The Gray Tower (Being Rewritten as The Erstwhile Druid)

Chapter 10: Even Old Men Have Secrets

Grond watched with satisfaction as Noelle disappeared into the tower. Now he was alone with the old man, a samurai of renown. Mission accomplished. He followed the elder man's eyes, marveling at the intensity they housed.

The king had warned him, that this man would be the most difficult to defeat. Grond scoffed inwardly. A samurai will always be defeated by a spellsword. They're weak against balanced characters.

But...

Perhaps this man is different. He has a killer's stare. Scheming, Grond pretended to writhe in pain, hoping to lull his enemy into complacence.

The samurai continued watching the tower's entrance. Birds chirped, but otherwise it was eerily silent. A heavy wind started to blow, trees rustling softly.

Grond envisioned in his mind the optimal scenario. He'd have distance, time enough to cast a spell to devastate his opponent. If the spell wasn't enough, he'd charge in blade raised. I will be the one to kill him, for my sister’s sake.

Thirty uneventful seconds passed. Then, the old man turned to Grond, a weariness washing over his features. He tapped his fingers, ever thoughtful.

"I'm tired of this farce."

Grond started, surprised. "What?"

The samurai stood, bones creaking. He looked down upon Grond, gaze hardening. "Playtime is over."

Does he know?

Grond coughed, blond curls shaking with each fit. Blood oozed from dozens of wounds, though the flow had become but a trickle. Those bandages helped, but it’s not like I would’ve died. Made sure the wounds that bloody bastard carved wouldn’t cripple. "What do you mean?"

"I am not naive. If the Crimson Whisper truly occupied that tower, you would not have survived," the man said. "I have dealt with them in the past, and they are not sloppy — unlike you."

He knows. Grond stopped coughing. "Words are all you have. Where is your evidence? I have done nothing."

The samurai strode away from Grond, putting twenty steps between him and the tower entrance. "Your wounds are completely different. The real guard was slain by a single blow through the heart. You have dozens of cuts, all superficial."

This man really is one of a kind. Mirthful laughter rang from Grond. "A round of applause for you. What are you, a detective?"

The man merely chuckled in response without turning. "Just a businessman."

"Why did you let the boy go, if you knew it was a trap?"

"Because I believe in him. Because I know that he's the one who will save us."

Grond stood up casually. Armor clunked to the ground, discarded like garbage. A gray suit of chainmail covering his body was revealed underneath. "Do you know what I was before I came to Tralheim?"

"A criminal?"

"No, a lawyer. Sentenced to thirty long years, all for a murder I did not commit." Grond focused his mind, calling out Inferno. Bladeless, a hilt appeared, snug in his grip. "But I was given a second chance."

The samurai shifted his orientation, now directly facing Grond. The Japanese man's right hand rested lightly on the hilt of his katana. 

An unspoken threat. How clever of you. Grond could not help but be impressed.

"Let me guess, wrong place, wrong time?" the samurai asked.

"Bingo. Should've been a cop, old man. You've got a knack for these things," Grond replied. “But you’re a bit old. Should’ve stayed home and enjoyed your retirement.”