A Dog Among Princes

Chapter 7

Griffith’s sleep the previous night had been restless. Dread warnings and strange emotions muddled together making his dreams turn odd. He couldn’t quite remember anything concrete upon waking but he remembered something about a strange place with endless stairs and four figures dressed in black. Both were recurring fixtures of his nightmares. Whenever he dreamed of the place with stairs he woke up tired, as if he had never actually gone to sleep. The dream unnerved him but he'd been having it since he was a child. He was used to it by now. Regardless of his exhaustion however, what he had to do next was a matter of survival. It was time to hit the books.

A servant graciously directed him towards the castle archives an he was pleased to find they were quite extensive. It seemed that the royalty of York traditionally placed as much import upon education as they did combat skill. All the more reason to quickly brief himself and then go about teaching Guts. Griffith kept a list in his head of things to look out for: major imports and exports, court etiquette, political system, succession law, cultural practices, and on a personal note, anything of significance that would be happening in about a year. He was luckily able to find most of the elements of his list relatively quickly with the help of the court archivist.

York’s most valuable export and culturally significant export was amber. There was an inland sea a few miles from the capital, where the gem tended to wash up on shore after storms. Due to its occasional inclusion of small insects, folk belief held that it was created from beams of sunlight that froze into drops at significant moments in history, immortalizing the moment so that it could later be interpreted by priests and astrologers. The circlet Guts had been crowned with yesterday both represented the economic strength of York and the hope that the heirs of the kingdom would be guided by the wisdom of the past as they prepared to ascend to the throne.

The royal crest was a sable rose encircled with thorns on an argent field. The same one carried by the knights that had accompanied them from Midland. The black rose itself was said to symbolize courage in the face of death, while the encircling thorns indicated strength coming from self sacrifice. A rather grim piece of heraldry for a kingdom so seemingly peaceful. Supposedly the crest dated back to the founder of their royal house, a warrior king who fled to York pursued by demons after the fall of a great empire. He supposedly still wandered the earth unable to die for fear the beasts would finally claim his soul. It made Griffith think of the strange knight who had given him that warning a few days ago. It had been hard to see through the trees and the dappled shadows, but he was reasonably sure the skeletal knight with the glowing eyes carried a shield bearing the same royal crest. Now Griffith was superstitious by nature, but the thought of an undead king from a thousand years ago personally delivering him a warning still stretched the bounds of his belief. And yet, he had his understanding of the world shaken many times over the course of his career so he filed it away as a possibility.

The kingdom seemed to have an unusually well educated populace outside of the clerical institutes of the Holy See scattered throughout most kingdoms. Lay education was provided for by the monarchy, with most institutions of higher learning being funded by the state. In addition positions as court ministers were not simply afforded to noble families, but were instead selected via civil service examinations. It seemed that currently most of the court ministers were in fact from common families. He would have to start studying.

Without the control of the Holy See over their educational institutions, it also seemed that the art of astrology flourished in York. The discipline of charting the stars had long been considered heretical in Midland. Why concern yourself with the celestial provenance of God when man’s place was on earth? However, here Griffith found plenty of recent star charts scribbled over with barely intelligible notes. It seemed like they predicted a massive cosmic convergence in about a year’s time in which the moon would pass before the sun. If it was true that would be an incredible sight! Griffith hoped whatever mess the band was in was cleared up before then. He would love to be able to see it.

Succession law was fairly uncomplicated. Whoever was the eldest child of the current monarch was the rightful heir to the throne. Gender didn’t matter for succession purposes if the eldest child was a daughter and the ruler had a son later, she would still be crown princess. Things only began to get complicated when the current monarch had no heirs, in which case they would adopt a member of their immediate family to become the crown prince/princess. The adoption would take place well in advance of the monarch’s death to avoid a succession crisis. This practice was generally invoked when the monarch or their spouse was infertile, all of the children of the monarch had died or the monarch was otherwise incapable of producing heirs. However, the legal precedent had been established during the reign of Queen Rhonwen the Beloved and Princess Berenice of Midland.

Griffith read that section again to make sure his eyes weren’t blurry from lack of sleep. Queen Rhonwen the Beloved and Princess Berenice of Midland. He practically ran to the history section. Rhonwen and Berenice had met on opposite sides of the battlefield. Rhonwen a knight under the command of her brother the crown prince and Berenice a runaway daughter of a count, who had risen through the ranks of Midland’s army disguised as a man until she became commander of her own unit of knights. The two often met as commanders and combatants on the battlefield. Their relationship began as an intense rivalry that then turned to mutual respect and then blossomed into romance. Griffith found several poems written about the moment Berenice first revealed to Rhonwen she was a woman, all of which ended with Berenice defecting to York. Rhonwen’s brother was then assassinated by forces from Midland and she was made Crown Princess. She then argued her right to take Berenice as her bride using the legal precedent established by King Delwyn the Fair and Prince Gethin. Griffith snapped the book shut and went hunting again. Delwyn was a man famed for his delicate beauty. He lost his wife young after the death of their first born son and swore never to lay with another woman, despite his many suitors. However, he doted upon his personal guard Gethin, a fierce but incredibly kind warrior. When his son was old enough the king and his guard left the kingdom on pilgrimage to seek absolution for his guilt over his wife’s death. The two returned carrying the head of a great beast and insisting the creature had almost slain them both. The king insisted that the near death experience had clarified his path forward and demanded to be allowed to wed Gethin, the one person who could be his equal in battle, as the two had killed the beast themselves. The Church refused so the king and his ministers drafted legislation to allow the state to recognize marriages as well as the church. Gethin had been popular among the common folk during his time as a hedge knight so his and the king’s marriage had been celebrated by the whole kingdom, not just the nobles and legislators.

Griffith put the book back on the shelf. There truly was nothing stopping him. Oh god there was nothing stopping him. That cold fear curled deep in his belly unfurled itself and he felt his hands shake as his veins turned to ice. It was one thing to know Guts was his body and soul. It was one thing to know that if he said jump Guts would only ask how high. It was one thing for Guts to swear his life to him. It was another thing entirely for Griffith to accept that he felt the same. He could hand wave it all he wanted in the past. He couldn’t be in love with Guts because it wouldn’t serve his ambition, they could never be together because they were both men, but now, now he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He was in love. Truly, utterly, deeply, irrevocably in love with Guts and he had been since they were teenagers. He was used to being the object of other people’s affection. He freely accepted it. As a mercenary without money or a noble background stealing hearts meant funds and access. But he’d never given anyone his own. He kept it locked in the glass case of his chest. All could look upon it but none could truly own it. Except Guts. He held the key to Griffith’s greatest treasure, secret and weakness all at once and didn’t even realize it. His heart beat faster and faster. He was in love, truly in love and for the first time in his life he could acknowledge it. It terrified him. It exhilarated him. He pulled the book back off the shelf to strategically leave in Guts’s room. It was illuminated, he’d at least get the gist. He’d used similar methods of flirting in the past, Guts would know it was him. Griffith laughed aloud to himself. There was always something on the other side of fear this strong for Griffith. It would take him and over power him until the point where he felt something inside him break and at the other side there would be nothing but freedom. If he was already this terrified what else did he have to lose?

Griffith spent a while longer on the floor to collect his thoughts before standing. He gathered a few books he thought would help him further familiarize himself with public policy and began searching for the archivist to ask if he could take any of them back to his room. During his search he came across a table strewn with open books clearly left by a previous researcher. As he glanced over the volumes one caught his eye. It was open to a page depicting a familiar egg shaped amulet. He screeched to a halt. A behelit? What was that doing here? He put his books down for a moment and sat across from where the previous researcher had set up shop. He had always wanted to learn more about it.

The text was old and the language it was written in was unfamiliar to his eyes, yet he found he could understand every word. Unnerving as that already was, as he read it began to unnerve him more and more. It laid out a familiar story, an empire formed with Midland at its center, a Sage kept in a tower, a city destroyed, but this account was the most detailed he’d read. Almost as if the one who had written it was there when it happened. It wasn’t divine punishment. That’s what he had always heard. That five angels descended on the city and cleansed it as punishment to the king. They were sacrificed, all of those innocent people condemned to an eternity of torment killed in the most horrific way he could imagine, to make the sage a god. Or he supposed, in inverse to what he’d said about Zodd, the sage had become a demon. Somehow a behelit had been at the center of all this. A crimson amulet much like his own.

He hurriedly looked around. No one here, but also no indication of who was here. Somebody else in the castle knew about the behelit. Not only knew about it but had known much more than he did minutes ago. Enough to seek out texts discussing its most heinous properties. Griffith would have to find them immediately. The other person’s knowledge could theoretically be helpful, but they also presented a massive threat. He was an outsider to this court. There was no reason they wouldn’t simply have him executed. For now however, there was something else he had to do. He tore the amulet from his neck and tossed it out the nearest window. Now it wouldn’t be able to cause him any trouble.

Guts felt something hit his head in the courtyard. He looked down to see what it was and spotted Griffith’s necklace on the ground. God that thing was fucking creepy. Sometimes if he looked at it for two long he swore he saw it blink. Despite every instinct he had screaming that he should leave it there, Guts picked it up and put it in his pocket. He might’ve hated the thing but Griffith was attached to it. He was sure he’d probably want it back.

“Mr Guts, are we taking a break?”

“No keep swinging, Isidro, just needed to pick something up.”

“I still don’t understand what the point of this is.” Guts had managed to find the young man a wooden training sword and was having him walk through a choreographed series of movements in the air. He had him switch off hands every passes through the cycle.

“It’s two fold. It will help build up your endurance. A blade is heavy. If you intend to hold one for any length of time you need to build up your stamina. I’m also having you build up muscle memory. Each motion of the string you’re doing corresponds to a specific sword technique.” He took the practice sword and demonstrated moving it gracefully with one hand. “This is a block, into a parry, into a lock, into a disarm, into a riposte. Before we start setting you up with sparring partners, you need to at least learn the basic forms.”

“What about you? All you ever seem to practice is swings.”

“My style is based on power and fear exclusively. You can’t do finer motions like fencing disarms with a blade like mine. Guys like me want to try and end a fight as fast as possible to push their advantage. I want to wear down an opponent as quickly as I can with my first strike, break their guard and then go in for the kill. It can be very effective and it’s good for crowds, but it’s rough on your body over time and if you mess up once, you’re dead.” He swung his sword down driving home the point. “In addition, a more defensive swordsman capable of keeping his calm can be deadly.” He still remembered his first fight with Griffith. The first time anyone had even tried to riposte his attacks. He made it look so effortless like Guts’s huge sword was nothing but a toy. “Part of what makes this thing,” he held up his blade, “work so well, is that people are scared of it. I’m teaching you skills to manage that fear. This becomes much less of a threat when you know how to deal with it and aren’t too busy pissing yourself to remember.”

“I think you sell yourself short, grandson.” Guts had gotten so used to the constant presence of eyes on him that he hadn’t noticed the king’s presence. It didn’t help that the Rose knights had once again insisted on spectating. It was beginning to get on his nerves. If they had something to say about his fighting or his teaching style they ought to say something instead of staring at him. King Cadogan sat on the ground with his legs crossed, almost like a child listening to a lecture. He looked tired, Guts guessed he must not have slept well either. “A weapon of that size is not something I’ve ever seen another warrior wield.”

“That’s true enough. Although I’ve never seen another try. For good reason of course.” He glared pointedly at Isidro. Don’t even try it kid. “It’s possible another could learn too given time, but as I said it puts quite a bit of strain on the body.”

“Surely your master used a similar weapon as well. They could hardly supply you with such an odd weapon if they did not wield one as well.”

“Oh no, the man who taught me swordsmanship fought with sword and javelin like most mercenaries. I developed my own techniques while under his tutelage to compensate. The sword was custom made once I grew out of the old one.” That same concerned look came over the king’s face.

“I was not under the impression that a sword could be outgrown.”

“Well when you’re used to one about the same size as you and you get taller you end up needing to get yourself a bigger one. I’ve got a blacksmith friend who was just crazy enough to keep sizing them up for me.” Hm. How was Godot doing? He’d have to send a letter out to him to let him know he wasn't dead.

“Guts, how young were you when you started learning swordsmanship?” He had to think for a moment.

“Probably about six or seven years old? Though I didn’t start actually fighting until I was maybe seven or eight. I’m not exactly sure when my birthday was so it’s somewhere between the two. Although I had been working as a squire since I was around five or six so I had alright battle sense by then.”

“Interesting.” He sounded horrified, not interested. “Is your sword master still alive?” Blood ran down Guts’s wrist. He gripped his sword. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t there.

“No, he died seven years ago.”

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s fine, you didn’t know.”

“Well apologies for leaving on such a dour note, but I am afraid I have some work to do.” He stood brushing off his robes. The knights looked to him, seemingly pleading him for something. “Oh come now, he doesn’t know. Just ask him yourselves.”

“Ask me what?” Guts assumed he was the “him” they were talking about.

“It’s considered polite for knights of York to wait for a higher ranking officer to ask them to join in training first rather than just jumping in or asking themselves. They thought they were dropping a hint by just standing around but forget that you have no familiarity with court custom.”
“I wasn’t aware.”

“What reason would you have to be? Now I truly must be going.” The King waved as he left.

Guts looked at the gathered men. Most seemed a little shaken or embarrassed after being chewed out by the king, but one remained steadfast. He was younger than most of the other knights, maybe early 20’s. Older than Guts but it wasn’t hard to find a seasoned knight that was. He also used a two handed blade. Might theoretically be a good match if his lack of fear wasn’t simply due to youthful arrogance.

“You there.” Guts pointed with his blade. “You seem itching for a fight. What’s your name?”

“Gerallt, sir.” Military rather than royal honorific. Either he was trying to insult him or he was Guts’s type of soldier. Hell, if he had the balls to try and insult a crown prince that was a point in his favor too.

“Guts.” He held out his hand to shake and the other grabbed his forearm, once again military rather than royal. Guts was starting to like this guy. “So, you ready to get your ass kicked?” Guts grimaced and settled into stance. The other man seemed taken aback for a moment. Then he laughed and the vestiges of his stiff, knightly air disappeared.

“Been a long time since I’ve fought a real soldier. I don’t intend to let it end that quick.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Ready?” Gerallt answered by swinging his blade. He was banking on Guts being slower to react. His big sword was heavy, how fast could he lift it? Classic. Guts brought his sword around to block the hit easily. He’d trained with similarly heavy weapons all his life. Speed wasn’t a consideration for him. Gerralt didn’t falter, Guts would give him that, and began his next strike as soon as his blade bounced from Guts’s. Better to keep the momentum going with a larger blade. Stopping his sword to regroup would be much more difficult than keeping it swinging. Guts began his own counter attack, easily batting away his opponent’s strikes. He could tell the other man was getting frustrated. He was used to the heavier weight of his own weapon overpowering other fighters’ blades. What would he do now? Would he keep striking or approach the problem from a new angle? He charged towards Guts trying to get inside his guard. Not a bad tactic if he was quick enough. Guts turned his sword in his hand and smacked Gerallt with the flat. The blow laid the man out on the ground coughing. Well that answered that question.

“Anything broken?” With its incredible heft, even being hit with the flat of Guts’s sword could badly injure an opponent. Gerallt hacked a few more times before gathering himself to speak.

“No, I don’t think so. Just got the wind knocked out of me.”

“Good, take a moment to recover and we’ll go another round. In the meantime,” He scanned the faces of the gathered knights. It seemed like most of them were a little more wary of fighting him now. It took him a moment to identify his next victim. “Hey you! You look like you want to prove something.”

Cadogan watched the fight from inside the castle. Despite his age, Guts fought like a veteran. Not a prodigy, a veteran. That calm certainty with which he held his sword was something only gained through years of experience. He did have things he had to do today, but in truth that wasn’t the reason he’d left. Every time he learned a new piece of information about his grandson’s past he felt like someone had punched him in the face. He had been on the battlefield since he was five or six. He had shared the information so nonchalantly, as if he didn’t think anything of it. Schierke had said that his past wasn’t hers to share. If he treated going to war so young as if it were nothing, what else could he be hiding?

He was very clearly hiding something as well. Cadogan saw how his hand tightened around the hilt of his blade. There was more to his story about his teacher. It frustrated him. Normally in a case like this he could easily find information. He went through the process every time a new minister joined the court. He was intimately familiar with several methods of discrete information gathering. However, as he had found long before Guts even arrived at court, there was no information on his grandson to be found. No birth records, no tax documents, no lodging requests, nothing. His past was a black hole until he joined the Band of the Hawk and even then much of the information available was hearsay. Some of it rang true after meeting the boy, he was a giant of a young man that was for certain. Other pieces of information made sense with some context, he didn’t grow a tail in battle (thank god he wasn’t one of those things) but he could see how his strangely designed scabbard could’ve started that one. However, others were likely completely bunk. Not to mention a lot of it was under pseudonyms. Actions were attributed to him as a fixture of the battlefield rather than claimed and associated with him. Most mercenaries his information gathers had found didn’t even know him by name, just as “the hundred man slayer” or “oh yeah that fucked up kid I served with, I wonder what happened to the poor bastard” or in some cases just “that monster.” He shut down Gerallt so easily without doing much in the way of attacking himself. This was Guts barely trying and he’d managed to easily take down one of their most promising knights. He must truly be terrifying in a real battle. What had happened to him in the past eighteen years to forge him into this?

Cadogan’s hand closed around the behelit in his pocket. Maybe Elaine was right, he should have let her, no. It wouldn’t have changed anything. He had to believe that. He had to believe it wasn’t what Cerridwyn would have wanted. But yet the brown egg sat cold in his pocket and with it the weight sat ever on his mind. After his duties were done for the day he would have to find Sir Griffith and try to gauge just how much he knew. Cadogan been lucky once, he didn’t think he’d be so lucky a second time.