10 - The Duel
Must you entertain this stranger-knight? Wallcrest, he names himself. His plates are made from horse leather. A knight errant, of The Leather Dragon. You know this order. Scarless. Chivalrous. Your Steel will cut that armor if it must. He draws his own sword now. It is polished, see how it shines there, even in the shadow of the monument. A small cut may snuff his hubris. Those cheering onlookers. Your Lady stands among them, but she understands, and needs not your look. Enough. Let the crowd fall into the fog of sense. Engage this man, and if he is too strong for you, die.
You sweep your arm up and hold your blade horizontal, the flat facing out. Your foe does the same. The duel begins.
Your Steel is of an edge to wound the wind. Yet, landing a blow will be the trial. Wallcrest, Knight of the Leather Dragon, parries or ducks even your swiftest slashes. You’ll quickly realize why his order carries their scarless reputation.
The knight usually attacks in the pattern: left, overhead, low jab, left. Use your shield for the left and overhead attacks, and parry the jab. If he ripostes one of your attacks, deflect the edge of his sword with your gauntlet.
The first blow of yours which lands will cut leather, but not flesh. When this happens the frequency of his attacks will double. You will be pressed back under the shadow of the frozen golem’s boot.
Corroding Triumph of Surveillance
A golem of riveted copper, as tall as twenty tall men, impends over the wide cliff lane. Its crown of sharpened vents shines in the slate-colored sunrays above the lip of Middlemoss Gorge. One of its thousand-pound rusted boots hovers mid-stomp.
A skeleton of black bones, longer than twenty long serpents, lies on its back beneath the golem. The giant loops of its ribs have been fractured by the plate of the golem’s copper axe. Its fanged jawbone gapes. It is the skeleton of the Demon King, Surveillance.
To beat this Leather Dragon, accept a blow. You know how to take a wound; he does not. Let him break through your guard with one deep cut (though not too deep) and he will open himself for retaliation.
All it takes is one blow.
Once your foe falls to his knee you should get yourself out from the golem boot’s shadow. Deafen yourself to the clanging, if you can, and keep your eyes off the fate of the bested duelist.
You will have won.
Where The Road runs north of Middlemoss, at the head of the gorge on the heath, there boils a narrow weir. The barrier molds a cliff-shaded pond, before releasing the water to crash soundlessly down the bottomless chasm. A driftwood deadfall shapes a hollow place beside the weir, just under the top of the waterfall. Mist swaddles it. Soft moss upholsters the sinuous and warped wood.
You sit with your Blue Lady at the back of this hollow. Your Cat’s Eye Spear sheds a spare viridian light in the space. As you skim a whetstone along your Steel’s reflective edge, your Lady hums a folk melody.
Her humming ceases. A branch cracks. Someone approaches.
The Wicker Tyro
A young man steps gently into the hollow on wicker sandals. His breastplate is resin and willow, his cropped hair and sideburns are blonde. He seems not to have seen you yourself, but stares fixedly at your Lady.
“Lady, I hope you will not find me forward. A man, a fighter, must speak the truth of his heart. “I heard your voice just now. And at the monument. I am Skimcalf, and I would pledge my arm to such a voice. “oh. I did not realize another was here. “You are her pledged servant? “Sir, defend that honor!”
The young man will swing at you with a battered and pockmarked cutlass. You needn’t be daunted, this will be a shorter duel. The man swings in unmeasured, telegraphed, predictable patterns, mostly chops, though he may try to jab with his cutlass. Not one of his blows is likely to dent your armor, rusted though it is.
You can slay him. It would be just as easy, however, to disarm or disable him. A knock or two with your scabbarded Steel would lay this novice on the ground, unhurt of body.
As he rubs his knee, and sits up, Skimcalf turns his fixed look to you.
“Sir, that was well done. I only wanted- “But, let me learn and serve as one! Teach me, sir, how you carried that sword within my strike before it could land. Teach me where to swing and when. “Teach me, I beg. I am in need. A duel of my own compels me in five daybreaks. “You would not amuse me for nothing I warrant. When I heard your Lady’s musical voice at Surveillance’s Triumph, she mentioned a stepson? I thought her sigil looked familiar. “If you would teach me…”
A tip: search under the sodden log on the ledge behind the weir’s waterfall. You have a small chance of finding one of the following Oddboons.
| Leather Sack If you open the sack, you find a living infant with a Radiant Scalp. Turn it in to the Middlemoss Mayor to earn a reward. | A Thumb and a Ring The ring is gold, and bears the signet of a wasp. | Engraved Nautilus This shell is made of polished Ivory. It shows a map through The Tunnel of the Stillbreather. |
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You train the young fighter for four days. Each day you focus on some specific aspect of combat: stances and posture, legwork, tension and balance, grip, attack, defense. Skimcalf absorbs stance and legwork easily enough. But the young man’s guard is slow. You teach him combinations of chop and slice, and you teach him how to win a bind.
Some hours you train at the Shellfish Museum, or at the Dry Millwheel. But most of the time you dance at the place of his forthcoming duel. Under Surveillance’s Triumph.
He did well to block that last strike. But you see that his temperament precludes easy grasp of parries or creating distance. It is a weakness of the young. You wish more days remained. You wish that you could teach him the system of the fighter beyond the fight. The Virtue of Silence. You should drive harder. You must be vicious. The mercy will be in victory and life.
As the days wax, Skimcalf’s tongue unfurls.
“The Oat Order’s edicts state that a knight, on being admitted, must pass his next ten days in adventures-” “-beyond the gorge once. But I hope to travel far one day, even past The Meathook Mountains. Have you, sir knight, ever seen Hornwater Town and Lake, or been-” “Twins they were, these girls in The Coffin Rollers. Idiot girls. I know, I know; you silently judge my quick conclusions. Yet I shuddered at their-” “My opponent? Hah! Nevermind him, sir. A common thug.”
Middlemoss boasts a variety of tradesmen, craftsmen, merchants, markets, and milieu of idiosyncrasy.
| Fogsea the Armorer A sooty, hairless, corpulent master smith. From him you may purchase a helmet for Skimcalf. He Sells three styles: Knight’s Watchtower Helm, Knight’s Founder Helm, Knight’s Stonetower Helm. | The Loweating Herd Roams on Middlemoss’s lowest habitable ledge. From the livestock throats issue sounds like burning wood. A moisture as of tears trickles down the gorge wall in their corral. | Chryptsacker`s Lodge The chryptsackers never sell to customers directly. They do the scouting, digging, and cleaning, then broker their goods through licensed peddlers. |
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| Guilda the Scarab Seller Known affectionately among the local mancers as ‘the six and a half foot scowl’. Sells a wide diversity of soul scarabs. His stock changes every daybreak. | The Cloth and Tailor Market Here you can purchase any cut, color, cloth, and style of graveclothes, all free of dirt, and with few wormholes. | Hall of Loving Shapers The best place for edged steel. Skimcalf’s jaw swings loose if you present him his first sword from one of these consummate smiths. |
| The Shellfish Museum Here, in these resonant marble halls, in this former tohmb of a priest of a god-necromancer, from a long ago Time; here you may see the layers of Times and Dyings. The curators have organized the different fossils and shells and bones from their excavations to mirror the layers of graves in the Middlemoss gorge. | Ledge of the Twenty Mancers This long, majestic quarter is lined with guilds, workshops, laboratories, and schools of necromancy. It is named for the twenty mancers who erected the death fence separating the livable levels of the gorge from the mad souls of its unfathomed lower depths. | Suspicious Tile This alley tile may appear anywhere in town. When you step on it, the tile cracks. Peeling it up you find an inscription predicting this exact Time and location in which the tile has been broken. |
| Thornwarren Take care if you visit this residential ghetto with Skimcalf. The homes seem almost unlived-in; leaves litter the marble; mildew chokes the air. Yet there are dwellers. Many, given the chance, will gladly trade their scruples for your worldly possessions – even your bodies. | Ghostglass Shop Changes locations every seven and a half hours. If you can find it, the curving, gleaming, colored faces are surprisingly lifelike, and astoundingly free! For a favor… | The Deep Well Supposedly goes all the way to the bottom of the chasm; anyone who brings the bucket all the way up is rewarded with a glass of The Time of Dying’s purest water. |
The young man’s will is not behind the spar today. He holds his tongue. You see temerity in that backwards step. Tomorrow’s combat cools his vigor? Something else? You cannot wholly suppress a misgiving. Your Lady, too, has fixed her eye on Skimcalf this day. Why? She hopes that he lives, maybe. Hopes that he will join your company on The Road. You hope for it too. Control that foolishness. Hope and Want are not your duty; yours is to serve your Blue Lady’s ends. Your pupil has zeal and knack. You have slain many of less ability than he now possesses.
You hear Skimcalf before you see him. His wicker sandals creak on the street, over this hiss of the rain beyond your sepulchral boarding chamber. A minute later he appears in the doorway.
“I thank you, master knight, for all that you have taught me of fighting with a sword. One day I will match you. “I thank you as well, good Lady, for all your patience, attention, and kindness. I hope my improvement has pleased your discerning eye today. “I- You will find your family member. I am sure of it, Lady. Very sure! “But, not through any knowledge of mine. “I never saw nor met nor heard-of this stepson. “Please look differently at me! When I win my duel I will happily accompany…”
Your Blue Lady breaks her silence.
“Since the slate-colored sun broke the crack of the gorge, I have seen my daughter. Her white face has haunted your shoulder since morning. “Still her lips keep shut. Still her eyes would burn me. “Why? I would touch her hand. Perhaps her spirit saw your spirit, where my flesh sees only its like. “I recall how my lord addressed lies. “‘Save beatings for animals,’ he said. ‘Never, however, let those without faith stain our floor.’”
You remain by your Lady’s side - always - as Skimcalf’s wicker sandals diminish creakily.
Surveillance’s Triumph
Surveillance was so named for his role and the greatest master of spies among all the Demon Kings. He elevated, from among the lists of men who all were slaves, some to be his crows and ravens and vultures.
He was the first of the Demon Kings to die.
The seven necromancer-gods and their acolytes could not leverage risen dead against Surveillance. For, the King’s spies reported any whisper of necromancy. The necromancer-gods resorted to other craft. They enjoined the smiths and metalworkers to build the Lendendrung, The Golem, in secret. When the signs in the comets and the heavens were propitious, the mancers fed Lendendrung a flood of human souls. Thus it lived.
Lendendrung fulfilled its purpose. It slew the demon king. But the battle cost the golem every soul by which it had been animate, and it was forever destroyed in turn.
And, Lendendrung could not destroy all of Surveillance. It could not destroy the Demon King’s ear. The Demon King, though he is only a skeleton, still hears when the soul of an unworthy slave draws near his fanged jaw.
The next day is like night. The hissing rain remains. You lean against the cool marble. Your thoughts are warm and agitated.
Only your Lady’s voice suffices to break the contemplation. She suggests that you both, under cloak, attend the duel.
Getting there isn’t easy. You know that this day happens to be the beginning of Deep Jain, the summer festival. The Cult of the Material Soul has gathered to Middlemoss.
At the first bridge a throng of snow-white bodies will grab your shield and pull you into their wheel. Don’t draw your Steel. Keep hold of your Lady’s arm, let the dancers carry you three-quarters of the way around, then jerk free.
You may hear a disturbing rumor as you step off the bridge: “-coins on the brute. Did you see that star of his?”
Later when you enter Plaidside, a spontaneous choir will sing amidst the crowd. Disjunct voices crash alternately in each of your ears, roll tumbling in your helm, spin you in dizzy circles. You’ll find yourself caught in a moving maze of pedestrians.
To reach the opposite end of Plaidside swiftly, look-for and navigate-to the following landmark persons: blonde man with half-a-nose, towering ballerina, ancient grain seller, beggar in spectacles, burning dwarf.
By speeding toward Surveillance’s Triumph, you will arrive in time to witness the duel’s end, but not to affect its outcome. That is all for which you may hope.
Pressing through the audience, you see Skimcalf. He is pressing the attack against his foe.
R the Killer.
R is retreating, blocking Skimcalf’s chops with a small buckler. You’ve never seen him use a buckler before. You hear your Lady out of the corner of your helm. She pleads with you to help the young apprentice. You know that you cannot.
R retreats steadily. He is pressed back under the shadow of the monument’s boot. Skimcalf however seems to remember your duel of days ago. He steps back, making space, not pursuing under the copper boot.
Today it is raining. The shadow is deeper.
From out of the dark the heavy buckler flies. It smashes direct on Skimcalf’s face. He staggers. R lunges out after the missile. He swings.
The Horned Morning Star tears through Skimcalf’s neck.
As you kneel on the wet pavement beside Skimcalf, his unfocused eyes slide in your direction.
“Sir. And Lady. I am quite- quite happy to see you. “I thought I should put distance between him and me, sir. But that must have been wrong. “What a privilege it would have been for me to serve in a knightly order. Or to serve you, Lady. “He’s torn my neck. For me, knighthood and a Lady shall long wait. “I’m sorry for my lie. “You should both step back now. I must accept the fate of the monument. Goodbye.”
You must ignore that rising clamor. You knew this was a possibility. Think of your breath, the feel of your shield in your hand. Distract yourself. You CAN’T. You know you can’t. You know you can’t ignore that sucking, whistling wind. Do you hear his body sliding on the earth? It slides towards those open fangs. Look on your Lady. She is all that should occupy your thoughts. You are her servant, your mind- YOUR mind? You’re a fool. You know that another shares your mind, here, under the bones of a KING. Two souls, one cracked cup. But, only yours is the soul of a slave.
The too-familiar voice of R the Killer cuts through the thoughts in your head.
“Steelclad! And the droopy bluebell. It always puts a little spring in my heel, shaking eyeballs with you two. “Did you know that body on the ground back there? Was that your - what was it? - stepcousin? “I don’t apologize. “He did not need to die. He chose a fight. “There are remedies for all things but death.”
LISTEN! Do you hear that Crunching and Tearing? Bones and Flesh. And what is that last chord in the music? Yes, the snapping of a pair of wicker sandals. You did well to avoid that fate yourself. You know, as blissful as the consumption is for the fanged jaw of a Demon King, just so much is it a TORMENT for the slave that is being consumed. You try now to think of how hot your ears feel, but you can’t. You must hear the last creaking of those ancient black bones. They wait for the next victim. Ever vigilant. Your mind is yours now. Flee to your Road. Your necromancer-gods made it for men.