"Think lightly of yourself and deeply of the world"
― Miyamoto Musashi
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[ Ser Cedric of Bronzegate ]
I stood atop the hill beside the tree that would soon bear witness to a trial by combat. What a piss-take.
I gathered spit in my mouth, worked it once, then spat it into the grass before closing my hand around my blade. The leather of my jerkin creased and complained as I rolled my shoulders loose, each movement tugging against old stitching worn thin by years of use.
I began swinging the sword in slow, deliberate arcs. The weight was familiar, almost comforting, settling into my grip as naturally as breath. This blade had fed me for years. It had won me coin, scraps of land, and more blood than I cared to count. Still, as my gaze drifted toward the horizon, a thin thread of unease coiled in my gut.
It felt like today was the day the Seven finally came to collect what I owed.
I glanced toward the commoner lingering nearby. "When will this cunt get here?"
My voice was flat, stripped of heat, but the brown-haired lad flinched all the same.
"Any minute now, me lord," he said quickly, eyes dropping to the ground. "They said the duel would be held when the sun stood at its highest."
"Aye," I muttered. "You keep saying that. Looks to me like the sun is already on its way down."
I drove the tip of my sword into the dirt and stepped toward the rock near the tree, lowering myself onto it with a grunt. The bark above me was rough and scarred, branches stretching wide like crooked arms clawing at the sky.
I reached into my pouch and pulled free a strip of salted meat, tearing into it with my teeth. The salt burned my tongue, worked my jaw, grounded me. The steady chew helped ease the tight knot in my chest.
Nerves.
The thought made me scoff. Why in the Seven Hells would I be nervous? I, Ser Cedric, nervous? There had never once been a time when I had been nervous.
Well. Except that one time, when that white-haired dragon cunt rode past.
I shook my head and closed my eyes for a breath, drawing the air in slow and forcing the feeling back down where it belonged.
"Me lord, they are here." The lad hesitated. "It seems that bastard found himself a champion."
I lifted my head just in time to see a man in full plate crest the hill.
What in the Seven Hells…
The knight's helmet was off, dark hair falling loose around a sharp, composed face. Not as long as a Targaryen's, but close enough to drag up a memory I had long buried. The warhammer in his hand was worn, balanced, and built to ruin men.
Now I understood the unease.
Just fucking great.
I rose to my feet, took up my greathelm, and strode forward to meet him.
"Ser Cedric of Bronzegate," I called out. "Anointed champion for this trial by combat."
I turned briefly toward the peasant, whose eyes were stretched wide as he stared at the knight approaching me. "I fight on the honour of Harlon of Barleyholt. May the Seven judge what is lawful."
The knight regarded me in silence, and for a heartbeat I could have sworn there was pity in his gaze.
"Ser Alekyne of House Dostoyevsky," he replied calmly. "Appointed champion for this trial."
He set his helmet upon his head, white and black plumes settling above it like wings. "I fight on the honour of Garrett of Barleyholt."
I nodded and stepped back, lifting my blade and settling into a high guard. My arms tightened, heart thudding hard enough that I felt it in my throat. Sweat already prickled beneath my brow.
I was really fucked, wasn't I?
We circled one another beneath the tree, neither daring to commit, testing distance, reading weight and balance. I feinted forward, barely shifting my stance.
He did not bite.
Instead, he surged toward me, his warhammer descending in a brutal arc.
I barely brought my blade up in time. The impact rang through my arms like a struck bell, jarring my teeth and driving my boots into the dirt. It was a miracle the sword did not split outright. I countered with a flurry of cuts, fast and desperate, but his shield met each strike with disciplined ease.
My eyes flicked to the hammer.
The four spikes along its head caught the light.
One solid hit from that and there would be nothing left of my skull worth burying.
Gritting my teeth, I charged and slammed my weight into his shield. He answered in kind, crashing into me with even greater force. The air burst from my lungs as I stumbled back.
Fuck, what is this bastard made of?
He stepped away and I followed instinctively, just in time to see the hammer sweep up from below in a vicious rising arc. I jerked my head back, the weapon missing my jaw by a hair's breadth.
He chuckled behind his helm. "Not bad for a hedge knight."
I grimaced and pressed the attack, but again his shield denied me, a wall of iron as broad as a horse's hind leg. Then he came on, relentless, forcing me backward. I slipped his first overhead strike, sliding the hammer past my blade as he reversed the motion. The spike on the back flashed toward my face.
It skimmed past my skull.
A shaky breath escaped me.
From the edge of the clearing, a boy's voice rang out, shrill with excitement.
"Shut up!" I barked without thinking. "Let me focus!"
My grip tightened on the sword as I faced Ser Alekyne once more, knowing with grim certainty that this fight was only beginning. Yet he gave me no peace. He kept coming, strike after strike, forcing me to give ground beneath the tree's crooked limbs.
Steel scraped and rang. Dirt shifted under my boots as I retreated, trying to keep my footing while my arms screamed from every block.
I slipped past another savage swing, the hammer whistling through the air where my head had been a heartbeat ago. There, in that brief opening, I saw it. A gap. A moment.
I stepped in and drove my sword forward, shoving the point toward his chest with all the strength I had left.
It skated along the face of his shield, scraping metal, sliding upward until it kissed his helm with a sharp, useless clink.
Nothing. Not even a stagger.
Before I could pull back, I lunged again, trying to angle around his shield, to get close enough to stab beneath his arm or into the softer joints of his plates.
Something slammed into me like a charging bull.
I hit the ground hard, the breath torn clean from my lungs. Grass and dirt filled my mouth. My vision swam as I blinked up at him, sprawled on my back like some fool tossed from a tavern brawl.
His shield was still extended, the edge of it pointed at me like a warning.
"Try that again," he said calmly, "and see what happens."
My teeth clenched as I pushed myself upright. My arms trembled as I rose, and when I took a step back the world tilted for a moment, as if my body had forgotten how to stand.
I slipped aside just as the hammer came down again, the head of it smashing into the ground where I had been. The impact sent a dull vibration up through my legs.
I spat, and blood came with it.
A tooth dropped into the grass.
Was this really worth it? For some peasant's pride and a few coins?
I wove my head narrowly out of the way of his next swing, feeling the rush of air against my cheek, only for his shield to crash into me a second later. Pain burst through my ribs and I staggered, boots skidding as I fought not to fall again.
I tried to answer with my own attack, a quick slash meant to catch his arm, then another aimed at his thigh, but it was all swallowed by that damned shield. It moved with him like it was part of his body, always in the way.
And even if I had managed to slip my blade past and strike his plate, it would have been like hacking at a cliff face. Every blow I landed rang hollow, useless, my strength bleeding away with each failed attempt. I was already caught. A fish on the line, thrashing while the fisherman reeled me in at his leisure.
I forced myself forward once more, lungs burning, vision narrowing, but my legs betrayed me.
They buckled beneath my weight as if the bones had turned to wet clay. I crashed down hard, the world lurching violently as I struck the ground. Pain screamed up through me, sharp and absolute. When I looked down, my legs lay twisted beneath me at a sickening angle, bent in ways they were never meant to be.
I lifted my gaze just in time to see him looming over me.
Ser Alekyne raised the warhammer high above his head, the shadow of it swallowing the light as I lay helpless in the dirt.
"Fuck," I breathed.
The hammer came down.
Everything went black.
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[Ethan Of Dunstonbury]
I stared at the ruined thing that had once been a man, his face crushed into the dirt, armour split and caved as if it had been struck by a falling tower. My stomach twisted.
That was no battle.
It had been entirely one-sided.
"By the Seven," Harlon muttered beside me, his voice barely more than breath. His mouth hung open as he stared. "That was no duel. That was slaughter."
"Aye," Garrett said quietly. He paused, as though weighing his courage, then squared his shoulders. "And it seems the Seven did not favour you." He turned to Harlon. "You thieving prick. You will return my sheep, or you will pay me their worth in coin."
Harlon stiffened, his fists clenching at his sides. For a moment I thought he might charge. Then his eyes shifted.
They found my Ser.
Ser Alekyne stood a short distance away, calmly wiping the blood from his hammer with a strip of cloth. The sight drained all colour from Harlon's face.
"Easy now, Harlon," Alekyne said, his voice level as he approached. "I would rather not send another soul to the Seven today."
He lifted the hammer slightly, pointing it at the man.
"Would we?"
Harlon swallowed hard. "No, Ser." He bowed his head quickly.
Alekyne nodded once and turned away, stepping toward Garrett. "Now then. Where is this house of yours? I find myself rather hungry."
Garrett blinked, then nodded eagerly. "Right. Of course, Ser. Follow me."
He started off down the dirt path, then glanced back over his shoulder at Harlon. "Do not forget my sheep. Otherwise the Seven may see fit to visit a great plague upon you."
Harlon muttered something under his breath but nodded, retreating toward the fallen knight.
I followed behind Ser Alekyne, my eyes tracing his back. His armour bore no stain, no dent worth mentioning. It was as if the fight had never touched him.
"Tell me, Garrett," Alekyne said as we walked the winding path toward the village, "is your wife a good cook?"
Garrett hesitated, then smiled faintly. "Aye. She makes a fine beef stew."
"Then we shall have that," Alekyne said. He removed his helmet and placed it into my hands. "It has been too long since the lad and I had a proper meal."
I chuckled. "I have grown to hate that salted jerky, you know."
Alekyne laughed softly and ruffled my hair. "Aye. Have not we all."
The sun hung lower now, its light softer, casting long shadows across the fields. It had been a good day. A day I would remember, for it was rare to see my Ser fight with such cold ferocity.
The village lay only a short walk from the hill. As we entered, two women came out to meet us, one older, one younger, perhaps my age. The older woman looked stricken with worry at first, scanning the road ahead.
Then her eyes lit up at the sight of Garrett.
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And with that, ladies and gentlemen, the chapter comes to a close.
I hope you guys enjoyed the fight scene, even if it seemed relatively short to me. Please point out any details I should have explained better during it, as it has been a while since I last wrote.
Please, as usual, give me any tips and tricks on how to improve this fanfiction. Make sure not to forget to add this story to your libraries if you have enjoyed it so far, more is to come.
As such, have a good rest of your day/night.
Tac Out