The second man stupid enough to fight a swordmaster in a duel was called Lance, a former sailor or perhaps a washed-up pirate the world will never know, who fought with a battleaxe in either hand. Steel plates covered his forearms and a leather harness protected his chest. To fight, he charged; pitting his immense size against the paladin and aiming to bludgeon him down.
His first blow landed in the wood of Rodrick’s shield and everything fell apart the moment the paladin twisted his shield. The axe had been strapped to Lance’s arm, which meant it wrenched his arm over as well. The opening was enough for Rodrick to lay open his exposed bicep. From there, the man was easily picked apart until Rodrick ultimately thrust his blade up beneath the harness and skewered his lungs.
The fight only lasted a few minutes.
The orderly lines of Lucius’ army began to soften as they watched the fighting, cheering and jeering like spectators at an arena gambling over prisoner’s lives. Lucius made no effort to stop it. His cold attention was only on weeding out the stupid from the smart whom had volunteered to fight Rodrick. Indeed, the third fighter lost his nerve and refused to fight, much to his embarrassment among the troops, but by the end of the day, everyone agreed he had been smart.
So, the fourth man by lots, but the third to step forward, was a one-armed man named Tyrion. He had been accepted into the army because his maimed arm could still be strapped with a shield and so he could keep formation, but he only brought his blade to fight the paladin. After the barrier erected around him, the old veteran took it upon himself to wax poetic about how he had devoted his life to the art of the blade, how it had cost him his family, his love, and his own body. He had convinced himself he was seeking a good place to die.
Then he claimed that it wouldn’t be that day.
While the man possessed extraordinary swordsmanship, including a flying spin-cut that helped Lucius finally learn how to properly protect his head, the actual duel only lasted ten moves before Rodrick’s blade bit into his neck and felled him like a sapling tree. Between the time spent sending in the third man, the talking, and the scant fight, an entire half hour had passed.
Forgive me as I’ll have to begin abbreviating the heroic tales of those that died trying to take Lucius’ glory for themselves. Not one man was forced to fight Rodrick, indeed several backed out and saved their lives. Each genuinely thought they could overcome the paladin in a fair fight, and each was wrong but died with dignity. Not one whimpered for mercy, especially after so many others fell upon the marsh grounds.
There was Gus, a cocky mercenary from birth who fought with an oversized sword and thought he could bash his his way through Rodrick’s defenses. After heavy exchanges, the blood went to his head and he trusted his bronze helm to keep him safe as he threw all of his weight into a horizontal swing. Rodrick’s blade cleaved through the old pot and dashed his brains across the floor.
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Next there was a rogue by the name of Aster, who obediently fought with shield and spear when in formation, but when he was given the chance he used a dirty style of two dagger fencing. One of his short blades was notched a sword breaker. While he did manage to score the first wound on the paladin, he was struck in the head by the notched rim of Rodrick’s shield. Dazed, he failed to evade the second shield blow which laid him out across the dirt. The paladin planted a boot on his back and slid the tip of his blade plunging through his heart.
A spearman was the fifth man to duel Rodrick. My research has turned up three names for him, none of them certain. All we know for certain was that he gouged the paladin’s jaw and wounded his calf. That began the downfall of the man. Unfortunately for the spearman, Rodrick snapped the half of his weapon then cut through his face with a heavy, overhead chop.
The men of Lucius’ army laughed, seeing that the fight would soon be over, even though so many had fallen already. The sixth man practically pranced to his death, getting overpowered in a single strike. The Giordanan had put up a simple parry with his infantry blade and underestimated Rodrick’s brute force. Blade pushed through blade, cleaving through his arm and opening his life blood.
Still, the paladin did not falter in his duty. The rebels behind him were still climbing, often hand over foot, across the godling spine.
It was wastelanders who tested their mettle next. Nameless men who thought to take Rodrick’s name for themselves. Five of them fell one after another, littering the field with their corpses in exchange for more glancing cuts and dents upon the paladin’s steel.
By the fourteenth duelist, confusion had begun to seize the army. Every man who fought the paladin clearly wore him down more and yet he showed no sign of losing. The odds continually improved for every man who sought to prove himself. But they too failed. A trio of freed slaves from among the Giordanans fell one after another. A cutthroat evading arrest in Aillesterra tried to use the trickery of his stigmata but barely forced the tip of his sword through Rodrick’s breast plate before being cut down himself, reminding all that even wounded and exhausted, Sir Rodrick was a true sword master.
The last two to put their swords against the paladin were apprehended deserters, told in no uncertain terms that they would be put to death if they ran away again, that their only path to survival was killing the paladin. Of course, neither did.
Only then did Lucius turn to his men and challenge them. “So, not one of you thinks he can steal this from me? That he can cut down the paladin of Jeameaux? If not, it’s my turn.”
“Lucius von Solhart,” Rodrick said, forcing himself to keep his stance steady. “I challenge you.”
“Well, take your time,” the boy said, tossing a waterskin to his opponent.
Rodrick was taken aback, his body hot with blood both burning in his muscles, and cooling upon his skin. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Lucius laughed and gestured to the arcane barrier surrounding the two of them. It was different. Stronger, and taller. It encircled them like a fortress, shimmering with light and twisting almost opaque. “You don’t know how your own ability works, do you? Why did you think I let so many others fight you first? Was it to wear you down? When your cheating stigmata gives you such an advantage? Or was it so that the walls couldn’t falter? That so long as I didn’t surrender, I who cannot die, that you would be stuck in here with me.”
And so, with both of their stigmata fueled to the point of overflowing by the corpses and the lingering magic of the marsh, the longest duel of Lucius’ life began.