A Dog Among Princes

Chapter 41

Guts hoped Griffith would get back soon. He had the knowledge base to hold conversations with the nobility now, but he still got worn out if he got stuck having to socialize for too long. Why that was he had no idea. He could fight for an hour alone against a hundred men, but talking exhausted him. Unfortunately for him, it didn’t look like anyone was coming to save him. Pippin was showing Rickert his completed manuscript, pointing at certain pages and asking for advice, Judeau and Casca were desperately trying not to step on eachother’s feet on the dance floor, and Corkus was attempting to hit on a very disinterested looking widow. Finally, of all people, Farnese fucking Vandimion pulled him aside.

“I can’t find Charlotte.” Immediately Guts looked up and scanned the crowd, looking for the King of Midland. He sat at a table dejectedly eating soup. Thank god.

“Get Casca and Serpico quietly and start looking. Whatever you do, don’t make a scene. I’ll try to keep her father distracted. Got it?” The girl nodded. “Good. Now go.” Farnese ran off and Guts excused himself from the group that had been talking at him. He had a good excuse now, he had to speak with his former employer.

The King of Midland hadn’t recognized him at first. After all they’d only ever met once, and who would’ve ever thought that the soldier too stupid to bow to his king would be the prince of a nation that prided itself on having a learned aristocracy. He didn’t personally see a point to that. He was a king and his lords were lords. That should be all it took to make people kneel. Yet Griffith had defied him. Even after he made him a general, offered him lands and titles, his victory over Tudor had been poisoned by Griffith’s betrayal. The king was no leader of men, he was no military genius, he was barely more than an expensive figurehead for his advisors and he knew it, and worse his citizens had began to realize it with Griffith’s departure and Charlotte’s disappearance. At least he had his status over the mercenary. He had infinite resources to hound and humiliate him, but now Griffith had been elevated by this buffoon of a soldier to the position of prince consort. It inspired in him a hatred more powerful than anything he’d ever felt. A hatred near blinding.

“I appreciate your presence here today. Hopefully despite the bad blood that may be between us, we can continue to foster a stronger diplomatic relationship,” the prince forced out through gritted teeth. He had no command over his emotions. It just served as confirmation of what he was. You can force a dog to stand on two legs, but it will never be a man. Likewise you can gild a soldier and put him in fine clothes, but he’ll never be anything more than mud underneath a true king’s heel.

When the king of midland spat back, “likewise I thank you for inviting me,” like a mouth full of venom, it was of course because Guts was beneath him, not worthy of his restraint.

“I feel like I should thank you. The renown I currently enjoy was built off of things I did while in your service.”

“There’s renown for murderers in a kingdom of scholars?” Guts let the forced grin fall from his face.

“You can’t even play along?”

“With what, this farce? Was your legitimacy that deeply in question that you thought it would be advantageous to announce to the world that you’re sodomizing your top military advisor? Or wait, don’t tell me, you’re the one being sodomized.”

It had been so long since someone had taken issue with who he slept with that Guts just stood there in shock for a moment. Of course in that state he couldn’t help but say the first thing that came to his mind. “At least my husband isn’t fucking my brother.”

“What did you just say?”

“At least my husband isn’t fucking my brother. Everybody knew you were being cucked and by your younger brother too, that’s some really sorry fucking shit right there.”

“Don’t you dare bring my brother into this!”

“If you ask me, whoever offed him did you a favor! You would’ve ended up with a bastard for an heir and you would’ve been too stupid to know the difference!”

“I swear one day I’ll have your head on a pike. I’ll make the war with Tudor look like a lovers spat!”

“I’ve survived worse than you.”

“Are you still clinging to that nonsense about facing down a monster? Just how stupid do you think I am?!” A massive shadow passed behind the stained glass windows and the whole room quieted. Guts put his hand on the hilt of his sword. A crash rang out through the hall as a massive beast with the face of a lion, the horns of a bull and the wings of a bat burst through the windows. Guts shielded himself from the rain of glass with the massive flat of his blade and the beast landed right in front of him.

“You neglected to send me an invitation,” the beast roared. The King of Midland was seized with fear more powerful than anything he’d ever experienced. His chest suddenly began to burn and he found he couldn’t breathe. “The only two mortal men that ever managed to draw my blood decided to unite their houses and you didn’t invite me?”

“Why are you here?” Guts tightened his grip on his sword so his arms wouldn’t shake.

“I will have another test of strength! Yourself and your shield bearer against me, unless you wish for blood to be spilled on what should have been a joyous occasion.” Where in the world was Griffith when he needed him.

“How about we pick up from last time? Just you and me until he gets here.” Zodd grinned.

“I would like that very much!” Guts looked at all of the guests, all of the theoretical casualties, still frozen in fear.

“Everybody out!” He shouted. “Now!” That broke the spell and suddenly there was a mad dash for the exit. He just hoped wherever Griffith was, he would hurry.

Zodd turned his head to the warrior in front of him. He hadn’t even needed to take a hostage. What a refreshing change of pace to find one so thirsty for battle. The other apostles of the God Hand had been let down when the hawk had declined to join their ranks, but secretly, Zodd had been absolutely elated. Duty had stayed his hand last time, but now there was nothing stopping him from finally having a proper battle! The human bore a larger blade this time. That might actually become a problem. If Guts managed to hit him again there was a high probability he would break bones. Destroying one or both of his arms would have to be his top priority.

The human lunged first. He was fast, far faster than a man of his size, with a weapon of his size, ought to be able to move. He dodged away, swiping downwards and the warrior ducked beneath his blow. So it would be a game of cat and mouse then. Boring, and ultimately the human would tire and he would win. A better idea crossed Zodd’s mind. He dodged a few more swings waiting for the human to aim for his side. The blade came up from a swing at his legs and Zodd could see the end of its arc. This time he didn’t dodge. The blade buried itself in his side and he roared in pain. Guts snarled triumphantly up at him until Zodd grabbed his left forearm. The demon squeezed as hard as he could. Bone splintered between his fingers and the warrior’s blood ran down his fist. Zodd tossed him away by his ruined arm, but was surprised to feel the sword slip from his side. Guts had still held onto it, clutching the hilt tightly in his right hand. He landed face down on a table, the wood splintered under his weight and Zodd heard a sickening pop.

“Already?” The monster cocked his head. “We had just gotten started.” Then something fast and heavy impacted his back. “You!” Zodd grinned excitedly.

“Me.” Griffith clawed at the monster as he hung onto his back for dear life.

Guts was in pain worse than anything he’d ever felt. He couldn’t move his arm and he couldn’t see right, but his addled mind couldn’t tell him what was wrong. He saw Griffith streak like a bolt of silver lightning onto Zodd’s back. Finally, he was saved for the second time. He could let himself slip into unconsciousness safe in the knowledge that they’d escape yet again.

Zodd turned around and bashed his back against the wall and Griffith crumpled to the ground. His vision went red. Guts lifted his sword above his shoulder, his bad arm hanging limp and useless but he could no longer feel the pain. Zodd nudged Griffith trying to see if he was still conscious. When he didn’t move the demon lifted him by the throat. He just barely had time to turn at Gut’s roar of anger before the man was at his throat. He jumped onto the demon’s back and held his sword against his neck. His injured arm wrapped tight around the blade to stabilize it. Zodd attempted to shake him off like he had with Griffith, bashing him against the wall. Guts felt his ribs break but he didn’t care, he only held on tighter, driving the blade into Zodd’s neck.

Griffith woke to both Guts and the demon roaring in pain. Zodd desperately tried to pull the blade from his throat but Guts held on tight, even as his sword bit into his injured arm. He shakily got to his feet. Griffith’s head was still spinning but he would not let this chance slip away. He flew at Zodd, taking the blade of Gut’s sword in hand and forcing it down onto the demon’s neck. For a moment Zodd’s expression calmed. He smiled and closed his eyes and then his head separated from his shoulders.

The second Zodd fell, Guts felt the adrenaline drain from his system. His ruined arm hung on by just a strand of muscle, he could barely breathe and something warm and wet was running down his right cheek. He lifted his sword one last time.

“Guts, what are you doing?” He brought it down on his arm, screaming as he did, and severed the last piece holding it on. He heaved, his breath shuddering.

“Would never heal right. Not worth wasting the effort.” He could feel himself fading fast and desperately grabbed onto Griffith’s cloak.

“Help. Help! Somebody please!” Griffith lifted him up and ran, not noticing the corpse of Midland’s King growing cold on the floor.

Charlotte noticed as she quietly tore a piece of wood from the shattered table to lodge in her step mother’s wound. Her eyes landed on a knife, knocked to the ground in the middle of the skirmish. It wasn’t the head of a monster. It was the head of a man, a very unwell man that had committed monstrous acts, but still a man. She picked up the knife. Still her father. She held back the dead man’s hair. But Charlotte knew that it would only serve to show her resolve all the more. If Queen Charlotte was capable of taking her own father’s head for his crimes against her and Midland’s people, what else was she capable of? Still she sobbed until she was nearly sick as his cold blood spilled onto her hands.