Chapter 30 Duel

  The room was still thrumming with the echoes of Lord Eldric’s acceptance when Lord Malric stepped forward. His voice carried across the hushed hall, calm but commanding.

  “We will do this properly,” he said. “This is no back-alley brawl, no hedge knight’s quarrel. This is a matter between a peer of the realm and a challenger under the eyes of the king’s banner. We will have a neutral judge.”

  He turned to the nobles gathered. “Who among you will stand impartial? Who will serve the law, not your ambition?”

  There was hesitation, glances exchanged—but then a man stepped forward from the back of the hall. He wore no great cloak, no gleaming sigil. His tunic bore the colors of a lesser house, muted greens and brown. His sword was polished, but plain. A narrow silver badge at his shoulder marked him as a landed esquire, a lower noble of good standing.

  “I will judge it,” he said, bowing once. “Ser Caldus of Durn Vale. I have no debt to either side, and I have served as arbiter thrice before.”

  Lord Malric nodded once, approving. “Then state the laws.”

  Ser Caldus turned, facing the hall. His voice was practiced and clear.

  “By the ancient rite of noble honor, a duel of standing has been issued and accepted. As per the codes of the Concord of Sevens, when such a challenge arises from the defense of the innocent or the attack upon one unable to speak or fight for themselves, it must be settled the same day, and under the eyes of those who bear witness. Delay would dishonor both sides.”

  He looked between Beric and Lord Eldric.

  “The challenger, Knight-Errant Beric, may choose arms or restrictions upon armor. The challenged—Lord Eldric of House Avalon—may define whether the gifts of the blood, be they spell, blessing, or arcane mark, are permitted in the field.”

  There was no noise. No movement. Just the shuffling of guards along the walls as they took quiet positions in case things turned worse.

  Beric straightened.

  “Steel only,” he said firmly. “Standard metal. No horses. No spears, no bows. Swords and gauntlets. And no seconds.”

  Caldus turned to Lord Eldric.

  “And you, my lord. Will gifts of the blood be permitted?”

  Lord Eldric’s face was impassive, his eyes dark and fixed.

  “No. No enchantments. No hidden sigils, no invocations. Let it be as the old kings would have it—flesh, will, and steel.”

  Ser Caldus bowed again. “So it shall be.”

  The duel was to be here.

  Now.

  Before the eyes of Avalon and the nobles of the realm.

  And judgment would come with steel.

  As the servants and guards moved briskly to clear the center of the hall, while a ring of tension and silence began to form around the area. Nobles and merchants pressed back, speaking in hushed voices, while priests withdrew to the edges of the gallery, uncertain whether to bless the act or condemn it. All the while, the banners of House Avalon hung above the hall like silent sentinels.

  Lord Eldric stood quietly for a moment, then unbuckled the clasp at his side.

  The steel whispered as he drew the Sword of the Valley from its sheath. A fine weapon—etched with runes in the tongue of old kings, its edge sharp enough to split thread, its pommel marked by the sigil of the First March.

  He turned and handed it carefully to his son.

  “Aldric,” he said.

  The young noble blinked, surprised, and stepped forward to receive it, reverently taking the sword in both hands.

  “You’ll hold this one,” Eldric continued. “The runes along the spine are keyed to me. If I used it, the priestlings would whisper about witchery, about unfair advantage. Let them have no room for excuses.”

  He looked directly into his son’s eyes. “Lend me yours.”

  Aldric swallowed, his hand tightening for a brief second on the hilt of the ancient blade. He quickly masked the flicker of fear behind his eyes. Not shame—never that. But fear, raw and sharp, that his father might fall. That he might watch it happen.

  He nodded once. “Of course, father.”

  He unstrapped the sword at his hip—plainer than the family blade, but solid, well-balanced, lovingly maintained. Aldric handed it to him hilt-first.

  Lord Eldric accepted it without flourish, but there was a moment—a flicker of warmth beneath his stone-carved features.

  “It’s a good blade,” he said. “A good sword, from a good man.”

  Aldric looked down, steadying his breath. He clenched his jaw, fighting the emotions roiling beneath the surface.

  And no one—not the ministers, not the merchants, not even the sharp-eyed nobles—could see the tremor behind his stillness.

  He stood proud and straight, as a son of Avalon should.

  And the hall continued to ready itself for the reckoning to come.

  The center of the Great Hall was cleared, torches along the stone walls burning with a low crackle. Shadows played across the ancient banners of Avalon, their blue and black folds billowing slightly with each motion in the hall. The nobles pressed back into silence, their eyes fixed on the two men standing within the wide ring.

  Lord Eldric of Avalon, tall, broad-shouldered, armored in dark steel traced with silver filigree, held his son’s sword in both hands. Beside him, his uncle, the Master of the Northern March, stepped back, having spoken the old rites and confirming the neutral Esquire judge.

  Across the hall stood Knight-Errant Beric, wrapped in more practical armor—plain, marred in places by past battles, with leather reinforcing the joints and shoulders. His stance was aggressive, weight on the balls of his feet, a long sword in hand. No flourish. No bow.

  The judge raised his hand. “Let this be settled as the law demands: one blow for every lie, one strike for every trespass. Let skill prove justice. Let no magic touch the field unless called and allowed.”

  Then, he dropped his hand.

  Beric came forward like a bull loosed from the gate, roaring in his charge, his first swing wide and brutal. Eldric met the blow with the flat of his blade and a step to the side, absorbing the force with a twist of his shoulders, letting the steel glance off his pauldron. The sound of the impact echoed like a hammer on an anvil.

  Their swords clashed again. And again.

  It was not elegance that dominated the field—but power and precision. Their blows were not delicate; they were weighty, bone-rattling. Each man struck like a blacksmith, testing not only the other’s reflexes, but the integrity of the armor.

  Beric fought with fury, his blade a blur, battering at Eldric’s defenses. His strikes were looping, crushing arcs meant to cave in helmets or break bones through mail. He was younger, faster—an ox in human shape, throwing his full strength behind every swing.

  Eldric, by contrast, moved with cold calculation. His footwork was tight, efficient. He rolled his shoulders with each hit, redirecting force and deflected rather than blocking. He let Beric burn his energy in storm and fury.

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  The hall trembled with the force of it.

  Metal rang against metal. Gauntlets struck hilts. Blades gouged dents in breastplates. The smell of sweat and iron hung heavy in the air.

  Then, in a moment that passed too quickly for most to register, Beric shifted his stance. His strikes became impossibly fast—no longer simply powerful but unnaturally sharp, timed with reflexes that defied belief. He feinted and nearly drove the point of his sword into Eldric’s exposed side.

  The hall gasped.

  Lord Eldric twisted his arm just in time, but blood still welled on his arm where the blade grazed beneath the joint.

  A few of the old knights watching scowled. They had seen many duels. This—this wasn’t just skill.

  **

  In the dim space beyond the dueling circle, Minister Kardec’s hand lingered beneath his robes, fingertips brushing the edges of a charm worn smooth by years of use. The sigil—an old relic of the Law—seemed almost to breathe against his skin. Once it had been consecrated for truth and judgment, yet under Kardec’s warped gift it bent toward other purposes, its edges blurred by intent.

  His lips moved, sound scarcely rising above breath, words stitched between silence. His gaze never wavered from Beric.

  “Faster. Harder. The weight of judgment of the law is yours.”

  The charm stirred, a pulse of green so faint it might have been mistaken for a trick of the eye, the kind of glow seen only at the edge of ones attention. The air around Kardec seemed to hold itself taut, as if listening.

  **

  Back in the circle, Eldric staggered under a blow that struck with inhuman timing. A shallow cut opened above his brow. Blood trickled into his eyes. Another hit jarred his shoulder, nearly dislocating it through the armor.

  Beric was a blur now—no longer fighting with brute strength but with some preternatural speed. His sword sang through the air, forcing Eldric back step by step. One noble drew his dagger in panic. Another moved to guard a priest.

  Then the errant knight raised his sword high, bellowing as he leapt for a crushing overhead blow, a final strike meant to break through helm and bone alike.

  Beric’s blade raised to come down like a falling star—full of fury, force, and finality. But in the end it struck only stone. The echo of steel on marble rang out like a thunderclap, a brutal sound that rolled through the vaulted ceiling of the hall.

  At the moment Beric stepped into the strike, with guard held high, Lord Eldric moved—not with raw strength, but with devastating precision. He fell to one knee, spinning beneath the arc.

  His movement was like a wheel turning on oiled stone.

  The sword he wielded now was not his own. It was his son’s, light and finely balanced. It whispered, rather than roared, through the space between them.

  Eldric's movement carried him inside the knight’s reach, sliding under Beric’s lifted guard. The blade slipped beneath the mail of Beric’s raised right arm and, in one clean, arcing draw-cut, opened his throat from the side—neither messy nor wild, but surgical, decisive. Blood sprayed in a fine mist across the Lord’s shoulder.

  Beric froze, staggered, a shocked gasp caught in his throat—but Eldric continued the movement. The blade continued to exit the left side of the Knight's neck and struck the inside of the knight’s left forearm, just below the Bracer, severing tendon and muscle with surgical finality. The sword tumbled from Beric’s hand, ringing once before clattering across the blood-slick floor.

  Beric sank to one knee—unwilling, unable. His hands no longer served him. His breath came in a choking rasp.

  All of it had taken less than two heartbeats.

  Gasps echoed from the gallery. Several guards moved instinctively but froze mid-step. Aldric stood like stone, his sword hand tight at his side, not with fear but with pride barely concealed behind his iron composure. It was his blade that had ended the knight’s life. But it was his father’s hand that had guided it.

  The hall was dead silent.

  No roar of victory.

  Just the sound of Beric’s last breath leaving his body, and Lord Eldric rising slowly to his feet, his blade painted crimson.

  The fight was over.

  But the reckoning had just begun.

  “Offense,” called the judge, his voice carrying across the breathless hall. He pointed directly at Minister Kardec, eyes narrowed in fury. “You interfered. Your hand twisted the course of battle. That is a violation of the rules they stood beneath.”

  The room seemed to shrink around them, silence closing like a cage. All eyes were now on the minister.

  But before the weight of the accusation could fully settle, Lord Eldric stepped forward, his sword still wet with blood, the steel whispering as it moved. He did not look to the crowd for approval. There was no triumph in his eyes, no rage in his bearing—only quiet, cold finality.

  “Let it be known,” Eldric said, his voice low and unshaken, carrying across the hushed hall, “that justice was served by this duel. It was declared lawfully. It was ended lawfully. The sword has answered the insult to the law.”

  With deliberate grace, he raised the bloodied blade and drew it down in a precise arc—a practiced gesture, ancient and solemn. The ritual was complete. The rite of judgment, satisfied.

  A ripple of surprise moved through the gathered nobles, some recoiling, others standing still, their eyes fixed on the Lord of Avalon. This wasn’t raw vengeance—it was judgment rendered in full accordance with ancient law. Only Lady Seryn of Windwatch gave a solemn nod, understanding the deeper truth of what had just occurred.

  “Justice?” Minister Kardec spat the word like venom. His face twisted in fury, desperation curling in the corners of his mouth. “You call that justice, Lord? You killed a knight of the realm—a man sworn to protect the king’s own minister! That was not the law. That was murder under a banner.”

  He took a step backward, robes fluttering as he turned to leave, one hand gripping the edge of his mantle.

  “I will be leaving this place,” he growled, voice rising, spittle on his lips. “I’ll bring word to the capital. I’ll have the Council hear what you’ve done here. This barbaric display will—”

  But he stopped.

  Because no one moved.

  No guard opened the door. No noble stepped aside. Every single person in that room was staring at him—not with fear or deference—but with cold, calculating judgment.

  It was then that Lady Seryn of Windwatch, her voice smooth as glass but edged with steel, spoke clearly from the side of the chamber. “No, Minister. You will not be leaving.”

  Kardec turned, uncertain now, eyes darting from face to face. “You forget yourself, Lady. I speak with the authority of the king—”

  “No,” she cut him off, unblinking. “You now only speak with the authority of a corpse.”

  “What…?” he breathed, his confidence faltering.

  “You are still connected by the gift you gave your knight,” she said. “The same enchantment that let you interfere. The duel was declared with no seconds. You violated that rule the moment your will passed through his blade.”

  And then Kardec felt it.

  A warmth on his neck.

  Not heat—but wetness.

  Sticky. Slow.

  He raised trembling fingers to his throat—and they came away red.

  The same blood that had gushed from Beric’s severed throat now painted his collar, seeping through the hidden threads of arcane connection. A whisper of pain licked up his spine, subtle at first, then sharp and rising.

  “No…” he gasped, stumbling back. “No, no, this is not…”

  But it was.

  The nobles stepped back. The judge said nothing. Even the priests made no move to intercede.

  Magic bound by law had its cost—and it had come to collect.

  Lord Eldric turned away, already walking toward his family, sheathing the sword that had brought judgment.

  Behind him, Kardec sank slowly to his knees, blood blooming in wide patches down his robe, hands fluttering helplessly in the air, reaching for salvation that would not come.

  Justice had been rendered.

  And now, justice had come to collect its due.

  Lord Malric of Isenford, Lord of the Northern March, advanced purposefully onto the dais to the right of his nephew, his heavy cloak bearing the blue and black of House Avalon fluttering slightly behind him. His aged voice, sharpened by years of command, went with chilly precision through the hall.

  "It is ever the role of those who serve the kingdom," he began, hands clasped before him, eyes sweeping the assembled guests, "to witness justice—not merely to carry it out, but to see it, and to remember it."

  There was a pause. The air still felt charged, like the room itself was recovering from the echo of steel and the scent of blood.

  “I know this has been a long day, and not the meeting any of us expected when we rode beneath these banners. So, I ask you now to return to your lodgings and rest. We will convene again in the morning, after the second bell, to begin the caravan discussions in proper order.”

  His final words were a soft but firm dismissal. The court began to move.

  A low buzz grew as nobles crowded close together, voices lowered but persistent, rumor and surprise flavoring their tones. Cloaks were pulled around them, goblets unreached for on the table. Boots on stone echoed through the air between soft whispers—men and women suddenly conscious of how fragile was order when warped by unseen hands.

  Merchants clustered as they made their exit, casting long glances over their shoulders toward the still figure of Minister Kardec, his body now shrouded beneath a dark drape near the center of the floor. Some discussed how close they had come to aligning with him—others, how lucky they were to have kept their distance.

  The priests of the Veil departed in two groups—some pale and shaken, others in quiet, worried counsel, the older ones walking slowly, heads bowed, robes of white, crimson, and soot-black brushing the smooth flagstone. One or two exchanged wary glances toward the dais, uncertain of what judgment might yet await them.

  The two landed lords, Lady Seryn of Windwatch and Lord Harlian of Galeden Vale, walked side by side, silent for the first time that night. Their guards followed a step behind, and though they said nothing, their eyes had a weight to them—heavy with calculation and unease.

  Servants moved discreetly, collecting scattered items and brushing up overturned chairs. None dared speak. None asked questions. All of them, from scullion to steward, had just seen the realm’s delicate balance tilt on its axis.

  Aldric stood near the edge of the hall, still holding his father’s sword in his hands. He watched the nobles pass, his gaze not confrontational but now thoughtful—aware. He was still young, but tonight had marked him.

  As the last of the guests passed through the tall doors and into the dim corridors beyond, the hall grew quiet. Cold firelight flickered across banners of blue and black. The House of Avalon had made its stand.

  And all who left that night carried the weight of what they had seen—justice claimed, blood drawn, and a new line drawn across the future of the realm.