coughed. It seemed he wanted to blow his nose, but at the last moment, he restrained himself and finished. "We don't care, but for the sake of order, everyone must accept the conditions."

If anyone had any objections, he kept them to himself. Shotan smiled sparingly, crouched down slightly, checking how his knees worked, so that his legs wouldn’t give in at a critical moment. Yes, the guy was not his equal in all respects, but a duel is a duel, and where two meet, God always casts lots to determine who will live and who will not. Therefore, the most experienced fighter has a chance to see the “eyes of the dead man” on God’s Dice. The hetairoi exchanged glances, whispered something to each other, as if they were afraid to disturb the moment of silence before the fight.

Goodfellas, thought Shotan suddenly. Yes, a black sheep has sneaked in, but where isn't one, I ask you? Good blanks, good metal, it would be interesting to forge worthy warriors from them. Those who will be with the emperor, not forgetting who their mentor is.

No one gave signals, no flag or scepter was thrown onto the lists, the battle simply began suddenly, the enemies met, the metal of their armor creaking. Guisson was young, strong, and fast. A foot duel turned out to be even more familiar to him than a horse duel. No doubt a tournament wanderer, living off the rewards for his victories. It is all the more surprising that the boy was so keen on the superiority of the horseman. One must assume that he dreamed of becoming a real gendarme and could not stand it when it turned out his dream was still far away.

The guy grabbed the axe by the last third of the shaft and tried to reach Shotan with a long lunge. The Count didn't even try to parry, retreating two steps. Another lunge... and another. Guisson kept pressing. Shotan avoided close combat, drawing his opponent into circular maneuvering, forcing his opponent to expend his strength. Light, and not complete armor, gave the Count superior maneuverability, but any missed lunge could be the last.

The sharpened blades of the polexes collided, echoing with a dull thud. It sounded like the ringing of a drum of pagan demons that collect the souls of warriors. In the next meeting, the axes caught like hooks, for a few moments, the opponents pressed on each other, trying to push through the defense with force, then Guisson jerked sharply towards himself and almost caught the count, "pulling" him for a counter blow. The captain involuntarily stepped closer to the enemy and only miraculously avoided a direct thrust to the chest. Shotan parried the blow, but did not get hit on the fingers, only thanks to the washer on the shaft, which played the role of a limiter and at the same time a small guard, especially for such cases. Guisson immediately tried to carry out a second attack, but this time it was not even a blow, but a peck from top to bottom, touching Shotan's shoulder guard without any consequences except for a scratch on the metal.

The boy was good, very good and fast, but the Count had identified the enemy's vulnerability, typical for his age and position, too poor an arsenal of techniques. Guisson had obviously been trained by a spearman. He had taught the boy the correct thrusts, but his blows were bad, and the young man seemed to have no idea how to handle the "tail" of a long axe. Two more encounters followed, again dangerous because of the speed of the young duelist, but fruitless because of the Count's agility. Shotan decided it was time to finish, otherwise youthful endurance would begin to give the enemy too much of an advantage.

The Count pretended to stumble, moved the poleaxe aside, demonstrating a momentary vulnerability. This is where the difference in experience became apparent. An older and wiser warrior might not have been affected by the trick, but Guisson decided that luck was on his side, so he rushed headlong into the attack. He struck quickly and powerfully from a high position, extending his right, supporting leg too far. He did not pay attention to the fact that the apparent miss conveniently brought Shotan into the correct stance, ideal for the attack. Holding the shaft almost vertically, the Count moved the enemy axe aside, with a movement similar to the one with which he had previously avoided a thrust from a knight's lance, and then struck from top to bottom, pinning Guisson's foot to the sand with the faceted shaft on the "tail" of his weapon. At first, the young fighter did not even feel it; the fire in his blood slowed the path of pain from the body to consciousness. The blond tried to strike from the side, but due to the short swing without the use of legs and torso, it was weak, so weak that the count took the blow on his arm. Now the shoulder plates were decorated with scratches symmetrically, one on the left, one on the right.

Taking advantage of the momentum he had gained, straining all his muscles, Shotan tore the tip out of the enemy's flesh and stabbed him again, with all his might, this time into his head. The young man managed to tilt his chin so that the sharpened steel passed the gap in the visor, sliding along the metal with a screeching sound. Not giving his opponent a chance to catch his breath, taking advantage of the fact that the boy was wounded and limited in mobility, the Count brought down a series of chopping blows on the enemy's helmet and shoulders. Guisson lost his rhythm and vision and began to swing the poleaxe blindly, no longer thinking about attacks. In the end, Shotan, without any frills or complicated techniques, knocked the stunned opponent off his feet.

For a moment, the Count wanted to put a vivid, memorable stroke on the scroll of this duel. His hands trembled in readiness to unfold the poleax, hook the leg of the wounded man with its piercing beak, and drag him across the ring, painting the yellow-grey sand with bright shades of red. Good fun, and instructive. But... ill-timed. Still, a duel of honour, and in the presence of hetaires, who should not be taught beforehand the things that are acceptable only in war, away from the eyes of ladies and not too memorable chroniclers.

Shotan limited himself to stabbing the wounded man in the thigh, severing an artery and allowing him to bleed out quickly, without much suffering. The murder promised some problems in the future, new strokes in the glory of the murderer, a cooling of the ‘friendship’ with the Duke, already quite chilly after the recent conflict. But the Count had already seen such a look of hateful glassy eyes, seen the consequences of unreasonable mercy, and decided that all the coming problems were not worth leaving the bearer of such a look alive behind his back.

Standing up so that the future dead man could not reach the killer even in agony, the Count leaned on the poleaxe and thought that this was it, the reign of old age, like the first rays of the sun over the horizon - so far harmless and hardly noticeable, but foreshadowing the imminent heat of midday. Fatigue builds up in the muscles a little faster, breath is no longer enough for the whole fight, so you have to swallow the air with your mouth in an ugly way. And this in light armour! Time is truly the main enemy of man; it is merciless to everyone, whether you are a shit clianer or an emperor. But the hour of death has not yet come, and the time of senile infirmity is far away. And it must be done so that when the members of the ‘soldier count’ lose strength and mobility, these young people are the best defence for him. With the Emperor.

Guisson, meanwhile, was dying, unable to rise, bleeding rapidly. The screams from beneath his helmet grew fainter and fainter, and the blood from the punctured artery poured down his arms, copious and seemingly unafraid. In such quantity, it was no longer frightening, like a compote poured by a generous ladle. The Highlanders, realising that there would be no other spectacle, left. Judging by the gestures, the older man was expertly telling the younger one how the flamboyant but perky nobleman had tricked his opponent, swift on his hands, but not on his mind. A clever man, though, the Prince does not take others into his service; the mountain savage should be given credit. He knows about soldiers.

"Take it away," Shotan ordered, and the servants dragged the body aside. The Count handed the squire the poleaxe, took off his gloves, throwing them on the table near the training weapons.

"My honourable gentlemen," said Shotan after a long pause. It was meant to emphasise the importance of what was said.

"You have seen what you can learn. You have seen the price you may have to pay. There is no loss of honour in backing down now. A prudent man weighs his strength and purpose, he knows when a trial is best avoided. Those who choose to stay... draw lots, take weapons, put on your sacks. And let's begin."

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Breadwinner - one of the original titles of the Emperor, from very ancient times, when the ruler personally gifted grain to his close associates, and was also a ‘king-priest’, combining secular and partly religious power. He served as an intercessor before the higher powers, a guarantor of a good harvest, that is, in fact, life itself. Shotan, on the one hand, moderates the ambitions of young people, but on the other hand, for those who are educated enough or simply clever, emphasises the antiquity of the tradition, hints at the possibility of a rapid rise in the ‘social lift’.

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http://notabenoid.org/book/83056/584638

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