Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 948: Fog in the night(7)

The lord of a long-honored house, fighting for a doomed cause, and the slave war-made man, fighting for the glory of his prince,advanced toward each other.

Both paused, wordlessly establishing the meaning of the moment: they would fight man against man, commander against commander, without aid. Both men’s guards stepped back, letting the blood be shed only by the designated champions.

Edric’s men obeyed without a sound, Willios’s guards, however, tried to object, before the Marshal silenced them with a single, scorching look.

When they were a few meters apart, they assumed their stances. Willios low behind his shield, Edric balanced, his sword held casually. They gazed at each other’s helms, comparing the hungry fire they imagined in the opponent’s eyes with the one currently roaring in their own.

The Southern man was the one to make the first move. Edric raised his sword high above his head, and skimmed across the blood-slicked ground as if he were wind, his momentum frighteningly swift. He brought the blade down, a move of terrible finality that was however called long ago.

It did not land.

Willios, trained in the old Romelian guard-fighting style, used the monster’s momentum against him, bringing himself instantly to the Legate’s blindside. With a quick swing, he tried to sweep the man’s leg out from under him. He tried to claim the leg, yet all that his sword met was the reinforced steel of the armor. Edric took the blow but repositioned his leg, shortening the amount of exposed, unarmored flesh.

With the immediate danger gone, he repositioned himself, wincing subtly from the impact to his leg, but otherwise unwounded and whole.

Willios did not miss the slight flinch and immediately capitalized on it. He went hard on the offensive, ensuring every movement, every thrust, forced his opponent to lay weight upon that pained leg. Maybe a strain? he ventured, noticing the clear grimace of discomfort the Legate made with any sudden pivot. Edric was forced onto the defensive, relying on the speed of his sword arm first, and the brute protection of his armor when speed was not enough.

Willios grew courageous the more he laid blows down. He made his attacks more open, taking greater risks in order to quicken his slashes and press the advantage. He, of course, overstepped.

They exchanged two sharp blows and two desperate parries, sparks flying up in the air with each clang. The man he had forced onto the defensive, who he mistakenly believed would remain so, made an audacious, impossible move.

He suddenly stepped forward into a wide swing Willios aimed at his chest, caring not for defense ,advancing where Willios expected him to recoil, simultaneously bringing his shield across from the opposite side with a small, precise rotation. In the same stride, he thrust his sword, which had been resting near his helm, straight toward the front.

It was a beautiful, lethal sequence fast as a wind, chaotic as a storm. All that saved Willios from losing his head was the half-step back he managed to take during the Legate’s blinding maneuver.

He stumbled back two full steps, his chest heaving for how close death kiss was.

Sweat poured down his neck, cold and heavy, stinging his eyes. Willios stood for a moment, breathing so heavily his throat hurt, the ringing in his ears louder than the battle around them. He stared at the gap where his head had just been.

He had long expected this day would be his last one, yet the fear was still there.

He felt a knot form on his chest.

He regained enough reason to understand that a short, necessary pause had ensued between them. Willios shook, still reeling from how close he had come to death; Edric took the moment to recover the strength in his wounded leg.

The Romelian Marshal could not help but look around. He realized he had been entirely lost in the moment, forgetting he was not only a warrior, but a commander. As away from his little world, the situation around him was pure chaos, the Southern forces pushing his own farther and farther from the wall, the defenders’ bodies rapidly becoming the stone to lay down the conqueror’s path. He was sorrounded by souther warriors....even if he wont he would not leave this field alive.

He had no reinforcement to rely on, no reserves to throw into the fire, and no order that could possibly reverse or even meaningfully slow the collapse. He had given his all, his life and his honor, and that was all it had amounted to. How profoundly disappointing.

He felt the bitter sting of failure in his duty, a pain sharper than any blade. And yet, this moment, this final duel, was at least his own.

This would be his last legacy....

"Lordling," the man opposite him voiced out, his tone edged with a warning. "You do not know how poor manner it is to distract yourself in a duel?"

That was true, Willios reasoned, recognizing the inherent honor in the warning; the Southern man could have pressed the attack. Respect for the Legate grew in him when he realized he had not.

Willios turned his head, watching his men die around him against a force that had taught them on their own flesh that those they once believed their servants were now their terrifying peers. The Eagle’s time has truly reached its end.

"I was just watching my men die around me,apology for that...." Willios replied, slowly making his way toward one of his nearby guards, an intentional act of misdirection. "I am sure you can sympathize."

"Can’t say I do," Edric shot back, his young voice hard. "I have enough trust in my men to do their own shit without me looking over them. If you’ve gotten your disappointments out of your system, I believe we can resume the duel. Or are you falling back to the safety of your men? Cause I can mirror you."

He lifted his sword toward the Voghondai around him, who seemed a moment away from pouncing on Willios. In their eyes, the Marshal was fleeing the honor of the duel. They could have easily butchered the guards Willios had with him; knowing what they did to his common soldiers, Willios could not help but fear the exquisite agony they would inflict upon him if he took the coward’s exit.

But he would not.

He leaned close to one of his guards and muttered something, quick and precise, a final command in a low voice. He turned back without acknowledging anything the guard may have wanted to say.

He took a deep breath, savoring the acrid air, his last.

"What was that?" Edric demanded, his stance instantly shifting to aggressive alertness, thinking Willios had violated the duel’s rules. He seemed moments away from ordering the monsters to butcher the Marshal and his men.

Willios was quick to explain himself. "My last orders as a commander. I give you my honor on it: they did not pertain to our duel. I, as much as you, wish to see the end of it. From warrior to warrior, I hope for an honorable end, I believe you know just how hard that is in our current generation..."

Edric stared for a moment, the silence amplifying the desperate sounds of the slaughter around them. He seemed to lean toward believing him, toward respecting the formality of the challenge.

"Let us dance, then," he muttered, his sword lowering, making slow, measured steps toward his opponent.

Just as suddenly as the duel had stopped, it resumed.

Willios pressed the attack again, focusing as he did before, aiming to exploit the earlier strain. He feinted high with his shield, then drove his sword low, seeking the armor joint near the knee.

Edric was fast, faster than a man fighting through pain had any right to be. He didn’t block the sword; he shiftend his weight instead.

SHRIEK-

The blade scraped harmlessly off the steel greave.

In response he snapped his own sword out in a quick thrust. The counter-attack was aimed precisely at the unarmored gap where Willios’s spaulder met the gorget.

The tip of the Legate’s blade caught Willios’s skin. A burning trail of fire blossomed along his collarbone. He gasped, falling back a half-step, the pain immediate and shocking.

Even tired Edric, was still a danger.

And now feeling the blood between his teeth, Edric stepped forward to press the advantage, hoping to claim his opponent’s head while he could. He raised his sword, but winced and momentarily swayed when he put his full weight down on the damaged knee.

The moment was lost.

Willios capitalized instead, adjusting his entire strategy. He had tried to end the duel quickly before, aiming for the lethal joints where he hoped his blade would cut true.

Now, understanding how close to death he had been twice, he mirrored his early, safer fighting style. He began to make small, sudden advances, movements safe enough to avoid danger while delivering harm only occasionally.

The duel settled into a tense, agonizing pattern for some moves. Willios darted, making small, sharp movements that forced Edric to adapt to his opponent’s rhythm, preventing the Legate from delivering a decisive, heavy blow. Willios was like a snake, his torso already holding the prey in its coil, waiting only for the single, final moment to sink its teeth in.

The moment finally came. Edric’s upper body was so well-protected, Willios had to admit, that he had no chance there. He focused on the lower half once more. When Edric’s answering slash only cut the air, Willios peered to the man’s side and, similarly to the opening move, aimed to claim a leg.

He had tried this before; yet now, the Southern Legate was far more exhausted than he was. Willios desperately hoped this time it would pass.

It did not.

For just as Willios was learning of Edric, Edric was learning of Willios. When the Marshal attempted that exact same maneuver, the Legate was waiting for it.

Instead of falling back, Edric smashed his sword with all the fading strength he could against his opponent’s blade, letting the steel sink away from his body. Then, instead of trying to reposition his blade for a proper, glorious, and expectable strike, he simply delivered a thrust with his pommel directly onto Willios’s armored cheek.

Two moves in one simple swing

The iron-to-iron blow was deafening.

Willios staggered, the world momentarily tilting, his head snapping back against the weight of his own helm. He felt the cold shock of it radiate through his jaw.

Edric was on him instantly, abandoning all pretense of a proper duel, making it look more like a brawl between drunks.

The Legate landed strike after strike with the rim stel of his shield, he was relentless, focusing blows against the Marshal’s helm. The ringing was unbearable, the force concussive, forcing Willios’s muscles to spasm. His shield arm went numb, and his sword clattered uselessly onto the dirt.

Then, Edric drove his left leg out in a quick sweep kick, catching Willios behind the ankle. The Marshal crashed down to one knee. Edric moved, his blade positioned high, the cold steel now resting precisely above Willios’s chin.

Death stared down at him.

Just as he had done against the Voghondai, so now Edric had done to him.

He was holding him on a leash.