The Duel

The Survivor

The king himself administered Marshal Bertreuse's funeral. Hundreds of lords, high and petty, lined the procession. Perhaps double the number of maidens lamented the popular knight's death.

Fifty meters away, a pair of calloused eyes watched. He felt safe coming here. Who would have expected it? Anyways, it was the best he could do for his old friend. The honorable choice of action.

Woe that it was him, rather than I.

Still, I'd do it again. I've done it a thousand times. He was no different. Just another challenger.

They come in many forms. Old, young. Mostly men, but a few women too. Bringing too much emotional baggage and not enough skill. No doubt hundreds of knights were swearing oaths of vengeance at this moment.

They'll die all the same.

Nothing more for him to do here. Perhaps the Eastern principalities would appreciate his services.

He raised his forearm in a half-salute, and turned away.

Who would not have wanted it to be me, and not him? What a tale that would have made. The gallant marshal, avenging his dear sister's murder. But things don't turn out that way.

Did he think he had a chance? Did he hope? That righteousness alone would grant him victory? Over prowess? That would be too naive. No, he came for something else.

Perhaps one of his silly knightly virtues, like "duty" or "honor" or "justice."

He had reached the stables outside of walls. A ragged chesnut destrier snorted in greeting. He had left the saddle on, even his travelling kit. Didn't plan on staying here for long.

The faint noise of trumpets disturbed his silence. This town will surely mourn the next few days. Maybe the whole kingdom will. All for one man, whom the mercenary had once called "brother."

When will I die? And how?

A question for later. The calloused veteran kicked the side of the horse, who trotted forward at a surprising gait for his health.

Time to head East.