Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 629: Trial by combat(3)

The priest’s final benediction hung in the air like the last note of a funeral dirge. Then—nothing. No cheers, no murmurs, not even the hiss of the wind. The arena had become a held breath, a coiled spring waiting to snap.

Gone were the colorful banners, the raucous laughter, the cheering nobles . What remained was something primal—the raw, ugly anticipation of violence.

Across the soon to be blood-red sands, two men stood beneath the pitiless sun.

Talek looked like a boy playing at war. His armor—scuffed, ill-fitted, the pauldrons sitting awkwardly on his narrow shoulders—seemed borrowed from some older, broader knight.

Rage had carried him here. White-hot, righteous, blinding rage. But rage was a flame, and flames burned out. Now, standing before the man who had butchered his father, Talek felt the fire gutter. In its place rose something colder, heavier.

Fear.

And worse—shame.

How can I avenge him if my hands shake? The thought was a knife twisting in his gut. His father must had faced death without flinching. Would he disgrace that memory now?

Talek clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. If he could not feel courage, he would fake it until it was true.

With a sudden, violent motion, he slammed his warhammer against his shield.

THUD.

The sound cracked through the silence like a whip.

"I am the son of a murdered man!" His voice wavered, but it carried. "And I demand justice!"

THUD. THUD.

Each strike of hammer on shield was a heartbeat, a mantra, a way to steady himself.

"His death was unjust. His killer—a coward and a butcher." Talek’s throat burned. "Confess now, and I’ll spare your life. Let the law decide your fate."

Another THUD, more for himself than for Gregor.

Across the sands, the older knight didn’t so much as twitch. He stood like a fortress carved from iron, his armor gleaming dully in the sunlight—each plate overlapping like the scales of some battle-hardened drake. Only the barest slivers at his joints betrayed any weakness.

For a long moment, Gregor said nothing. Then, with deliberate slowness, he stepped forward and spat into the dust at Talek’s feet.

"I’ve been killing men since you were pissing your swaddling clothes, brat." His voice was a rasp, the sound of a blade dragged across stone. "Your father was a traitor. A liar. He died like a dog because that’s what he was." A pause, then a smile—slow, cruel. "If you came here to avenge him, you brought the wrong gods with you."

Some of the priests shifted on their seats.

Talek’s grip on his hammer tightened. His palms were slick with sweat.

Gregor rolled his shoulders, the plates of his armor grinding like millstones. "But don’t worry," he added, hefting his axe around "I’ll send you to him. Maybe the bastard will teach you how to fight in whatever hell he’s rotting in."

Steel rasped. Talek took a step forward, Gregor mirrored him. Two titans inching closer, the sand crunching beneath their armored boots. When they came within striking distance, they both stopped.

They raised their weapons. Talek’s warhammer trembled just slightly in his grasp. Gregor’s axe was steady as stone.

"One strike," Talek told himself, heart thundering in his ears. "One clean hit. That’s all I need. Break the ribs. Stagger him. Take the opening."

He felt sweat slipping down his neck beneath the gorget. His mouth was dry. The hammer was heavy. Every second waiting was a storm of nerves pounding at the gates of his resolve.

He stared into Gregor’s eyes—cold, grey, and utterly unimpressed.

The silence had reached its peak. It could not hold much longer.

The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring. Then—

Steel shrieked as Gregor moved.

Every motion of his was honed by decades of war. His axe came down in a murderous arc, not with the wild fury of a brawler, but with the cold precision of an executioner.

Talek barely got his shield up in time.

CRACK.

The impact sent a shockwave up his arm, rattling his teeth. The axe bit deep into the oak, splinters exploding outward. For a heartbeat, the weapons locked—Gregor’s face inches away, his breath hot and reeking of sour wine through his visor. Talek could have seen the pits and scars on the older man’s cheeks, the yellowed teeth bared in a snarl, if it was not for the lowered visor covering most of his face.

Seeing the opponent so close that he could smell his breath, shook Talek causing him to just stand there looking at the mass of iron in front of him.

Then Gregor wrenched the axe free with a twist that nearly tore the shield from Talek’s grip. The boy staggered back, his left arm throbbing like it had been dipped in fire.

Gods, one hit—just one hit and I’m already—

Gregor didn’t let him think.

The next swing came low—a scything cut aimed to hook Talek’s leg or shield and yank him off balance. Talek skipped backward, sand spraying beneath his boots. The axe whistled past his thigh, close enough to kiss the mail beneath his tunic.

"Running already?" Gregor taunted, hefting his weapon as if it weighed nothing. "Your father at least stood his ground when I gutted him."

Talek’s answered to that . He lunged—hammer high—but Gregor sidestepped like a bull dodging a fly. The warhammer thudded into empty sand. Before Talek could recover, a gauntleted fist smashed into his temple. frёeweɓηovel_coɱ

CLANG.

Stars burst behind his eyes. He reeled, tasting copper. The world tilted—

—somehow, he kept his feet.

Talek sucked in a ragged breath, the metallic taste of blood thick on his tongue which he had bit from the pain. His ribs screamed with every inhale, his left arm hung numb and useless at his side—but he forced himself to keep moving, to keep circling. The sand shifted treacherously beneath his boots, each step sending fresh waves of pain radiating through his battered body.

Gregor stood like a statue of war, his axe resting casually against his shoulder.

Only his breathing—slightly quicker now—betrayed any strain.

He’s waiting, Talek realized. Testing me.

The boy adjusted his grip on the warhammer, his fingers slick with sweat. Gregor’s visor was still down, his vision narrowed to slits. That was Talek’s only advantage—mobility. If he could stay light, stay fast—

Gregor struck without warning.

A low, sweeping cut aimed to hook Talek’s legs or shield and yank him into the killing blow that would follow. Talek barely danced back in time, the axe’s edge hissing through empty air where his knee had been a heartbeat before. Sand sprayed as he skidded, his boots fighting for purchase.

One mistake. That’s all it will take.

Gritting his teeth, Talek feinted left—kicking up a sudden plume of dust—then lunged right with every ounce of speed he had left. His warhammer came up in a vicious rising arc, the spike aimed for the vulnerable gap beneath Gregor’s ribs.

For a single, glorious moment, he thought he had him.

Then—

CLANG!

Gregor’s buckler snapped up like a viper, intercepting the hammer mid-swing. The impact sent a shockwave up Talek’s arms, the reverberation clattering his teeth.

Before he could recover, Gregor’s axe was already in motion.

WHAM!

The flat of the blade smashed into Talek’s breastplate with the force of a falling tree.

It didn’t cut—it couldn’t, not with the angle and Talek’s backward shift—but it crashed into his chest like a siege ram. Sparks exploded from the steel like fireflies as the impact knocked the wind clean out of him.

The world whited out—pain detonated through his chest, his lungs emptied in a single, agonized gasp. He stumbled back, his vision swimming, his legs moving on pure instinct as he tried to retreat.

Too slow. Too weak.

He deemed himself as .

The young man barely managed to put three paces between them before his knees buckled. He caught himself at the last second, one hand slamming into the sand to steady himself. The crowd’s roar was a distant thing, muffled beneath the thunder of his own pulse.

"Damn it!" he spat, the words raw and bloody.

He had hesitated. Gregor had overextended, left himself open—and he had retreated like a frightened child instead of pressing the attack. Shame burned hotter than the pain in his ribs, hotter than his desire for vengeance.

With a snarl, he slammed his warhammer against his shield—ONCE. TWICE.—the sound shrieking across the arena like a beast roaring at the shame of having missed his prey and being forced to sleep the night with an empty stomach.

"CONFESS!" Talek roared, his only means to le the frustruation out, his voice cracking. "Confess what you did to my father, you coward! Or are you too much of a bastard to admit it?!"

Silence.

Then—

Gregor charged, asnwering the question with actions

No more games. No more taunts. The old warrior came like a storm, his axe raised high, the steel catching the dying light in a streak of crimson.

His face was a mask of fury now, spit flying from his lips as he bellowed wordless rage.

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