bookbashuk Chapter 32 Aryan
Chapter 32 Aryan
However, the soldiers of La Valedi were no match for the soldiers brought by Foltest. The morale boost from the king's presence allowed them to sweep through the city walls, defeating any soldiers guarding them, then cheering as they pushed them off the walls, mocking them as they turned into unrecognizable piles of minced meat.
Kiliam's steel sword dripped crimson blood. In an instant, he severed the throats of two guards, his movements so swift that even the knights nearby hadn't seen how he did it. For a moment, the knights paused their fight, glancing at him with a mixture of awe and disgust before refocusing their attention on their opponents.
Kiliam's sword tip shifted slightly, pointing towards a spot on the city wall.
"Your little admirer's eyes are practically glued to you," he said to Geralt, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on a waitress in a tavern. "Look at those eyes, I didn't realize you were so popular with men."
As Geralt turned around, the morning light illuminated Arian la Valedi's armor.
It was falcon-emblazoned armor conforming to the standards of high-ranking Temurian nobles, but the sapphires that should have been inlaid on the shoulder armor had been crudely replaced with green glass. The young man's dark brown curly hair was pressed under his falcon-winged helmet, a few strands of hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his emerald pupils were contracting due to intense emotions.
If Fortescue's heraldic officer were here, he would surely recognize the pure bloodline of the La Valéry family in this young man.
"White Wolf!" Aryan's roar suddenly tore through the battlefield's clamor. The young nobleman shook off the entangled soldiers, his curly hair beneath his falcon-winged helmet soaked with sweat, the hand-carved wolf head pattern on his breastplate flickering in and out of focus with each dramatic movement. His steel longsword sliced through the swirling smoke of the battlefield, its tip pointed directly at Geralt's throat: "Fight me!"
Geralt's golden pupils contracted slightly as he spun around to avoid the thrust, his steel sword spinning in his palm like a half-moon.
Aryan's sword flew effortlessly from his hand, embedding itself deeply in the iron-clad outer wall of the siege tower, its hilt still humming and trembling. Clearly, a single sword was insufficient to launch a surprise attack on a keen-witted, swordsmanship-skilled witcher.
As the young nobleman staggered backward, Geralt's sword tip was already pressed against a gap in his neck guard: "Didn't your teacher teach you that emotions can kill a swordsman?"
"When I was seven, and I couldn't sleep at night, my nanny would always tell me the story of the Witcher slaying Renfre, the Daughter of the Black Sun." Aryan's hands trembled as she spoke, seemingly unable to bear the immense strength of the Witcher. "She said that when the White Wolf walked alone into the Rivia camp, his steel sword beheading fifteen bandits, the blood splattered like rubies in the moonlight..."
"Oh." Kiliam raised an eyebrow. "I've never heard this passage in Dandelion's poetry before?"
"Because it's not a good story, Gillian," Geralt replied curtly, his voice carrying a weariness he hadn't shown to anyone in a long time. It was a period he didn't want any poet to sing about, a time when a witcher earned the nickname "The Butcher" in a small town.
He stared intently at the unarmed young nobleman, sensing a deep adoration in the boy. It was a kind of idol-like, even pious, adoration unique to youth. For this to appear in a young man already clad in armor, sword drawn, fighting for his family, was the most cruel thing imaginable. It meant that the boy harbored two souls: one that worshipped Geralt, and one that had to kill him.
"And now you're wielding your sword for the tyrant who defiled my mother!" Aryan picked up a sword that had fallen to the ground. This time, his thrust carried a hint of the Witcher's style, though it was unclear where he had learned it from. Unfortunately, his anger distorted his movements.
He looked like a wild beast simply venting its anger, appearing chaotic and without any order.
Geralt raised an eyebrow, not wanting to disturb Geralt's battle. While fame might make him a guest of honor to the king, he believed the downsides outweighed the benefits.
If it were him, he probably wouldn't have the patience to hold back on the battlefield with a nobleman. A sword, a heartbeat, then leaving the corpse behind to take on the next commission. Generally speaking, he has no intention of being merciful to those who want to take his life.
He nimbly leaped onto the arrow tower on the city wall, eliminating all the most threatening crossbowmen. With that, victory was virtually assured. His attacks were swift and precise, each strike landing precisely on the path his opponents couldn't even react to. The crossbowmen didn't even have time to see what stood before them. By the time he jumped down from the tower, the ballista phalanx, which had been firing sporadically, was silent, leaving only a few unfired bolts lying in pools of blood.
Aryan's swordsmanship was decent, but it was no match for the Witcher, who had lived for countless years. When the steel sword, capable of easily severing his head, was once again held against the first heir to the barony, even the knights guarding him began to urge him to surrender.
"Young master, please stop." An elderly knight knelt in a pool of blood, his left arm slashed with a deep, bone-revealing wound in the earlier melee, but he still raised his right hand in a pleading gesture, "Your mother wouldn't want you to die here."
Aryan glared at the knight, his eyes already slightly red.
Then he suddenly ripped open his left arm guard, revealing a crudely painted design on the inside: a knight in a wolf-headed helmet slaying a six-armed monster. "I drew this when I was ten, sneaking into the Heraldry Academy..." His voice suddenly filled with boyish grievance, "They punished me by making me copy Heraldry for three months, not knowing that every page's edge was covered with sketches of the Hanged Man Tree! Those drawings were all based on the Witcher stories Dandelion sang. I even drew the part where you cleaved the sea monster with your sword, although my sea monster looks more like an angry catfish."
The Serpent School Witcher twirled his sword, splattering blood on the ground. He turned to his companion: "It seems you're much more endearing in children's bedtime stories than in real life. If you ask me, this battle should be the most worthy subject of Dandelion's poetry. 'The White Wolf strikes down his last little fan' sounds like it would be very popular among female nobles."
Geralt stepped forward, disarmed the young nobleman, and pressed him to the floor, awaiting the King of Temeria's final judgment. His gesture of holding the young man's shoulder was remarkably restrained, neither humiliating him nor giving him any chance to resist.
"I will not surrender to the man who defiled my mother, let me go!" Aryan struggled. "I never imagined that Geralt of Rivia, the strongest swordsman in the North, would stoop to this level."
"Young master, you're drunk," the injured old knight said again.
"I'm not drunk!"
"Enough, let him go, Geralt." Foltest's arrival carried the aura of iron and blood. He waved his hand, signaling to release his control over Aryan.
When he came up, there were almost no La Valéry soldiers left standing on the city wall. With each step he took, the blood under his feet was trampled into a small, dark red flower by his iron boots.
"Remove his helmet, so that his king may see his face clearly."
Aryan was a rather young-looking fellow, with a deliberately grown beard to appear mature, but he was actually quite young. In the battle just now, he had repeatedly expressed his admiration for Geralt and his disappointment that Geralt had helped Foltest.
Foltest stared at the young face.
He remained silent for longer than anyone had anticipated. The wind blowing from the direction of the Ponta River dried the bloodstains on the king's breastplate, smoothing them into the wrinkles of his neck. Kiliam could even hear the distant sounds of soldiers carrying corpses from beneath the siege towers, sack after sack, like grain.
"Oh..." Fortest studied Arian's face for a while before saying, "Although you look a lot like old La Valéry when he was young, you do have Louisa's blood, especially your stubborn look."
Arian gritted his teeth and glared at Foltest with resentment. Kiriam, watching from the side, was worried that this unrestrained young man might suddenly stand up and punch the confident king.
"What do you want!"
"It doesn't matter," the king said. "Aryan, I will not kill you. You are Louisa's son, and I don't want to hurt her. If you are willing to surrender to me, I will pardon your crimes."
"You've spread the news of my mother's promiscuity throughout the country, and now you want me to surrender?!"
"Clap." A crisp slap rang out on the noisy battlefield, and Aryan stared at Foltest in disbelief. The slap had struck his cheek, leaving a red mark almost symmetrical to the rough wolf head pattern on his breastplate.
"I suppose I have the right to teach you a lesson on behalf of your mother, and you are right, but your reckless heroism will not justify the deaths of your men. I swear in the name of the king that if you do not surrender, I will slaughter all your men. Now lay down your weapons!"
Aryan's eyes widened, a mixture of resentment and anger brewing within them, which slowly subsided. He found himself beginning to appreciate this domineering presence, finding it truly befitting of a king.
Foltest...leading from the front, disregarding past grievances...what a magnificent figure he was. He had never encountered such a person in his life of luxury and ease within his castle, not even his own father.
The old baron had once proudly told him, "A true nobleman is never intimidated by a king." But now, Aryan realized that his father might never have truly seen a king, a real king. The old baron had only seen Foltest in the court, holding a wine glass and stroking his mistress's thigh. He had never seen this king on the city walls, leading the charge over thirty corpses.
Arian suddenly looked up and stared intently into Foltest's eyes as he asked.
"Why do you dare stand in front of me? Didn't you see my swordsmanship when I fought the Witcher? The knight with the shield beside you is no match for me."
Kiriam lowered his head, feeling somewhat embarrassed, and stomped his foot on the floor. He then glanced at Geralt's unchanging poker face, who didn't seem to feel the slightest bit awkward because of Arian's words.
However, if Geralt hadn't gone easy on him, how could the White Wolf, who had honed his swordsmanship for over a century, have managed to entangle himself with a nobleman in his twenties for several rounds?
This master of the Wolf School had his own style when it came to holding back, making his opponent believe it was a real fight while simultaneously making the opponent's eventual defeat seem inevitable. Giliam secretly noted this down, preparing to mock Serret the next time they met, since Serret's method of holding back was always to break three of his ribs before delivering a sarcastic remark.
However, Foltest clearly knew Geralt's swordsmanship well. He stroked the hilt of his sword and took another step forward to get closer to Arian.
"Ha! Why should a king be afraid of his subjects, and besides..."
Foltest's face showed a look of reminiscence. "When you were not long after you were born, you grabbed a model of a wooden sword. I knew then that you would be a good swordsman. I called the craftsmen of Bullburg overnight and gave your mother a sword with a blade wrapped in velvet. Your mother even hid that sword, afraid that you would hurt your finger. But the summer when you were five years old, you found that sword yourself and used it to cut a gash on the web of your right hand. You ran crying to your mother's arms, but still refused to throw the sword away."
Arian paused for a moment.
He glanced instinctively at his right hand. The glove covered it, but he knew there was a small, long-pale old scar there. He had never told anyone where the scar came from, because he himself couldn't remember.
"How could you...?"
Foltest paused, as if he himself didn't know how to end his sentence. He simply continued, "I was the one who gave you your first sword, and that's enough. Now, like a true knight, serve your king faithfully."
Although Kiriam thought this might be a way for Foltest to please Arian's mother, it was clear from Arian's expression that he was becoming increasingly swayed.
Finally, as cheers erupted after the city gates were blasted open, the young nobleman lowered his head.
"With the heart of Meritelli as my witness..." The young man knelt on one knee in the traditional surrender gesture of the Temurian nobility, his armored knee crushing half of his family's blood-stained crest. "I, Aryan la Valedi, surrender to my king... Please treat my mother well."
Foltest walked past him with his head held high. All the soldiers of La Valedi in the outer city had laid down their weapons as their lord's heir surrendered, and Foltest crossed over using their weapons as a bridge.
His iron boots trod on the swords, axes, and maces, producing a crisp, metallic scraping sound completely different from before. Only the king's faint words remained in the air thick with the metallic stench.
I accept.