Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 630: Trial by combat(4)

The duel stretched on, minute after brutal minute, the sand beneath them churned into paste from their boots.

At first glance, it seemed a one-sided slaughter.

Lord Gregor pressed forward like an unstoppable force, his axe carving deadly arcs through the air, each swing forcing Talek into desperate retreats. The boy danced backward, his warhammer raised more in response to force Gregor to break his offenses rahter than to deliver damage, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The crowd watched in hushed anticipation, murmurs rippling through the stands—Gregor has this. The boy is finished.

But the two fighters knew better.

Between the clashes of steel, in the half-seconds where they broke apart, chests heaving, the truth became clear:

Gregor was slowing down.

His breaths came heavier now, his footwork—once precise—growing sluggish. Sweat poured from beneath his helm, his strikes still powerful but no longer as sharp, as relentless as before. That first wound at his ribs, the one Talek had carved with the warhammer’s spike, was taking its toll. Blood darkened the lord’s side, the mail beneath his armor growing slick with it.

Talek saw it.

And for the first time, he pushed back.

A sudden lunge—his warhammer whipping upward in a brutal uppercut aimed for Gregor’s chin. The older knight barely jerked his head back in time, the hammer’s edge grazing his gorget with a screech of metal.

The crowd gasped.

Gregor staggered, just a half-step, but it was enough. Talek pressed the advantage, swinging again—this time a wide, horizontal sweep meant to cave in ribs. Gregor blocked with the haft of his axe, but the impact still drove him backward, his boots skidding in the sand.

Silence.

Gregor’s vision swam for a split second—just long enough for his next swing to miss Talek by a finger’s width.

What in the seven hells—?

He clenched his fist, flexing his fingers as if testing the weight of his own limbs. His movements felt sluggish, his breath coming harder than it should after a mere few minutes of combat. A cold suspicion slithered into his mind.

The medicine.

The physician had served him for ten years without fail. Ten years of perfectly measured tonics, of salves that stung but healed true. The old man had never once—

Then it hit him.

That scheming bastard.

The dose hadn’t been wrong. It had been exactly as intended.

A growl tore from Gregor’s throat. That wrinkled fuck is playing for the boy. The realization burned worse than the wound at his ribs. Every passing second, the weight in his limbs grew heavier. Every breath came shorter. If this dragged on—

No.

I have to finish it.

With a roar that shook the arena, Gregor abandoned all finesse and charged, axe forgotten as he lunged forward in a full-bodied tackle meant to crush Talek into the sand.

Talek sidestepped at the last instant—too slow for a clean dodge, but enough to twist Gregor’s momentum past him. The lord’s shoulder grazed his hip as he spun, putting himself at Gregor’s exposed back.

Now.

Talek raised his hammer—

—and froze.

A prickle of instinct screamed at the nape of his neck. Something was wrong. Gregor hadn’t stumbled. Hadn’t even tried to recover. He stood there, braced, as if waiting.

Talek hesitated.

A heartbeat later, Gregor whirled, his axe hissing in a vicious backward swing aimed precisely where Talek’s legs would’ve been if he’d stepped in. The blade carved empty air, but if he had went that would been the end

The crowd gasped.

Gregor’s took a heavy breath, but Talek didn’t let him finish it.

Instead of swinging, he slammed forward behind his shield like a battering ram. The steel-rimmed oak caught Gregor , crashing into his chest with all the weight of Talek’s desperation behind it.

The lord’s boots left the ground.

For one glorious second, Gregor of House Varth hung suspended in the air—armor gleaming, axe still raised—before he landed flat on his back with a crash that shook the sand.

For a heartbeat, he lay stunned—then his body tensed, muscles coiling as he rolled onto his side, planting one gauntleted hand into the dirt to push himself up.

In another fight—a honorable fight—Talek would have stepped back. He would have allowed his opponent to rise, to reclaim his weapon, to meet him blade-to-blade with dignity.

But this was not that fight.

And Talek could not afford chivalry.

He lunged, driving the sole of his boot into Gregor’s ribs just as the older man was halfway to his knees. The impact slammed Gregor back down with a grunt, the air forced from his lungs in a wet gasp. Before he could recover, Talek planted his foot firmly on Gregor chest, pinning him like a hunter standing over felled prey.

Then he raised his warhammer.

The first blow came down like a blacksmith’s strike, crashing into Gregor’s shoulder with a crunch of dented steel. The lord roared, his free arm lashing out blindly—his buckler smashed into Talek’s shin, the pain lancing up his leg like a hot knife. Talek gritted his teeth and hit him again.

CRACK.

Another scream. Another buckler strike, this one weaker.

He didn’t stop.

He hammered down again, and again, each strike aimed at the same spot—Gregor’s weapon arm, the joint between pauldron and rerebrace. Metal buckled. Flesh beneath gave way.

Then—CLANG—Gregor’s axe slipped from his fingers, landing uselessly in the sand.

Talek didn’t hesitate.

One final, brutal swing—this time aimed at Gregor’s helm. The hammer connected with a deafening GONG, the force rattling the lord’s skull inside its steel cage. Gregor’s head snapped to the side, blood spraying from his nose and mouth. Before he could even recover, Talek adjusted his grip and brought the hammer down once more—this time on Gregor’s wrist.

SNAP.

The sound was sickening. Clear.

Gregor’s howl of agony drowned out the crowd.

Talek stepped back, chest heaving, his warhammer slick with sweat and blood.

Gregor writhed in the dirt, his sword arm bent at a grotesque angle, his breath coming in ragged, wet heaves.

The arena was silent.

Then—

The warhammer fell twice more—CRUNCH-CRUNCH—once on each knee, the sickening sound of breaking joints barely audible over Gregor’s animal scream. The old lord convulsed, his body arching off the sand before collapsing back in a broken heap.

Talek stood over him, chest heaving, the taste of blood and sweat thick in his mouth. He planted a knee on Gregor’s chest, the weight of his armored body pressing down like a tombstone. With his free hand, he grabbed the dented helm—twisted it once—and ripped it away with a metallic screech.

Gregor’s face was a ruin.

Sweat and blood matted his grey-streaked beard, his nose a shattered mess, his lips split and leaking crimson. The wound on his forehead pulsed red with every ragged breath, painting his face in grotesque streaks. His eyes—those cold, pitiless eyes—still burned with defiance, but his body was done. Broken.

Talek raised his warhammer high and slammed it against his shield—BOOM-BOOM-BOOM—the sound echoing across the silent arena like the drums of judgment.

"CONFESS!" he roared, spittle flying, his voice raw with fury and triumph. "Confess how you butchered my father! Confess how you left him in pieces!"

The crowd was stone-still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Gregor’s bloody mouth twisted into a grin.

Gregor coughed, blood speckling his lips as he grinned up at Talek. "How does it feel, boy?" he rasped. "Winning dirty? Tell me—was it worth it?"

Talek’s grip on his warhammer tightened. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Gregor barked a wet, broken laugh. "That old frickled bastard. Did more to make me lose this fight than you ever did." His eyes, sharp with pain and fury, locked onto Talek’s. "How much did you pay him?’’

For a moment, Talek just stared, confusion flickering across his face.

"You’re mad."

Gregor’s grin turned feral. "If it wasn’t you, then it was that peasant dog sharing the bed with that crowned bitch" He spat blood onto the sand. "You are too young to be his bastard....I guess your father sucked his cock so well he decided to care for his whelp .

Tell me brath when you took his mangled corpse did you check his lips and see if there was white?"

Talek’s boot slammed into Gregor’s ribs—hard. The lord grunted, but his smirk didn’t waver.

Breathing hard, Talek looked down at the axe lying in the sand. Gregor’s weapon. The one he’d dropped when his arm shattered.

Slowly, deliberately, Talek reached down and picked it up.

Gregor watched him, still grinning. "Going to finish it like a man? Or are you going to suck Alpheo’s cock like your father did’’

Talek didn’t answer.

He looked to the crowd—nobles and commoners alike frozen in rapt silence—and then back down at the ruin of a man gasping beneath his boot.

"I am the son," Talek began, voice raw, "of a man who was butchered."

He raised the axe for all to see.

"A man who was cut down like a dog in the night, his blood spilled not in battle, but in betrayal."

He stepped back, let the point of the axe rest just inches from Gregor’s mangled chest.

"He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t powerful. But he was mine. And you"he pointed the axe, the edge trembling from the force of his grip"you made him scream. You made me bury scraps. Do you remember what was left of him, Gregor?"

Gregor’s ruined face twitched, he knew what was to come .

Talek’s eyes burned. " I had to pick pieces of my father from the mud and have his rest buried as a mangled mess’’

Gregor coughed—a shallow, wheezing noise that ended in a gurgle. He tilted his head just enough to spit, but it was weak, a string of pink froth that dribbled down his chin and clung there, pathetic.

Talek leaned in.

"I’ll give you one chance. One chance to die like a man. Confess."

The crowd waited, the entire arena like a held breath.

Gregor gave a choked chuckle. A rattle in his throat. Then, in a voice like gravel raked across broken glass, he hissed, "Go...fuck yourself."

Talek’s face didn’t change.

He just raised the axe.

And brought it down.

The blade crunched into Gregor’s shoulder, cleaving through the dented steel and snapping bone like splintered wood. Gregor howled—no words now, just a primal, ragged scream that tore at the throats of those who heard it.

Talek didn’t stop.

He wrenched the axe free with a sickening squelch, blood gouting from the wound in thick, syrupy pulses. Then he stepped around, raised it again, and hacked downward—CHNK—into the man’s thigh.

Armor resisted. It took two more strikes before the plate gave way. By the time he reached flesh, Gregor was shrieking, his voice breaking, high-pitched and animal.

The sand turned black beneath them.

Talek wasn’t fast. He wasn’t clean. He meant for it to hurt.

He carved a path down the arm next—elbow to wrist—methodically chopping through steel, tendon, and marrow. The blade stuck more than once, and when it did, he’d plant a foot and twist until it came loose again, dragging flaps of skin with it.

Gregor bucked beneath him, trying to roll away—but his legs were useless now. One of them bent the wrong direction, the bones beneath shattered like pottery. Talek lifted his foot and stomped, the crunch audible even through the blood.

Then he reached the other shoulder.

Another strike. Another. Bone cracked and snapped, metal split open like a crab shell.

Gregor was mewling now, not screaming. He sounded like a dying animal—wet, pathetic, half-conscious.

By the time Talek reached the other leg, the axe was slick with blood, the handle slippery in his fingers. He didn’t care. He hacked through the thigh, the calf, reduced the once-mighty lord to a twitching, bleeding wreck.

And then—finally—he stopped.

Gregor was still alive.

Somehow.

Barely.

-----------------

As Talek raised the axe and began his brutal work—cutting Lord Gregor down piece by piece—shocked gasps rippled through the crowd like a wave colliding with rock.

The first crack of steel biting through bone sent several lords recoiling, their gloved hands clamping over mouths. Ladies turned away, fanning their faces not for heat but for horror. Even seasoned knights flinched.

The priests stood rigid behind the railing of the royal box, their faces pale .

One reached instinctively for his star-shaped amulet, clutching it with trembling fingers, mouthing silent prayers even as the wet, horrible crunch of bone echoed once more.

Down in the sand, crimson bloomed in dark puddles, soaking into the grit.

Princess Jasmine, regal and composed only moments before, turned her head sharply at the first spray of blood that spattered past the dueling line. She shut her eyes, jaw clenched, forcing herself not to grimace. She was royalty. She was expected to watch.

But she couldn’t.

She turned fully away from the arena, her back to the carnage. Her earrings swayed gently with the motion.

Yet as she turned—her eyes landed on him.

Her husband.

Alpheo sat perfectly still, but something in his posture felt coiled, as if barely containing a twitching delight. A smile played on his lips—small, polite even—but too tight.

Those eyes.

They gleamed with a feverish brightness, stretched wide. There was no horror in them. No concern. Just an eager, glittering hunger.

Jasmine felt her stomach lurch.

He looked like a child who had just seen a toy he needed—not wanted, not admired, but needed.

And then... he noticed her watching.

Their gazes locked.

But instead of embarrassment or shame, Alpheo simply raised a hand—smooth and practiced—and gently covered his mouth.

Jasmine turned away quickly, as if burned,somehow finding the previous sight preferable than the other, as she realised that there was so much more in her husband that she did not know.

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