The Duel

Origin

He remembered his youth. Not one of indolence and leisure like those damned gentry, but a hard-fought struggle. Every scrap of food resulted from a martial victory. Others would steal, pickpocket, yet he lacked such finesse. Brutality was the only method for him.

The old knight knew. Raw speed and strength compensated for a lack of technique. It was dazzlingly effective. At least, to streetwise rabble. He remembered how he first met the old man. Club in hand, confident and eager for another easy mark. How did the man even give him that scar on his neck?

Training proved easy. Natural combat instinct derived from years of fighting refined into learnt techniques and habits. Over time, these principles of swordsmanship evolved into his own unique style. Brutal, effective, and deadly.

His mind focused on the man he fought. His old compatriot. His partner through the training. His brother. Now, that was a first meeting to remember. The cocky squire in a new doublet, against the feral boy. Freshly-arrived from some distant manor. It embodied a classic trope: training against experience. Within half a minute, the cocky squire battered to the ground, his doublet no more than a rags.

But the feral boy had a primitive sense of honor. He helped the squire take to his feet, and gave him a customary "well fought." Their friendship must've been fated.

He remembered the first battle. Him and his battle-brother side-by-side on the frontlines. Breaking through the enemy formation. He protected the young knight's flanks while he rushed for the enemy captain. A glory day. Well, moreso for him, as he was the one honored with the decisive kill.

He remembered his battle-brother's meteoric ascension through the ranks. To captain, infantry then cavalry. Then, by grace of His Majesty, to a titled commander. All the while, the feral boy turned savage man-at-arms remained his faithful subordinate.

Even when the brutal lieutenant became the dishonored exile, his blood-brother had clapped him on the arms with a promise: "We'll meet again, aye."

He just didn't expect it to be in combat.

The calloused warrior's mind now shifted to the following years. Mostly a blur, probably not helped by the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed. But in the life of a mercenary, such things were common. Various border conflicts, skirmishes, wars, raids, ambushes, hell even robberies jolted through his absent mind.

A grim chuckle left his mouth. The absurdity of it all. Here he was, fighting his old comrade, reminiscing about the past. Fighting his most dangerous opponent yet, and he wasn't even consciously focused. But the movements of combat were instinct to him. He never needed to focus. Never needed to think. Barely even needed to see. The slightest visual stimuli indicated what action needed to be done. Counter, intercept, riposte. Attack, attack, and attack again. His fights became less coherent than dreams. How did he kill that last knight again?

Oh well.

Move on to better thoughts then.

Like the contract. This one he remembered vividly. A carriage, two guards. A young debutante, travelling to the capital. The mark: a diamond necklace. Didn't even look that good, to be honest. Eh, his tastes were no good anyways. A simple job: get the necklace, spare the guards. The latter part went quite well. A few half-hearted cudgels and some rope subdued them. Didn't even crack their skulls. Not like last time.

Yeah, he knew there was something off about that day.

All the while, the lady stayed in her carriage. Why didn't she run? Why didn't she hide the necklace?

Why didn't the driver flee?

He remembered sauntering towards the carriage. Glancing towards the driver with a gaze that should have cowered the old man. Yet it didn't. Approaching the door of the carriage. Opening the door, taking a step up, and reciting the script: "My lady. . ."

And then she smiled. The same smile he saw on the face of his mentor. A simple curve of the mouth indicating. . . understanding. And sympathy. She handed over the necklace without as much as a protest.

Something was odd that day. The incidents had dug into his psyche. The unhurt guards. The driver's stare.

It was just a simple job. He had accomplished his task. Why then?

Why did that damned smile break him?

He barely remembers the rest of it. Just a few blood-curling screams, the customary panicked inquiries and cries for mercy. And of course, the subsequent ride to a local inn. The innkeeper dared not ask why his tunic and scabbard dripped blood. Dared not meet his gaze, or even accept a token fee.

Things had returned to normal that night. The warm bath etched into his memory. Even moreso than the preceding. . . murders.

They were just murders. Nothing new.

The old noble had nothing to ask the following day. One hand grasping for the necklace, the other extending a pouch of gold. A simple exchange, and nothing more. Then he laughed, almost sweetly, and explained why he had issued the contract.

What kind of father hires mercenaries to rob his daughter? Just for a "learning experience," no less.

He prepared that night. When the guards broke down his door, he was ready.

Why did those two guards back come for me? Even with the support of four more, did they really think they could take me that night?

In five minutes, he was galloping into the countryside. He prepared that night.

Why was she traveling with only two guards? With such an expensive necklace?

Why did she have to smile? Why did the old noble have to hire me, specifically me, the savage hiding amongst the city's gentleman mercenaries?

Why did her brother have to be him?

So she was the sister of his battle-brother. He connected the dots easily then. It was all a ruse, done with some vague notion of charity in mind. He should've known. The payment was too high. The guards too easy. The driver too aware. And her, too friendly.

The posters appeared too fast. Everyone saw his face. Wanted, alive. Murderer of young Elaine Betreuse, sister of the valiant Marshal Garen Bertreuse. The small note underneath, that must've been his touch

"HAD HE BEEN THERE, SUCH A TRAGEDY WOULD NOT HAVE OCCURRED"

The kingdom's beloved marshal, utilizing his royal commission to hunt a single murderer.

It was a wonder he was not found earlier. For all the manhunters, bounty hunters, sycophant knights and men-at-arms could not hunt him. He was too elusive, too experienced.

And as fate as determined, he knew only one man could find him.

There they met, at the old knight's shack in a long-abandonned town. He had only waited two days before the good Marhsal Bertreuse arrived. Alone, no less.

There, they made no greeting, made no gesture. Shared no stories about their adventures, their new experience. Only one mattered: the murder.

He could only respond to the glaring eyes by drawing his blade.