He had no room to dodge.

His sword lay sheathed, both hands wrestling with the reins.

The killing stroke would come, and he had no defense against it.

Simon, locked in his duel with Lannord, hadn't seen the shadow waiting in the fields to his left.

But that shadow had found him.

The rider wheeled suddenly, driving his mount into the narrow gap between the combatants with deadly precision. Then, in a blur of motion, he charged through.

Lannord's strike came like lightning, but the newcomer matched his speed. In a flash of steel, his blade intercepted Lannord's iron sword, sending it spinning away.

What followed was a deadly dance of steel. The intervening knight moved with masterful grace, and though he lacked Lannord's raw strength, his technique proved superior. The cloaked rider unleashed a barrage of crushing blows, but the knight wove between them like wind through leaves. Then, with fluid grace, the knight shifted to the attack. His blade sang - slashing, thrusting, feinting - each move flowing seamlessly into the next, creating a relentless storm of steel.

The battle's rhythm now belonged entirely to the mysterious knight. Lannord found himself forced to defend, barely managing to parry or dodge the endless assault. His own attacks met only empty air as the knight danced away from each strike. Lannord's tremendous strength meant nothing if he couldn't land a blow. Each failed attack drained more of his energy as the knight's unpredictable combinations of thrusts and slashes made finding any rhythm impossible.

He had lost all control of the fight.

As they clashed, Simon of Elselar watched in awe, transfixed as though witnessing the final bout of a grand tournament. Then moonlight caught the wooden shield on the knight's back, illuminating its fox emblem. His eyes traveled upward to find three distinct feathers adorning the knight's helm.

The feathers swayed with each movement, dancing to the rhythm of battle.

Simon's eyes stretched wide as burial crypts, his jaw hanging slack. "By the gods! Tyler, son of Ternence! You're alive, you magnificent bastard!"

The tri-colored knight paid no mind, his focus locked on the deadly dance of steel before him.

The three feathers continued their dance, rising and falling to a warrior's tempo.

It was his rhythm alone.

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Satisfied with his clumsy attempt at the Godma tongue, Stellan raised his blade to end the enemy captain's life.

But as he lifted his sword, a shout from behind made him turn. He glimpsed Lannord locked in fierce combat with an unknown knight - and losing.

After a moment's pause, he turned back to see Carl urging his mount toward the fields.

Shaking his head, Stellan sighed. "By Goria, why do you have so many friends?" He spoke in fluid Cynthian now.

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Then he spurred his horse after Carl.

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Time grows short, Tyler thought. I must save Carl from this trap.

He sidestepped a diagonal slash aimed at his upper left, then ducked beneath a backhanded sweep. The moment had come to end this dance.

Lannord's horizontal strike carried too much force - momentum and the sword's weight made it impossible to halt. Tyler seized his chance. With his right hand, he tossed his sword to his left, freeing his right hand to grasp the round shield at his back.

One chance was all he needed.

Tyler's blue eyes narrowed to pinpoints as time seemed to slow. Channeling all his strength into the oak shield bearing the Wynlers' Monkey, he drove it forward with devastating force. The metal boss at its center struck Lannord's left elbow with a sickening crack. The cloaked rider nearly flew from his saddle, saved only by a desperate grab at his horse's mane.

"Simon of Elselar!" Tyler called out, shield still raised. "I'd love to keep fighting at your side, but my friend Carl needs me!" He gestured to Lannord, who struggled to remount. "I won't kill this one - he's just a boy. I hope you'll show the same mercy."

"In our fight, I've dismounted him and broken his arm. He's no threat now, which helps my resolve to spare him. I can't help rescue Carl because our rear must be guarded. Stay behind us - stop any black riders trying to reinforce them, and watch this young man who's barely back in his saddle. If he fights on, remember what I showed you: watch carefully, evade, vary your attacks, and never match strength for strength."

Sheathing his blade and slinging his shield, he turned to Simon. "Simon of Elselar, my friend! I entrust my back to you!"

Simon had never felt anything like the emotion that seized him then. Drawing his broadsword, he spoke softly: "I, Simon Karido de Dreils, swear this - I'll guard your backs until death takes me."

Tyler was gone before the words faded.

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"Tyler!" Carl called to the knight racing up behind him. "I knew you wouldn't die, you bastard!"

Joy surged through Carl's heart. In mere minutes, he'd swung from despair to elation, and now, reunited with his dearest friend, his spirit soared.

"Of course not!" Tyler shouted back. "Who else would clean up your messes, you brat?" His grin vanished into stern focus. "Make space between you and him! Give me room!"

Carl understood his friend's plan. He guided his horse to maintain a steady gap from Stellan's mount, watching as Tyler's Cherry slipped between them.

Relief flooded through him, lifting a crushing weight from his chest. His own swordwork couldn't compare to Tyler's - a former Royal Knight of Fulloren who'd never truly lost a tournament.

You've saved me again, Carl thought, studying his friend's armor and the oak shield marked with the Wynlers' Monkey. That deep gouge along its edge remained from ten years ago, when Tyler had caught a killing blow meant for him.

Our fates always intertwine, he mused. You appear at the final moment to save me. Such strange workings of destiny.

But there would be no next time.

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He watched the boy struggling to remount his horse.

Simon's mind raced. If the boy fights on despite his broken arm, what then? He lifted his visor to wipe sweat from his eyes. Kill him? Or keep my oath?

But the choice was taken from him. Lannord finally gained his saddle and shook his ruined left arm.

Cold sweat dripped from Simon's nose as he heard bones shifting.

After a few shakes, Lannord's left arm moved freely again. Drawing his battered iron sword, he pointed it at Simon and spoke in his own tongue: "Meaningless. You let him go to fight Stellan, but you send him to his death. One or two, it makes no difference. They cannot defeat Stellan. This is pointless."

Simon stayed silent. If we'd met in a tavern, we might have found a translator, shared ale and women for the night.He lowered his visor and raised his sword. But we meet as enemies, so what use are words? And... He eyed that miraculously healed arm. What manner of thing are you?

As if hearing Simon's thoughts, Lannord shook his head and sighed. "What I am matters little. What matters is this," he paused.

"You mortals all die in the end."