The battle in Hellsing’s Castle

Chapter 2 (Part A): "The Seducer's Gambit"

The scythe screamed through the air, its curved blade slicing toward Friedrich's throat. He ducked, the steel grazing his hair as Klaus lunged from the opposite side. The guard—**Erik**, his name stitched in frayed thread on his sweat-soaked tunic—spun like a dervish, deflecting Klaus's dagger with the scythe's haft. His movements were a blur, muscle and steel fused into chaos. 

"*He's a damned tornado!*" Klaus snarled, blood dripping from the gash on his forearm. 

Friedrich circled, breath ragged. Erik's scythe carved lethal arcs, driving them back. *No pattern*, Friedrich realized. *Instinct*. The guard fought like a man possessed, eyes wild, lips peeled in a feral grin. 

Klaus feinted left, drawing Erik's strike. Friedrich dove right, dagger aimed at the man's ribs—but Erik twisted, the scythe's handle cracking against Friedrich's wrist. Bone crunched. The dagger clattered to the floor. 

"*Now!*" Klaus barked. 

They lunged together. Erik pivoted, scythe slashing downward—but his left flank gaped. Friedrich's boot hooked Erik's ankle, unbalancing him. Klaus's dagger found flesh, plunging into Erik's side. The guard roared, elbow smashing Klaus's nose in a spray of blood. 

Friedrich seized his fallen dagger and rammed it into Erik's thigh. The scythe clattered as Erik collapsed, clutching the wound. "You... fight like cornered dogs," he spat, crimson frothing on his lips. 

Klaus wiped his face, smearing red. "And you die like a poet." 

Erik's glare softened. *Teacher was right*, he thought, vision dimming. *Pride drowns faster than blood*. His head thudded against stone, a faint smile curling his lips. *Worth it*. 

Klaus produced a silver thaler from his pocket, its surface pocked by musket fire. "Heads, you charm the king. Tails, I gut him." 

The coin spun, clattering on the stone. **Heads**. 

Friedrich grimaced. "Luck's a fickle whore." 

Klaus smirked. "Better you than me. I'd have carved his liver out mid-sentence." 

Friedrich pressed the twin barrels of his Egyptian flintlock against the oak door's iron lock. The weapon roared, the blast splintering wood and bending metal. Smoke curled into the corridor as he kicked the door open, hinges screaming. 

Silk and perfume choked the air. The queen and her mistress huddled on the bed, their nightdresses sheer as dawn. The queen's bodice gaped, revealing the pale curve of her breast; the mistress's fingers trembled as she clutched a velvet sheet to her waist. 

"Where is he?" Friedrich demanded, flintlock steady. 

The queen lifted her chin, trembling. "Gone to the gardens. Or his study. We... we don't know." 

The mistress slid forward, hips swaying. "Does it matter?" Her fingers brushed Friedrich's chest, undoing his coat buttons one by one. "The king's fate is sealed. Why not... savor the victory?" Her breath warmed his neck, lavender and wine. 

Friedrich stiffened. Four months of war had starved him of touch. Her hands roamed lower, igniting a heat he'd buried. The queen pressed against his back, lips grazing his ear. "We could make you a king," she whispered, her bodice slipping further to reveal a scar—thin and white—curving like a smile beneath her breast. 

*Weakness*. His dagger clattered as the mistress pinned his arms. The queen snatched his flintlock,carefully placing it on the nightstand .

A gunshot *cracked* outside—Klaus's signal. The signal was to alert Otto and his army that they had successfully infiltrated the castle and had captured the King. He knew Otto's men would arrive soon. The women ignored it.

The curtain suddenly twitched. Friedrich's eyes snapped to a faint glint—a musket barrel protruding from a hidden hollow in the wall. He lunged, tackling the women as a bullet tore through the fabric. The king emerged, musket smoking, eyes feral. 

"Filth!" the king roared, reloading. 

Friedrich scrambled for his flintlock. The king fired again. Wood splintered. The mistress screamed, a shard embedded in her foot. She collapsed, writhing. 

The queen clawed at Friedrich's face. "Die, you bastard!" 

He seized her wrist, twisting until she whimpered. The king advanced, bayonet fixed. 

Friedrich lay sprawled on the floor, the king's musket trained on his chest. The queen's laughter echoed shrilly as he scrambled backward, fingers clawing for his flintlock on the nightstand. *Too far*. The king's boot crunched glass shards as he reloaded, his smirk venomous. 

"Beg," the king hissed. "Beg, and I'll make it quick." 

Friedrich's mind raced. *The nightstand—*. He lunged, shoulder slamming into the ornate wooden stand. It toppled with a crash, the flintlock skidding across the floor. The king fired. The bullet tore through the mattress, feathers exploding like snow. 

Friedrich grabbed the pistol, cocking both hammers. The queen screamed, slapping his wrist. The flintlock discharged, blasting a chandelier above. Crystal shards rained down as the king lunged, bayonet glinting. 

"*Enough!*" Klaus's voice cracked like a whip. 

The king froze. Klaus stood in the room ,no one saw or heard him walk in , they would have easily agreed that he was a ghost, his own flintlock pressed to the monarch's skull. "Drop it, *Your Majesty*," he snarled, "or I'll redecorate this pretty room with your brains." 

The musket clattered. Friedrich seized it, his hands trembling—not from fear, but fury. *I nearly died for a night of weakness*. 

Klaus pistol-whipped the king. Bone crunched. The monarch crumpled, blood pooling beneath his cheek. 

"*You lost focus!*" Klaus roared, rounding on Friedrich. "One whiff of perfume and you turn into a panting hound? Pathetic." 

Friedrich's jaw tightened. "I had it under control." 

Klaus snorted. "Control? You were two breaths from being a corpse." He tossed Friedrich a coil of rope. "Tie them. *Now.*" he then walked out the room.

The queen lunged for Friedrich's flintlock, her silk sleeve snagging the trigger. The weapon fired, the bullet shattering a vase. Friedrich grabbed her wrist, slamming her against the bedpost. 

"Stay. Down." 

She spat in his face. "*Bastard.*" 

He bound her hands, the rope biting into her pale skin. The mistress lay unconscious, her foot swollen around the splinter. 

Klaus returned, dragging a bearded man by the collar. A dead pigeon dangled from his fist, its wings mangled. "Found this rat in the dovecote," he sneered, tossing the man at Friedrich's feet. 

The scribe trembled, clutching a sealed letter. Klaus ripped it open, scanning the spidery script. 

*To Nova and Louis—Send troops. The throne bleeds.* 

Klaus smirked. "Prussia won't save you now." 

The king was dragged downstairs and placed on his throne.

Drums thundered outside. Torchlight flooded the courtyard as **Otto von Kleist** marched in, his black cloak billowing like a storm cloud. Behind him, ranks of soldiers stretched into the night—20,000 men, their muskets gleaming. 

The king stirred on the throne, his voice a broken rasp. "Traitor..." 

Otto ignored him, turning to Friedrich. "Secure the gates. The *real* war begins at dawn." 

Friedrich nodded, wrist throbbing. Klaus tossed him a bandage. "Next time, keep your dagger—and your breeches—tight." 

Otto clasped Friedrich's shoulder. "You've done well. Dawn belongs to us." 

Klaus tossed the intercepted letter to Otto. "The pups were begging Prussia for help." 

Otto's eyes narrowed. "Burn it. Let them starve in the dark." 

Friedrich stared at the queen, her gown torn, crown askew. Her hatred burned hotter than the torches. *Mercy is a luxury*, he thought, *and I am bankrupt*. 

Klaus nudged him, holding up the dead pigeon. "Dinner?" 

Friedrich didn't smile. "What now?" 

"Now?" Otto's voice cut through the hall. "Now we remake Bavaria. And you, *Herr Weber*, will lead the vanguard." 

The king laughed, a wet, gurgling sound. "You think you've won? My sons will grind your bones to dust." 

Klaus kicked the throne. "Pray they try."