The battlefield stilled. Men paused mid-blow, their eyes drawn not to the chaos of the pass, but to the space where Count Baldome and I stood.
The count's black banner loomed above him, its falcon emblem snapping in the wind. His guards had fallen back at his command, forming a loose ring. Five thousand men watched. A thousand of ours prayed. The pass itself seemed to hold its breath.
I stepped forward, sword in hand, boots crunching on blood-soaked earth. My heart thundered in my chest, but my mind was still—sharp, cold, as it always became when steel was drawn.
Baldome leveled his longsword. "You are bold for a boy," he said, his voice calm but edged with scorn. "But boldness dies easily."
"Then let us see who dies today," I answered.
The duel began.
He struck first, a heavy downward slash meant to overwhelm. I shifted aside, blade flicking in a parry that turned his force into empty air. Sparks flew. His momentum left him open for a heartbeat, and I lunged—only to feint, my sword twisting past his guard. He jerked back, his defense biting at shadows.
Again, he pressed, shield shoulder forward, sword cleaving with brutal strength. I gave ground, not from weakness but from calculation, letting him believe me cornered. Each step back was a measure taken, each parry a note in a song I was composing.
I feinted high, my wrist flicking at his helm. He raised his guard, heavy and instinctive—too slow. My blade darted low, cutting across his thigh. A thin line of blood blossomed on his armor's gap.
A roar went up from both armies.
His eyes narrowed, anger flashing. He came harder, blows raining like hammers. My arms shook beneath the weight, each parry numbing my bones, but my mind stayed cold. His strength was greater. His experience deeper. But pride made him predictable.
He favored wide arcs, power over precision. He lunged after each feint, hungry to end it quickly. His hips turned a fraction too late when he struck from the right. His stance, while strong, left his left side overcommitted.
I read him. And I prepared to end him.
He roared, lifting his blade high for a killing blow. I raised my sword as though to block—then twisted at the last moment, stepping inside his arc. His sword whistled past harmlessly. My pommel slammed into his jaw.
He staggered, dazed.
Before he could recover, I feinted again, my blade darting toward his chest. He dropped his guard in panic—exposing his neck.
Steel flashed.
My sword cut clean.
Count Baldome fell to his knees, blood spilling down his gorget. His eyes widened with shock, disbelief shattering the arrogance that had marked him. For an instant he tried to speak, but only a crimson gurgle left his lips.
Then he toppled, lifeless, into the dirt.
The silence broke like glass. A cry rose from our men, fierce and wild:
"The Count is dead! Baldome has fallen!"
The shout spread like fire across the pass. Our thousand men roared with renewed fury, their morale soaring. They surged forward, crashing into Baldome's stunned soldiers with the force of a breaking storm.
On the other side, panic spread through the five thousand. Their commander was gone. Their formation shattered. Discipline crumbled like rotten wood. Some tried to rally—but fear is quicker than courage. Baldome's death had severed the spine of their host.
I raised my bloodied sword. "Forward!" I shouted. "Drive them! Break them here!"
And so we did.
The pass became a slaughter. Our men pressed with desperate vigor, hacking and cutting at men who now fought to flee rather than conquer. The enemy line buckled, then collapsed entirely. Thousands turned and ran, throwing down shields, abandoning banners, trampling their own in their haste to escape.
We pursued.
My cavalry thundered after them, striking down those who fled too slowly. The roads became clogged with corpses and broken arms. By nightfall, three thousand of Baldome's men lay dead. The survivors fled in disarray, scattering like frightened deer.
The Duke's quick march to seize the kingdom's heartland was crippled. His advance had been broken not by numbers, but by one duel at a narrow pass.
When the battle ended, I stood among my men, sword heavy in my hand, armor stained with sweat and blood. Around me, the valley was a graveyard, but it was ours.
News of Baldome's death traveled faster than any rider. By the next dawn, word had reached the Crown Prince himself. The baron's son—barely grown, scorned for his low station—had slain the Duke's favored commander, routed five thousand men with a thousand, and turned the course of war.
The game of thrones had shifted.
And all now knew my name.