Chapter 22 Duel against a Duelist #4
He dove into a somersault, came back up to his feet with his blade in hand, and landed such a hard blow against Gueldefore’s chest piece that it dented inward. The knight seemed only to find this invigorating, like a fresh drink of water.
His blows came swifter, rougher, deadlier.
But Morfran was quick, too. Quicker.
He cut a nasty slash in the man’s upper sword arm, right where there was a gap in the armor at his shoulder.
Gueldefore’s arm instantly went limp, his blade cutting into the grass from the sudden movement.
Gueldefore snarled, taking the sword into his other hand—to which Morfran slashed a gash in his second shoulder to match.
That arm lost strength and drooped, too.
It wasn’t enough. Morfran kicked him in the kneecap again, this time sending him buckling to one knee and yelping out in pain.
That was when muscle memory kicked in, and before Morfran knew it, he was swinging the blade on the perfect trajectory to Gueldefore’s exposed neck, with enough speed and precision to sever skin and flesh and bone with one stroke—
He stopped the blade right before it could cut into the space where the neck joined the shoulder.
Both men held their breath. Gueldefore’s hostility was replaced by shock.
Morfran’s body was buzzing with battle energy and bloodlust and—fright.
Fright that he’d been so close to losing himself, losing everything.
“Yield,” Morfran whispered, and although he wasn’t the one on his knees with a sword at his throat, for the life of him it sounded like he was the one begging. He said it again, more forcefully. “I said, yield!”
Gueldefore spat, not once removing his eyes from Morfran.
He pushed up to his feet and backed up, dragging his sword with his limp arm.
Only when he was a safe distance from him did he glance at the crowd: at Brim, who was staring back with indifferent eyes, at the rebels, who were watching him in silence, at Bronwen, who was shaking her head at him ever so slightly.
Gueldefore dropped his sword. Then, turning in a circle, he announced with a flat tone, “Look on at this man who I just dueled. He claims he is but a lowly general with a quick mind for strategy, and who joined your cause only by force.” He paused.
“Let my testament ring in your ears today and hereafter: I have never fought a man who possessed such skill nor speed. Not a fellow knight, not one of Morfran’s champions, not one of his generals.
Whoever he is”—Gueldefore met Morfran’s gaze again, something brittle and cold behind it—“I would caution you to beware. He’s not who he says he is. ”
Silence. Gueldefore hadn’t looked away from Morfran, and there was nothing Morfran could think to say to defuse the suspicions that the knight was attempting to stir up.
Then:
“Quit being a poor sport, Gueldefore.” This was, surprisingly, Grandfather Tortoise, who was hedging his way out from the crowd with his walking stick and meandering into the dueling circle towards the two of them.
“You lost fair and square. Just accept it and move on.” He waved for Drezella to step forward with his big red pot labeled Special Paste.
“Now kneel, both of you, so I can heal your wounds.”
Morfran finally released his pent-up breath. The old man wasn’t taken by Gueldefore’s words. Perhaps it meant that no one else was, either. Right as Morfran began to kneel, Gueldefore spat at their feet.
“So you’ve chosen him as the rebellion’s champion?” he demanded from the crowd.
This time it was Bronwen who came forward, bewildered at the man’s sensitive emotions. “We’re not picking anyone. We need both of you in this fight against Morfran—”
“There was a time, Bronwen, that I’d hoped we’d wed.” Gueldefore’s tone was morose. He appeared to be attempting to hold his heart, but the slashes on his arms were quite nasty, and so he only flopped his hand against his crotch.
“Gueldefore, we were never courting.”
“I had it planned. We’d have seven children—Guinevere, Guinness, Gideon, Gabriella, Gwendolyn, and Gus—”
“That’s only six.”
“—and every Sunday you’d make the most scrumptious parsnip casserole—”
“I hate parsnips,” Bronwen said, a little more annoyed.
“—and we would die on the porch together at the age of eighty-seven, after many years of raising a new generation of knights, all of whom would devote their lives to eradicating Morfran’s men from the kingdom.”
Bronwen seemed tied up on the whole dying-at-age-eighty-seven thing. “Why eighty-seven? What’s the significance of eighty-seven? We aren’t even the same age. How would that work?”
“Alas, we won’t ever be.” He turned a hateful eye back on Morfran. “Enjoy your days in the embrace of this foul liar.”
Please just go already, Morfran longed to say, half hiding his face with his hand. This is painful to watch.
To his relief, the man did. Leaving his sword behind because he couldn’t pick it up, he spat a third time in Morfran’s direction and ran off, his arms flopping uselessly at his sides.