Konstantins Crusade English version, E W [most read books of all time TXT] 📗

Anselm stopped. The man drew his pen again and held the inkwell and a sheet of parchment in one hand. Cyrus could see the thin, fine handwriting of the magician on the page. Apparently he had written down some questions he wanted to ask the men. That meant, if it it ever came to that.

The morning chill started to dissipate and the sun burned down on the piece of unprotected earth they had to cross.  Cyrus looked back to the tents, which at least offered some shade and the outer end of the paddock. He should just have stayed there, he thought. The floor was soaked with morning dew and pulled at his boots every step of the way and the grass was slippery.

Before them were the tents of the Golden Guard. Smoke rose from a small fire over which something was boiling in a pot.  Two men in golden cloaks were busy grooming a group of horses, others were sitting in the grass, a group seemed involved in a card game. A man wearing a blacksmith's vest beneath his golden cloak looked at armor, spears, and swords piled around him in neat stacks. Oddly enough, among all the equipment Cyrus could discover only a handful of firearms, mostly worn looking wheel lock pistols and just a few short-barreled rifles with a modern flintlock. The only one of the men who did not seem to be doing any special activity was the clay pipe smoker, who was still sitting on a stone watching the rest of the soldiers. In his hands he turned something that glittered golden in the sun.

"And you really will stay with me ?", Anselm wanted to know. They were barely ten paces from the spot where the Golden Guard men had settled, but the scribe refused to move any further. This had been a mistake, the Wolf thought. He really wasn’t in the mood to convince the man all day long to keep going.
"You're a coward.", He growled and gave the man a push that turned out a bit stronger than expected. What am I going to do? He thought for a moment as he watched the stumbling Anselm. The man was just intimidated. He had beenthere too. At first. Overly Carefull and afraid. Cyrus shook his head. And was he not still? Way too careful. He did not want to feel sympathy for Anselm.

 I've seen too many die, he thought. I saw my father die. In a field that is not so unlike this one.

For a moment he considered apologizing but Anselm was already stumbling between the tents. Cyrus push had indeed been too rough and the man stumbled into the first rider. Clinking something broke and Cyrus saw an expanding blue bruise spread on the Guardsman's uniform. The inkwell!

The man stumbled visibly back, while Anselm, nowheld by nothing, fell into the grass lengthwise.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" The now ink-stained guardsman grabbed Anselm by the shoulders and pulled him effortlessly to his feet ... and into the air. His eyes flashed dangerously and Cyrus recognized in him the officer who had confronted him at the cooking tents. Well, at least that explained his strange uniform. This wasn’t good…

"Terribly sorry," muttered Anselm, his feet kicking in the air, trying to reach the ground. Meanwhile Cyrus put a hand to the handle of his ax. He feared this was not to be undone by a simple apology. The man were all at their limit . Constant attacks, without being able to do more than wait to see when the walls would fall, had made everyone nervous. Aggressive. Unfortunately, Anselm had the misfortune to give one of them a chance to live out these aggressions.

"I would let him go if I were you," Cyrus warned the man, trying to assess his opponent.

 The man was tall, he thought to himself. With a shaven head and a thin beard in which some gray hair glittered. The strange uniform he wore was complemented by the gold-colored coat he'd noticed before. Probably the hallmark of the golden guard. Usually the officers of the Imperial Army did not tolerate much variation in the equipment of individual regiments, but if what Anselm had told him about these people was true, then the knights of Hasparen did not really see themselves as your run of the mill guardsmen.

The man's companions rose one by one, looking confused at the tumult in their midst. All, except for the smoker, who had noticed Cyrus before. The one who still wore his armor. He merely glanced in their direction before turning back to his clay pipe, disinterested.  Cyrus did not know why, but the brief moment was enough for him feel uneasy. He could deal with Kazimier, that he was sure off. But the other man...

"Is there any trouble, Kazimier?" ,asked one of the other soldiers.

"I think the wolf here has a boyfriend." The man called Kazimier replied. "And if I do not let him go?" The mockery in his voice did not escape Cyrus, but if he expected the wolf to jump on it, he was wrong.

"Are you really going to hurt an official emissary of the emperor?"

"The Emperor, yes?" The man looked at Anselm, who was still writhing in his grasp.

"I ... yes. I'm here as an observer, sir. I should summarize what is going on here so that the people of the empire know of your actions. Apparently, the last few months have seen a decrease in the numbers of new of recruits and ... "

"Spare me." The guardsman dropped Anselm and Cyrus took a deep breath. "You can tell your Emperor that he owes me a new jacket. And now get out of my sight, Scribbler. "He gave the magician another push. This time, however, Anselm was prepared and the blow only made him stumble a few steps forward. And froze where he stood.

"Let's do what he says," Cyrus said, gesturing for Anselm to follow him. "That was a short adventure and I guess you ..."

 "No." Anselm made no effort to move. The sudden sharpness in the man's voice made him step back, and even Kazimier  him narrowed his eyes. A  Chuckle broke the silence. A giggle that came from the figure of the golden-armored knight. The man had still made no move to get up from his stone, but now looked over to them with obvious interest.

The clay pipe had disappeared; instead he had put on something that looked like a golden death mask to Cyrus. Only his eyes were visible. "I suggest you do not mess with Kazimier, kid." The knight's voice was low but serious as he nodded toward the guardsman. Kazimier meanwhile smiled.

 "Anselm?" The wolf tilted his head and looked at the young man again. Anselm did not react, one hand at the hilt of his blade. "We should really get out of here."

Instead of answering, the scribe spun around and hit  Kazimier with all his strength. Cyrus could hear bones crunching as the Guardsman tripped backwards with a cry and held his cheek. Anselm, on the other hand, only shook his aching hand and did not let Kazimier out of his sight.

"My name is Anselm von Ansim. My fathers control half of the lands around Risara. I am a magician of the Sanguis Order. I studied under Tyrus Lightsson and I'm not a coward."

Cyrus felt that those last words were directed primarily at him. With a fluid motion Anselm drew the sword and aimed it at the guardsman. "And I demand amends."

"Anselm ..." Cyrus stepped quickly between the scribe and the soldier. "I just got him to the point that he did not want to try to kill you anymore."

Anselm just smiled. "You know, Cyrus. Risara is known for two things. The first is wine. Guess the second.”

With that, he passed the wolf. Cyrus just shook his head. That could not be good.

Kazimier merely laughed while waving at one of the other guardsmen to bring him a sword. The blade that the man threw him was a riding saber. Heavy enough to split a skull by a mere weight alone.

"To first blood," he said with a smile as he got a helmet and started putting on his armor. The metal shimmered golden in the morning sun. Significant scratches were visible on the metal, clearly proving that this man had seen more than one battle here ... and survived. Anselm, on the other hand, did not even have proper footwear for this underground, Cyrus thought. Let alone more protection than his simple clothes would offer him. He tried to step between them again, but Anselm reacted faster than he did, holding him back with one hand.

"I'll take care of this," he said. "Not you. I'm not a coward. "

"That wont keep him ," and he nodded in the direction of Kazimier, "from taking off your head. Look, I know you feel hurt and I'm sorry for what I said, but you do not need to try and kill yourself to prove it . I can take care of this. I am ... relatively sure that I can at least. "Even though he was not completely sure. Unarmed in a man-to-man fight, he might have an advantage. But now weapons were involved.

"No."

"I really don’t want your death to be on me."

Anselm did not bother to answer again, just turned his back on him.

"It's your life.", Kazimier said before lifting his weapon  and lunging at  the magician. Anselm backed away through the ranks of the men of the Golden Guard, who were swiftly leaping aside. Mud splashed and discolored his colorful clothes as Kazimier set after him. Steel flashed again when the guardsman circled the saber and missed Anselm by a hair's breadth. He ducked under the blow and came back up in Kazimier's side , the blade pointed at his neck

Cyrus could hear a brief murmur go through the crowd. The only one who seemed to pursue the fight as mute as he himself was the strange leader of the Golden Guard himself. The golden eyes seemed to precede every movement of the two men ... as if he would foresee them. And the illegible expression on the man's face slowly turned into a thin smile.

"Do you know who Tyrus Ligthsson is?" Anselm asked. He held the sword still aimed at his opponent's neck. Cyrus frowned. The man sounded suddenly ... self-assured, he thought. Not like the intimidated scribbler the wolf had thought him to be.

Was that just a masquerade or true self-assurance? Risara was known for two things, Anselm had said. The first was wine. And what was the second one then?

"One of your magician lords, I suppose. I hope he's dead, then you'll meet him. "Kazimier struck the weapon with his hand and attacked Anselm again, who didn’t even try to move out of the way.

Metal flashed and the mage parried the attack, almost effortlessly, it seemed, though Kazimier had to be much stronger. Or was he?

"Masters for you." A dozen quick stitches that forced Kazimier to back down. But  only that, Cyrus thought. Nothing more. None of the punches Anselm pulled really seemed to be aimed at Kazimiers body.He  did not even try to hit his opponent. Was he just playing with him?

That seemed to be more in keeping with one of  those noble fools who gave so much to their great education and honor they forgot that their adversary just needed to kill them to make it useless. In a public duel it was considered improper to kill your  opponent, instead of just trying to hurt incapacitate him. But this was a battlefield. And Kazimier a warrior,