Barbarian's Adventure in a Fantasy World-Chapter 280: The Barbarian King (1)

“Oh, wow!” Ketal exclaimed.

He could not help voicing his admiration when the city came into view. Every village they had seen in the North so far had been closer to a camp than a settlement. There were no outer walls. Rough buildings leaned at odd angles, tossed together the way a poor district grew around a crossroads.

That had felt inevitable. Barbarians lacked patience and planning. They would not build a proper town when a shack for sleeping would do. That was what Ketal had believed, and that belief had held for a very long time.

The city before him proved there was another path. Someone had drawn a plan and followed it. Someone had laid out streets with intent, placed blocks with a sense of order, and built with more than the next night in mind. Maintenance had clearly slipped. There were dirty stretches and broken corners, yet the bones were sound.

“Did the Barbarian King design this?” Ketal asked the barbarian.

“Yes. Everyone told him it was a useless idea, and he forced it through anyway. He is a very peculiar king,” the former leader grumbled. His expression made it clear he did not see the point of a city.

Ketal’s respect deepened. Back in the White Snowfield, he had tried to build a place like this and failed. He had explained the need for a stable territory that was more than a cluster of shelters. He had spoken about safety, storage, and the strength that came from staying in one place long enough to plant a stake. The barbarians he led had only shrugged. They told him he could sleep anywhere, so why bother spending the effort.

He had argued for a long time and then given up.

The Barbarian King of the North had succeeded where Ketal had failed. Even if the barbarians outside this city were more reasonable than most, it was still an achievement that mattered.

“The King is inside,” the former leader said. “Let us go in.”

“All right.”

They approached the gate. A handful of barbarian guards leaned against the wall and nodded off where they stood; whether they were on watch or avoiding work was not clear. The sudden appearance of a large column snapped them upright.

“Who are you?” one of them barked.

“I will speak,” the former leader said.

“As you like,” Ketal answered with a nod.

The man marched forward and threw his shoulders back.

“We have come to meet the Barbarian King!” he shouted. He did not lower his voice even a little. “We are here to prove our strength in battle against mighty demons, so that our worth will be beyond question.”

“I see,” one guard said, relaxing.

The weapons lowered. The former leader lifted his voice again before the moment could pass.

“And a challenger has come to face the King!”

“What?” the guards blurted, eyes widening.

“Our leader Ketal will challenge the ruler of the North and stake his claim to the throne,” the man declared with pride, opening a hand toward Ketal as if presenting a prize bull.

“It has been a long time since a challenger appeared,” one of the guards muttered as he moved at once.

“Come this way. We will take you to the King,” another chimed in.

They grinned as they welcomed Ketal, which made Darkul mutter under his breath.

“Are these really guards?” he said. “Are they not supposed to protect the city and defend the King. Why are they happy to guide a man who means to fight him?”

Ketal only took it in stride. He had watched barbarians too long to be surprised by a contradiction that felt natural to them.

“Someone is going to challenge the Barbarian King!” voices called from deeper inside the city. “A strong warrior must have arrived!”

The news ran through the streets. Barbarians poured from alleys and doorways and fell in behind the moving knot of bodies. They wanted to see the man who would stand in front of their King. In a few minutes, the crowd thickened to the size of a river.

“Make way!” the Holy Sword said in Ketal’s ear with cheerful vanity. “Look upon my master and be amazed!”

No one but Ketal heard the voice.

They reached their destination. The place where the King lived did not look like a palace. It was a plain house, so unadorned that a stranger might have mistaken it for a commoner’s home. The crowd stopped. Silence gathered, as if the city itself was taking a breath.

Then, the door opened.

“What is this noise?” a man asked from inside.

He looked no older than his mid-thirties. Whether that was his true age or the mark of a body that resisted time was hard to guess. Either way, he did not look like a king.

Ketal’s eyes brightened. This was the master of the North, the King of all barbarians. The man let his gaze travel across the faces in the crowd and then pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“You manage to create a new problem every day,” he said in a voice that carried both patience and resignation. “Do you get sick if you sit still?”

Weariness softened his eyes. A fighter on the Hero level should not tire so easily. The look spoke of headaches rather than fatigue.

“So what is it today? Did you beat one another to death in a brawl?” he asked the barbarians.

“No. It is not something so trivial,” the former leader said.

“I did not say it was trivial,” the King answered. “If a crowd of people died, that is very serious.”

“Then, it is trivial!” the man insisted, and then raised his voice so that even those at the back of the street could hear him. “Your Majesty, a man has come to challenge you for the throne. He is here!”

He pointed to Ketal. The King and Ketal looked at one another.

Ketal took in what he did not see. The King’s eyes held none of the wildness that marked most barbarians. There was no hot turbulence about to boil over. His calm looked like the calm of a monk who had trained for a very long time.

Is he truly a barbarian, Ketal wondered, and found the thought genuinely impressive.

“You are not like the usual sort,” the Barbarian King murmured, as if he was thinking a similar thought.

They studied one another without heat. The stillness between them ran deep.

“And you are strong,” the King said at last.

What he could sense on the surface was the highest level of Advanced. Yet he knew that was not the whole of it. Ketal had tucked his force out of sight, and even so, the King could feel the hint of something greater.

His eyes moved, passed over Ketal’s face, and paused when they reached the gray hair. For an instant, they shook. He looked as if a memory had stepped out of a door he had locked a long time ago. Then he put the feeling away and asked his question.

“Are you here to challenge me?”

“For now, that is what has happened,” Ketal answered.

“So you came to become King of the North and lead those fools,” the man said, jerking his chin toward the crowd. “Why? You do not look as ignorant and thick-headed as they are.”

He sounded as though he could not make sense of the idea even as he said it.

“I would gladly hand the duty to anyone else,” he said in a quieter voice, “but the truth is that I am the only one who can lead my foolish people.”

I am their king, he added under his breath, and the words sat in the air like a fact that had been tested many times.

“This is the North,” he said more formally. “This is the world of the strong. If you defeat me, all my rights and all my obligations pass to you. Put everything you have on the line, stranger.”

***

The city had a proper dueling ground. Perhaps it had always been there. Perhaps it had been built as soon as the King understood what the city would need. Either way, it was large. A modern football stadium would not have dwarfed it by much.

Ketal stepped into the dueling ground. Murmurs rippled through the seats.

“I never thought I would see a man challenge the Barbarian King while I was alive,” someone said.

Every barbarian in the city seemed to have come, children and elders alike. No one wanted to miss what might be told and retold for years.

“Ketal, will you be all right?” Darkul asked him, hovering at the edge of the ring.

“I will be fine,” Ketal said.

“I will trust you, then. Win, or do not win, whichever is less of a disaster. Just... do it well,” Darkul said, unable to hide his nerves as he slipped away.

“Let us become king!” the Holy Sword urged in his ear. “King! king! Fame is a fine thing! They will all shout your name!”

“Be quiet,” Ketal said.

“Yes,” the sword answered in a small voice.

The King appeared at the far gate a few moments later. He looked at Ketal with an expression that could not settle. It was as if Ketal reminded him of something he had tried not to remember.

“I am the King of the North!” he said to the crowd. “My name is Bayern! I was born to lead the barbarians, and I carry the weight that comes with it. If you defeat me, all of this becomes yours.”

It was Ketal’s turn to speak. He drew in a breath and let his voice carry without shouting.

“I am a barbarian. My name is Ketal. I come from a world colder and more frozen than this one.”

Bayern’s eyes widened. The faint suspicion in his gaze turned into certainty.

“As the chief of barbarians, I led and ruled them,” Ketal continued. “You have wagered the seat of a king. I should put something of the same measure on the table. If you defeat me, the rights and the obligations I have claimed will pass to you.”

He smiled and lifted his axe.

“If I followed my heart, I would concede this match now. That would not be right. Let us fight with our duties and our rights in both hands,” Ketal said.

“You...,” Bayern said, and his eyes trembled. He looked as if he had identified where Ketal had come from and what he had carried and done there.

The look faded, then he drew his own axe.

“Very well. I have questions, but not for now. There is work to do.”

“Let us prove our strength,” Ketal said.

They smiled at one another, and something in both faces changed. Languor and inconvenience drained away. Killing intent took their place. The promise of a struggle settled on their skin. Gasps sounded across the seats. The air changed as the weight of two wills pressed outward. Barbarians who had come to watch found their breath catching. Even hardened men felt the urge to take a step back.

They understood without words that a fight was about to begin that they could not measure or fully accept.

All right, Ketal thought. Let’s see... How does a Hero barbarian of the Outside differ from those within?

Anticipation sharpened his features. Bayern moved first as he drove forward. The ground under his feet gave way and cracked from the force of the acceleration.

He clenched his axe in both hands and rushed Ketal. Ketal considered the cleanest answer. The attack was not so fast that he could not avoid it. A simple step would take him out of line. He met Bayern’s eyes and hesitated. What he saw there looked like a test.

Show me your strength, Bayern thought.

The message was clear enough. Ketal bared his teeth in a quick smile.

“I can do that,” he said.

He chose not to yield a step. He rooted his feet, tightened his fingers around the haft, and swung. The two axes met. The ring of the impact went out like a strike on a great bell. The closest spectators were thrown outward as if a wave had passed through them. The shock tore breaths from lungs and sent gear skittering across the sand.

“Everyone fall back!” someone shouted.

Those nearest stumbled away, but some refused to leave. They pressed closer, saying they would rather see this up close and die than miss it. They were not entirely wrong. A clash like this would not come twice in a lifetime. Barbarians valued a last blaze as much as a long story.

They did not have to wait long. The axes crashed again. Neither man gave a step. Each stood in place and swung with both hands, meeting strength with strength. Each time the blades struck, the air tore, and the ground split in a fresh seam from the pressure.

Sparks sprayed, and the edges chewed one another. With a grind of metal, the overlapping blades locked for a beat. Bayern’s free hand curled into a fist. Power gathered there.

Ketal laughed and matched him. He made a fist and drove it forward. The air burst. A wave rolled across the stands and set men to their knees. Many saved themselves from being swept into the aisle by digging their fingers into cracks in the stone.

It was a relief that the dueling ground sat outside the main body of the city. If they had fought within the walls, the new streets and careful buildings would already have been in ruins.

Someone looked up and choked. The sky that had been heavy with cloud a moment before had been scraped clear. The force of the clash had punched the shroud to tatters and left patches of bright blue.

Pure physical power, the strength of bodies and the iron inside them, had shaken heaven and earth. A roar broke out. This was the thing barbarians loved, the essence of it, peeled down to the core. They howled as if the sound itself could carry the weight they felt in their bones.

“You are strong. This is excellent.” Ketal laughed aloud. admiration lit his face.

He meant every word of it. Of all the fighters he had met Outside, Bayern was the toughest. When Ketal had traded a test of strength with the Elder Dragon Ignisia, even that colossal creature had split scales and torn a hand open. Bayern stood unmarked.

It meant that a human body had surpassed an Elder Dragon’s hide in sheer ability to take a blow.

“To find a barbarian out here who can handle power like this,” he thought, marveling at the fact. “That is surprising.”

He had expected to see this depth only from the White Snowfield. The discovery lifted him into a better mood. Bayern, for his part, could not hide his shock.

He is a monster, he thought.

Bayern was attacking in earnest. He swung with killing intent. He aimed to end the fight when an opening presented itself. Ketal answered with movements that looked simple and carried lightness. He was not straining. Bayern knew without doubt that Ketal was not using his full strength.

Where did a man like this come from? Bayern thought.

His expression smoothed as he calmed.

“No,” he said to himself. “If it is that damned place, there are more than enough reasons.”

He set his axe to the side and steadied his breathing. His eyes were clear as he looked at Ketal.

“You are stronger than I am,” Bayern said.

He could tell that, apart from what he felt of Ketal’s hidden weight, there were the words Ketal had used when he introduced himself. Those words had explained more than he had said.

“But I am the Barbarian King!” Bayern added.

He was the master of the North. He was the King of the barbarians. That title meant he was the strongest among them.

“I have pride as well,” he said. “At the very least, I will force out your true strength.”

With that, Bayern’s Myst rose.