Her vision swam in mist. Through the haze, she glimpsed dancing dust motes, darting shadows, and flashes of ethereal blue.
Then came the voices—unfamiliar shouts first, followed by a response that made her heart leap.
It was her father's voice.
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He smiled. If even that carefree Simon can show such courage, what excuse have I for surrender?
"Thank you, Simon of Elselar!" Carl's shout carried across the battlefield, but Simon couldn't reply—he was already locked in deadly combat with the archer.
Simon wielded his broadsword with both hands, the massive blade matching his frame. He brought it down with crushing force toward Lannord. The archer, too close to draw steel, raised his yew bow vertically as a desperate shield. Simon's momentum carried through, splitting the bow like kindling. But what happened next defied belief. The broadsword, which should have continued its deadly arc, stopped dead in mid-swing. For one impossible moment, Simon saw what had halted his mighty blade: a single thumb.
Surely this is madness. Cold sweat traced Simon's spine. A finger stopped my full strike!?
In the next heartbeat, Lannord casually flicked the broadsword aside. His iron sword whispered from its sheath like death's own breath.
Simon's heart filled with regret.
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Carl had found his warrior's spirit again. Sword gripped tight, he faced Stellan. Their long chase had emptied the cloaked riders' quivers, and now steel sang against steel all around them.
I flee no more, he vowed. Life or death, the choice will be mine.
Seeing Carl's renewed resolve, Stellan's terrible smile returned, chilling as a midwinter wind.
They spurred their mounts forward, thundering toward each other. Stellan struck first, his blade a silver arc in the darkness. Carl twisted aside with equal speed, letting death whisper past his ear. At this intimate range, the cloaked rider's attacks came faster still. Where before Carl would have raised his sword in a futile block, now he leveled his blade at chest height and thrust forward like a viper's strike.
The cloaked rider's surprise showed in his desperate parry, forced to redirect his slash mid-swing. Carl withdrew and struck again instantly. "Lord Carl, when space denies you the slash, trust in the thrust," Stuart's lessons echoed in his mind. "Every swordsman's first lesson is the point."
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The battle shifted like tide. Carl pressed forward, his thrusts a storm of steel while Stellan scrambled to defend. Each strike came faster, more merciless, more deadly than the last. Carl's blade carried all his fury for Corslin's murder.
Stellan's patience snapped like dry timber. Weary of endless defense but trapped like a sailor before the tempest, he roared, "To hell with this!" and abandoned his guard.
Carl, deaf to the foreign tongue, seized his chance and lunged. But Stellan hadn't broken—with his left hand, he swept his dark green cloak before him like a shield.
It ends here. Carl thought. No cloth can turn steel. This is a dying man's last desperate act.
"Die!" Carl's voice carried authority he'd never known. "This blade bears the honor of Corslin Silian and his house!" Steel flashed in the night.
But the expected resistance of pierced flesh never came.
His sword stopped dead against the cloak. It hung there, trapped between advance and retreat. All Carl's hope and fury, concentrated in that perfect thrust, shattered against mere fabric.
Stellan struck instantly. His blade swept toward Carl's sword hand, seeking to claim it as he had claimed the boy's. Carl jerked back with desperate speed, but not fast enough—his steel sword went spinning into darkness.
In mere heartbeats, Carl plummeted from triumph to despair. This time, the hopelessness carried a bitter taste of irony.
He had nothing left. Even his mount wheezed beneath him, stride faltering.
He was utterly defenseless.
At the end of his solitary battle, Stellan spoke.
Though the words came slow and thick, Carl recognized his own tongue: the language of Godma.
The message needed no translation.
"Die."
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Simon tried to charge forward, to save his friend from the executioner's blade. But he couldn't break free.
His duel with Lannord had stretched eternally, neither gaining advantage. Yet Simon sensed his opponent was merely playing, wielding his sword with casual, mocking grace. Each of Simon's attacks met empty air while Lannord's battered iron sword danced with impossible life, humming with power in his grip. Simon's strikes found only air; Lannord's made his bones sing with pain.
Thrust, slash, cut, and strike—Simon had exhausted his repertoire without landing a single blow.
I cannot win. The truth settled like lead in his gut. This is the gap between us—this is the gods' cruel jest. His opponent didn't merely use his sword; he filled it with overwhelming force. Gods above, I must retreat.
He sheathed his blade and spurred his mount forward, desperate to escape. That's when he saw Carl, disarmed and helpless.
And the cloaked rider preparing the killing stroke.
"Carl, son of Cornell!" Simon's cry tore from his throat. He would kill that rider, save his friend. Even if it meant taking death's blow himself.
"Do not interfere." A voice like winter frost pulled Simon back. Lannord spoke, and though Simon couldn't understand Cynthian, the meaning was clear. In that same instant, Lannord's iron sword fell like lightning. It was his first true attack of their duel—and would be the last.
There was nowhere to run.