Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Chapter 246 Sword Master

The streets of Kutenberg were filled with mud and the stench of horse manure, permeating every street in the city.

This city, ravaged by the shadow of war and the repeated changes of power, is now filled with Hungarian soldiers speaking with unfamiliar accents. They patrol the streets with an air of arrogance, their eyes scanning every citizen with vigilance and contempt, as if they were counting their spoils of war.

Tax collectors appeared more frequently as a result, and various exorbitant taxes were levied under various pretexts, which entangled the already struggling people like vines. One of these taxes was the "travel tax" levied on non-local residents.

This was a double assault, both physical and mental, on Master Menhard and his disciple Agnel, who were temporarily residing in a cramped room on the second floor of the "Emperor Charles" tavern.

Menhard Frankfurt, a swordsmanship master who was once renowned in Frankfurt, was staring blankly at a small glass of cloudy ale.

His once-respectable leather swordsmanship jacket was worn smooth and shiny, with fine cracks at the elbows, much like his current state of mind. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and even in his impoverished state, his spine remained ramrod straight—a posture etched into his very bones by years of rigorous training.

But his eyes, those eyes that should have been as sharp as a hawk's, able to see the slightest flaw in his opponent, now appeared somewhat cloudy, filled with anxiety and resentment. His fingers unconsciously tapped on the rough wooden tabletop, the rhythm disordered, revealing his inner turmoil.

His disciple, Agnel, a similarly robust young man with a youthful face, paced anxiously in the room. The room was low and dark, barely large enough to fit two narrow beds and a table; the air was thick with the scent of aged wood.

The materials, the inferior tobacco, and a faint musty smell.

"Teacher," Agnel finally stopped, her voice hoarse, "the landlord came to collect the rent again today, and that damned travel tax—he said if I, Yantian Black Arrow, can't raise the money, he'll have to ask me to leave Yu."

Menhard did not answer immediately; he simply sighed deeply, a sigh that seemed to carry a thousand pounds of weight. He knew all too well that their savings from Frankfurt, like snow under the sun, were rapidly melting away in this hostile city.

He arrived here full of hope, carrying a charter personally granted by King Wenceslaus IV, ready to make a name for himself in the Kutenberg Fencing Brotherhood and teach authentic German swordsmanship. Who could have imagined that fate would play such a cruel joke on him?

They were still on their way when the king was imprisoned, the royal flags changed hands, and the flag of Sigismund was raised on the city walls. The charter that once symbolized opportunity and glory instantly became a worthless piece of paper, and even a hot potato that the city officials avoided like the plague.

The Swordsmanship Brotherhood, a guild composed of "respectable" people such as citizens and minor nobles, chose to protect itself in the face of the political winds. The butler, Emeram, a bloated but cunning man who made his fortune in the slaughtering business, even brought in a swordsmanship master, Nicholas, from Prague, supposedly burdened by gambling debts, to teach him some "novel" Italian swordsmanship, completely blocking Menhard's path to employment.

"We cannot sit idly by and wait to die!"

Arnell gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. "That Henry, he promised so readily, why hasn't he shown up yet? Could it be that he also—"

"Be careful what you say, Agnel."

Menhard patted his disciple on the shoulder. "Mr. Henry is a good lad. He must have a reason for agreeing. Perhaps something has held him up."

He recalled that afternoon not long ago, his duel with the young man named Henry on the street corner. The young man was agile, his swordplay unpredictable yet precise, full of wild energy and amazing talent; given time, he would surely become a master swordsman.

That draw was the only time since Menhard had been stranded in Kutenberg that he felt his blood boil again. It was also Henry who stepped forward and skillfully defused the crisis when they were being harassed by Emeram, Nicholas, and that councilor Fridus Kummel, who extorted a fine from them under the pretext of "unauthorized sword-giving."

Menhard, enraged, challenged Nicholas to a public sword duel to determine the master swordsman's status—the most direct and straightforward solution in an era where chivalry still prevailed. Nicholas, though seemingly a slick gambler, genuinely desired the fight, and he almost accepted.

But the cunning and shrewd Emeram stopped him. "The martial arts tournament in two weeks is more important," Emeram said with a forced smile, a hint of feigned regret on his fat face. "Why rush things, Master? Time will tell."

Menhard understood the threat in those words. Time was on their side, because time and money were slipping rapidly through the fingers of Menhard and his apprentice. The influence of the sword-fighting brotherhood was enough to completely block his path of earning a meager living by dueling on the street. This was the real trump card.

So, in near despair, they came up with the risky plan to steal one of the symbols of the Brotherhood of Swords, the "Guild Sword" enshrined at the Brotherhood's headquarters and engraved with special inscriptions and emblems.

By publicly displaying this sword on the town hall bulletin board, it would be tantamount to declaring a challenge, a blatant disregard for the Brotherhood's authority, and a direct insult to Nicholas personally. At that point, to uphold the guild's honor and his own reputation, Nicholas would have no choice but to accept the challenge.

Henry agreed to take on this dangerous mission. But he disappeared without a trace after he left.

"Bang bang bang!" A rough knocking sound interrupted the master and apprentice's thoughts. Before they could respond, the door was pushed open, and the tavern owner, a burly man with a ruddy complexion and snobbish eyes, blocked the doorway with two waiters.

"Germans!" the boss shouted gruffly. "The deadline is here! Rent, and last month's taxes! Not a penny less!"

Menhard stood up, trying to maintain his dignity: "Boss, please grant us a few more days, our friend—"

"Friends? I don't care what kind of friends you have!"

The shopkeeper waved his hand impatiently, "These days, the city is full of Hungarian lords, and my business isn't doing well! Either pay up or get out! Take all of you junk along with you!" He glanced disdainfully at the old bag in the corner that contained all the belongings of the master and apprentice.

Agner was trembling with anger and wanted to step forward to argue, but Menhard held her back with a look.

The master swordsman unfastened his sword from his waist. It was a standard German two-handed sword, in excellent condition. The scabbard, though old, was clean and tidy, and the wooden hilt gleamed with a warm luster from years of use. This was a companion he had brought from Frankfurt, accompanying him on countless competitions and training sessions, and the source of his glory.

"Boss," Menhard said somewhat hesitantly, "this sword is yours for now. It's worth—"

"Who wants your piece of junk!" the boss scoffed. "In this day and age, who dares to play with this? Taking it to the Hungarians to exchange for money? I think you're trying to get me into trouble! Enough nonsense, if you don't have the money, get out of here right now!"

Their last hope was dashed. Pushed and yelled at by the owner and his staff, Menhard and Agner were roughly thrown out of the "Golden Anchor" tavern. Their belongings were carelessly tossed onto the cold street, splashing up a little mud.

The night grew deeper, and the wind swept across the empty streets.

The master and apprentice, exhausted and carrying only a few belongings, wandered aimlessly through the intricate alleys of Kutenberg. The footsteps and shouts of night patrol soldiers could be heard from time to time, forcing them to hide in the shadows like rats.

Finally, at the end of a dead-end alley reeking of urine and decay, they found a relatively dry corner where they could barely find shelter, and sat down against a moss-covered wall.

Their desire has shifted from "Can I become a swordsmanship master tomorrow?" to "What will we eat tomorrow?"

But who knows whether tomorrow or an accident will come first!

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