The Honorable Battle of the Barbarians

Everard raced through the dense forest, his armor clanking loud enough for both armies to hear. He paused for a moment, raising his hands as far above his head as his bulky shoulder plates would allow, catching his breath. His metal chest plate gleamed in the dappled sunlight.

A twig snapped. Everard spun toward the sound, the arrow leaving his bow before the foe could step fully into the clearing. He fell with a garbled “for king and country…” 

Everard snorted. “The wrong king and country. Obviously.” 

Everard reassessed his armor. If he was going to infiltrate the barbarian army, he couldn’t exactly approach them dressed like this. He wrestled himself out of the heavy, obnoxious metal suit and pulled the thick leather chest plate and helmet from the dead man. Everard shook out his arms and shoulders in the new armor. 

“These disgusting barbarians might be on to something,” he murmured. He set off again just below a stallion’s pace, his movements blessedly silent. A figure darted between the trees ahead. Everard slowed and tried to adopt the clumsy walk of the barbarians. 

“Hello there!” He called in a low and growly voice. 

Everard waited. Quick as a frightened squirrel, a leather-helmeted head appeared and disappeared. 

“Don’t worry, my… uh… brother. I am no foe.” Everard growled, stepping toward the tree where the head had appeared. 

The enemy warrior stepped out, relief in his weak shoulders. He paused, cocking an eyebrow at Everard. “Why are you walking like that? And are you ill? You must tell me now if you are smitten with the plague!” 

Everard straightened. The barbarian walked gracefully, and his voice affected no lilt or accent. Everard cleared his throat. 

“Ahem. No plague, forgive me, I must have swallowed a bug. And there was… a rock in my shoe.”

The man’s nose wrinkled. “Right. What is your name?”

Everard couldn’t think of a false name. Why hadn’t he prepared a false name?

“Everard.” 

The barbarian stifled a laugh. 

“What?” Everard said, his hand reaching for his broadsword. “Why do you laugh at my name? It is a noble name, given to me by my father, to whom I must prove myself in this great conflict.”

“It’s quite a mouthful, isn’t it? A bit too many ‘rr’s for my taste.”

Everard imagined removing the head of this barbarian, but he resisted. Perhaps he could glean the location of the enemy army from this simpleton. 

“What is your name, then? If mine is so amusing.”

“Florian,” he said proudly. Everard did not conceal his deep, hearty laugh. 

“Florian? Quite floral. Very intimidating.”

At this, Florian reached for his own broadsword. “It is a reference to my magnificent golden hair. It was also given to me by my father, to whom I must prove myself in this great conflict.” Florian tossed his shoulders back. “I have been chosen to infiltrate the enemy camp.”

Everard drew his sword. “I’m afraid I cannot allow that. For I have been chosen to infiltrate the enemy camp.”

Florian’s eyebrows lowered and his shoulders slumped. “Have you? I thought I was the only one. I knew my father didn’t believe I could do it.”

Everard felt a shard of sympathy for him. There had been a not insignificant glint of mocking in his own father’s eyes when he had sent Everard on this mission. Nevertheless, he could not be distracted. 

“I am afraid you misunderstand me,” Everard said, whipping the leather helmet from his head, and shaking out his own magnificent red hair. 

Florian gasped. “A barbarian! How dare you! En garde!” He leaped toward Everard, sword in hand, but Everard easily deflected the blow. 

“I am not the barbarian! You are!” Everard swung at Florian’s sword arm, a move for which he was renowned, but Florian spun away from the attack. They shuffled forward and backward, dodging and deflecting. 

“You are quite skilled.” Everard allowed, lunging for a killing blow. 

“I know. My father trained me.” Florian said, knocking away Everard’s sword. 

“My father made me sleep with the swine each time I lost. I have not slept in pig slop in quite some time.” The clang of metal striking metal rang through the trees. 

“My father locked me in the dungeon each time I lost. No light entered there, and my only companions and food were the rats. It has been quite some time since I have seen the darkness.” 

Everard stepped back, his confusion and repulsion almost distracting him from a blow that would have taken his leg. 

“You ate rats? Raw? And what about the darkness of night? Or the darkness when you close your eyes?” He parried Florian’s flustered blows.

“It does not matter! I must complete this quest! If I fail, my father will disown me. I will have nothing.” Florian’s admittedly magnificent golden hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. 

“But if I do not complete my quest, my father will appoint me the dung shoveler of the kingdom!” Everard’s voice was embarrassingly desperate. 

Florian faltered but deflected Everard’s arm-severing swing.

“That’s awful. Truly. In that case, you ought to let me slay you, so you may at least have an honorable death.” Florian lunged for Everard at the same time Everard spun and lunged at him. They froze, their swords each resting at the side of the other’s neck. The only sound in the forest was their harried breathing. 

“We have bested each other,” Everard finally admitted. “Much to my shame.”

“More like to my shame.” Florian countered. Neither lowered their weapon. 

Everard sighed. “I’m sorry you have a shit father too. And a shit name.”

“I offer the same condolences to you.”

“And I offer a truce, being the magnanimous and honorable warrior that I am. I left a suit of armor fifty paces back. You may take it. My noble army will kill you on sight without it.”

Florian narrowed his eyes. “And I offer you a truce, being the merciful and benevolent warrior that I am. I will take your armor and agree not to behead you this very moment if you agree to write to me when you reach my eminent army.”

Everard and Florian lowered their swords. 

“We are agreed. I will send my regards,” Everard said. “Best of luck to you.”

Florian nodded. “Godspeed.” 

They stood for another uncomfortable moment, then Florian cleared his throat and they both set off, sprinting in opposite directions.