Chapter 17: The Duel
The circle was drawn in the hard-packed earth of the central yard.
Twenty paces across—traditional Dúnedain dueling space, Halbarad had explained. Wide enough for movement, small enough that neither fighter could simply run.
Dawn light crept over the palisade walls. The entire settlement had gathered—my people, Gorlim's men, even the children who should have been kept inside.
I stood at the circle's eastern edge, father's sword in hand. My ribs were wrapped tight, movement restricted but pain manageable. Thorwen had given me something for the pain—herbs that dulled the sharpness without clouding my mind.
Small mercies.
Gorlim entered from the west. His blade caught the morning light—good steel, well-maintained. His movements were loose, confident. A man who expected to win.
"Any final words?" Halbarad asked. Formal question. Part of the ritual.
"Let's get this done," I said.
Gorlim smiled without warmth. "The pretender is eager to die."
The old Ranger stepped back. The crowd fell silent.
We circled.
Gorlim struck first.
A testing blow—quick slash toward my left side, withdrawn before I could counter. He was gauging my speed, my reactions, looking for the weakness he knew existed.
I parried. The impact sent fire through my ribs.
He saw that.
His second strike came faster. High cut toward my shoulder, then a pivot and low sweep at my legs. I blocked the first, jumped the second, landed badly.
Pain. White-hot, blinding.
His blade came in again before I'd recovered. I threw myself sideways, rolling—practice from last night paying off. The sword passed through air where my throat had been.
"You're hurt," Gorlim observed. Circling again. Patient now. "The battle took more from you than you admitted."
"Does it matter?"
"It means this won't take long."
He came in hard. Three strikes in rapid succession—high, low, thrust. Each one pushed me back, forced defensive blocks that stressed my injured side. I was losing ground, losing strength, losing—
Stop matching him. He's better. You knew that.
The fourth strike came. I didn't block it.
I stepped inside it.
His blade passed my ear close enough to feel the wind. My elbow drove into his solar plexus. He grunted, stumbled. My pommel cracked against his jaw before he could recover.
Gorlim staggered. Blood from his split lip.
The crowd gasped.
"Dirty fighting," he spat.
"Effective fighting." I circled left, forcing him to turn toward his weaker side. "You wanted strength? This is strength. Surviving when you shouldn't. Winning when you can't."
He roared and charged.
The next exchange was brutal.
Gorlim abandoned technique, driven by wounded pride. His strikes came wild, powerful, fast. I couldn't block them all.
A cut opened my arm. Another grazed my hip. Each hit cost me—blood, strength, time.
But anger made him sloppy.
His overhead swing was telegraphed. I sidestepped. His blade buried itself in the dirt.
My kick caught his knee. He buckled.
Before he could rise, my sword was at his throat.
The world narrowed to that moment.
Gorlim knelt in the circle, blood streaming from his mouth, my blade pressing dimples into his skin. His eyes held fury, fear, and something else—resignation. He expected death.
Kill him. End the threat. Eliminate the rival.
The thought came from somewhere cold and practical. The part of me that calculated risks, weighed costs, optimized outcomes.
Around us, the crowd held its breath. Gorlim's twelve men gripped their weapons, ready to fight if their leader fell.
Kill him, and fight twelve armed warriors with a cracked rib and no backup.
Spare him, and...
"You're too valuable to waste."
My voice surprised me. Steadier than I felt.
"Serve, or leave. Choose."
Gorlim stared up at me. The resignation in his eyes shifted—confusion, then calculation, then something that might have been respect.
"You could have killed me."
"Yes."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because we're not enemies. We're two men who want the same thing—a kingdom that works. Fighting over scraps won't build one." I pulled my blade back, sheathed it with hands that wanted to shake. "I need fighters. You have experience. Stay, and help me build something that actually matters."
Long silence.
Then Gorlim lowered his head.
"I yield."
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: SOVEREIGNTY +10]
[RIVAL CONVERSION: GORLIM]
[LOYALTY STATUS: UNCERTAIN → WATCHING]
The crowd exhaled. Somewhere, someone cheered. The tension broke like a fever.
I offered Gorlim my hand. After a moment, he took it.
[MEDICAL TENT — LATER]
"You're an idiot."
Thorwen's voice carried absolute conviction as she examined my ribs. The wrapping had come loose during the fight. The bone had shifted.
"I won."
"You re-cracked the rib. Minimum four weeks healing now. Possibly longer." She rewrapped the bandages with more force than necessary. "What part of 'no fighting' was unclear?"
"The part where someone challenged me to single combat."
"You could have refused."
"And lost the settlement."
She had no answer for that. Instead, she pulled the bandage tight enough to make me grunt.
"Half-duty for a month. No combat. No heavy lifting. No..." She gestured vaguely. "Whatever you call what you did out there."
"Surviving?"
"Stupidity." But something softened in her expression. "The people are saying you showed mercy. That you're different from other lords they've known."
"Am I?"
"I don't know. Most lords I've known are dead." She finished the wrapping and stepped back. "But you're not dead yet. Try to keep it that way."
Outside, Gorlim was speaking with his men.
I watched from the tent entrance as he gestured, explained, answered questions. One by one, his fighters nodded. Accepted. Whatever he'd told them, it had worked.
When he saw me, he walked over. His jaw was swelling from my pommel strike.
"My men will stay."
"All of them?"
"All twelve. They follow me, and I've decided to follow you." He met my eyes. "For now."
"That's honest."
"It's practical. You could have killed me. You didn't. That means you're either weak—which you're not, given how you fight—or you're smart enough to value allies over enemies."
"And which do you think?"
"I think I'll find out." He extended his hand. "Gorlim. Militia captain, if you'll have me."
I shook it. "Welcome to Amon Hen-dîr, Captain."
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