It was a very dumb decision, beyond dumb. Downright stupid, thought Tremblay.
Tremblay, son of Duc Tremblay, stood on an empty street in Bangishimog. The furthest west he and his aide dare go. The edge of the Yarldoms. The edge of the civilized world as far as Tremblay was concerned. As far as most Franco princes would go.
Tremblay had gotten a little too drunk and a little too confident. A dangerous paring. They were guests of Isumi Kenta, the Nipponi ruler of the city.
If you can call it a city.
A large town with a wall and an above average standard of living. As quests were protected, they were expected to be respectful. Tremblay had forgotten that part.
The street had been cleared of people. Noodle shops, cobblers, a grocer and a small loan office flanked the road. Shutters clapped shut, locks bolted shut.
“I may have made a mistake,” said Tremblay, stunned, wide-eyed and terrified. His blonde hair hung in ringlets around his shoulders. He wore a blue coat and black vest. His boots suddenly felt very heavy.
Trees along the sidewalks swayed in the breeze.
“And whose fault is that?” said his aide, Ivane. The grumbly Slav man was always too honest with the Duc’s son.
Tremblay needed that honest. Especially now.
Down the street stood a fuming red-faced barbarian. A blonde bearded brute with a heavy steel sword in a gloved hand. His ill-fitting blazer in poor condition, jeans caked in mud. An Eastlander HallKarl with a third grade education. A wall of honour-bound pagan muscle.
Ivane held out Tremblay’s sword. A long curbed sabre, good on horseback, less useful in an honourduel. A HolmGang as it was known here.
Tremblay drew his sword, gripping the hilt tightly.
“You ready Franco Princeling?” roared the HallKarl.
Tremblay fell into a stance. He was trembling.