The Knights' Duel

Trigger Warning: Death, Blood

In three minutes, one of these two men would die. To the dot.

The two men in question were not duelists, but still, they dueled.

They were not held to standard weapons, nor made to stand at paces, or set to the hand drop of an attending witness. Still, they dueled.

Gaston had never seen such a display. He had never seen such brutality. In fact, he could not believe that it had even happened. So he, like many others of their encampment, sat stunned as these two tore at each other as if they were the fiercest of bears.

Moments before, there had been a dispute regarding the captured men between the two figures. Their army had come across a gathering of bandits who had taken over the town in the out-lands of Bohemia; a miserable place called Orlova, which had seen butchery and vandalism like so many others in these flailing years.

On one side of the argument was his serving commander and General: Hans Zizka, a supposed nephew of the legendary general who had never seen defeat. He was tall, imposing, and swung his hammer like a horse kicked, always with a small crossbow tucked near his waistline for the direst of moments. He was a master of defensive warfare despite his often lax personal habits, refusing heavier armor in favor of light, less uncomfortable jerkins. Right now, he was bellowing as the other man's elbow met his throat.

The other man, a Frenchman of large build and taut, tensely wound muscles, was Giles of Corsica. He was not a legend per say; yet his skill in combat had been proven time and time again on the roads they had traveled together. He was a hired mercenary, but the nature of his character was not defined by golden promises. Not one bit.

In that heavy armor that must've weighed as much as a man, he swung his zweihander in a downward chop so hard that it split the rock below Hans' feet. Hans stepped forward to close the distance, yet Giles was a step ahead, pulling back in a sweep that sent his legs over and rolling in the grass, letting the two-handed weapon be free for another devastating blow.

He rolled back up to his knees, and in a single motion, drew the hand crossbow. The knight needed to die. Now.

Yet it was not to be! For as he positioned his hand with the thrust of the weapon, Giles tensed hard. Gaston was in awe as his sword's cross guard flipped up in a heavy parry. The twang sounded, and a great shattering spark flew through the air; pinging so loud it was akin to music. Shrapnel from the disintegrated bolt peppered the air, and men swore as they caught some of it in their faces and hands.

Hans sat on his knees, stock still in shock of the maneuver. Giles dropped his sword and shook his hands, swearing hard. The ringing it caused had shattered his wrist.

With unexpected advantage rather than victory, Hans picked up his hammer and charged, bellowing. Giles ducked, the very cone of his helm sparking as the hard edge of the cudgel head glanced off it. He then dove and tackled the man, wrestling him to the ground.

Some men had snapped free of their stupors. Some of their comrades yelled to stop the madness, but they were not swayed. In fact, Gaston was entirely unsure if they even heard their shouts. This struggle, this kind of rapturous violence was too terrible to interfere with, and the other men knew it. To try and hold them back from one another would mean their own deaths. Perhaps by complete accident! So instead of directly confronting them, they threw stones, but with the two so intensely locked together that there was no way to aim properly.

Gaston did not throw rocks, for he was conflicted. His commanding officer was indeed Hans, but as half-french himself, and a man Giles had saved on multiple occasions, he did not wish to watch him die. He sat, still as a stone as the two brought free fists down on spots that they could reach.

One would think Giles, being the most armored of the two, had considerable advantage in a contest of pure strength. This is untrue, as the extra weight upon his body caused him significant difficulty in moving, and Hans was able to place him in an arm bar so tight that it hurt to merely view.

Yet.

Giles, upon being locked into place, continued to fight, his neck standing out so hard that it resembled tree roots in a storm. The other men stepped back a pace, as if watching a grim ritual or execution. Hans, below began to struggle, his own frame tightening as-

An excruciating sound hit Gaston's ears. It was a sound he knew, but scarcely believed had happened. Giles had purposefully flexed his arm, knowing that it would snap. Yet still he was by some dark miracle, lifting Hans free of himself through sheer muscle alone. He roared like a madman, then dropped his arm with Hans attached down like a hammer itself, and with a great rush of breath escaping, he was free of the opponents' grip.

Hans, for his part, had stood up quicker. But the two were already winded . There was a difference in that Giles was now horribly injured, but the injuries themselves seemed to matter little in what would surely be the final exchange.

Any hope of stopping this fight ended as they saw the look in Giles of Corsica's eyes. The adrenal fury there was so intense that they were unsheathing weapons in fear of it. Hans was not afraid though, he was calm, and ready. He picked up his hammer once more as Giles hefted his greatsword over his good shoulder.

It was decided before either moved. They still did of course, charging, Giles in a low rush, Hans high, twirling the hammer in a deadly arc. He bellowed, bringing the hammer down, just as Giles chopped again, using the momentum to carry him through.

Hans weaved to the side, drawing loose his dagger. He aimed for the visor of Giles helm, intent on breaching his brain through his sea-green eyes. Giles moved to avoid, yet he was trapped, unable to dodge, unable to-

On the 180th second after their fight began, a crossbow bolt shot out from the woods adjoining their camp, piercing Hans Zizka through his windpipe and shattering the vertebrae, killing the man instantly. Giles howled in shock and pain; the dagger had carved across his left eye before falling limp from the man's grasp. Then he turned, still gripping his zweihander with apocalyptic rage.

In the treeline, bandits emerged. The others of the troupe they had captured, and the men that Giles had ultimately asked for Hans to spare of ignoble battlefield execution. The refusal and later argument leading to the duel had given the ambush ample time to prepare, and men died as the marauders fell upon them.

Yet. They had perhaps chosen the worst possible instant to do so, for even with his arm and eye missing, Giles of Corsica was possessed of a strength so ferocious that it defied God. Gaston was sure that this man was either the work of the devil, or simply the most terribly strong man alive, for he tore through the ranks of the enemy like a farmer cut wheat.

When all was said and done, two score combined lay dead, the majority done in by Giles' mad swinging. An arrow lay buried in his already wounded shoulder, yet it mattered not.

He stood there, imperious as a rhino who stood to survey his prairie. The bandits, upon having their numbers halved, once again surrendered.

Gaston could not help himself, and with his buckler raised, posed a question to the man. "Should we still spare them camarade?"

Giles turned to stare at him. "Yes. But only once we bury and honor Sir Hans. He had me there, if not for these men." He nodded. "Though we must still take them as prisoners, to be tasked with rebuilding all they have destroyed." He dropped the zweihander, letting it clatter to the stone below.

"I must do this. I owe them my life now." He shrugged, and the tent nearby collapsed into flame, his eyes of green molten in the foggy air. Reflecting the anger, and the fear, and replaying those 180 seconds, over, and over, and over. Forever.