Hynes Family/Alois/The Journey/RP23
They stood facing each other across the courtyard, hands resting on the pommels of their swords, shields at their sides.
He felt right. The last few days he had been nervous, jittery, yet now that he stood there in plate and maille he felt calm and serene.
“You promised me a dance, Ser,” Alois said as he pulled the blade from the wooden and leather wrapped sheathe at his side, “and I plan to lead.”
The Noble only grunted, smirking arrogantly, “You’re going to die hard, just as I promised,” Morton said as he lowered the visor over his face, encasing his entire skull in steel.
Alois did the same, and warily they began, circling each other slowly. Alois struck first, plunging forward at a run, shield held at the ready. Morton began to pack peddle away as Alois drew back for the first strike, and when it came the tip of the blade scraped harmlessly over the solid oak of his shield, rattling the Noble and chipping the painted device of the Knight’s shield.
They broke, each taking a step back, cautiously measuring the other up, each planning their next move. Neither were fools. Both were master swordsmen, and haste was for amateurs.
Alois charged again, sword held high, roaring in anger. Morton didn’t give an inch. They met each other, blow for blow, and for the longest time all Alois could hear was the clash of steel on steel, the muscles of his shield-arm straining to hold Morton’s blows.
The fine steel of the Duellist’s blade buried itself into the solid wood of Alois shield, and for a moment he had an advantage. He aimed a hurried blow at the gap between shoulder and breastplate, but as he thrust for the weak-point Morton pulled free his sword, and Alois’ scraped harmlessly across the plate.
Morton reeled backwards, stunned and sore by the force of the blow, growling in anger. Setting his feet firm, he launched once again at Alois, thrusting the point towards his face. Alois knocked the blow away with the lip of his shield, then closed fast, smashing the shield hard against the Noble’s helm. Steel crunched and the swordsman reeled, but Alois didn’t give him a second of respite. He closed hard and fast, smashing the lip of the battered oak across side of the helm, over and over until the smooth rounded surface dented against his skull. Morton fell to a knee, his lungs straining for breath, and Alois stepped back.
“I don’t wish to bludgeon you to death, Ser,” he said as he sauntered a few steps away before once again taking up his stance.
“I’ll kill you,” Morton gasped.
Alois laughed. “You’ll have to try harder, then.”
Morton came in a rush, slashing at the younger swordsman with all his strength, Alois deftly blocking each blow, shuddering and wincing as the steel hammered the oak against his forearm. Wood cracked, chipped, and broke altogether as Morton’s powerful blows landed over and over.
I shouldn’t have taunted him
Finally, exhausted, the Noble slowed and Alois burst into his own offensive, parrying his opponent’s weak blows and battering him with his own slow, methodical slashes. Suddenly, he feinted low, and when Morton dropped his shield to knock the blade away from his armored legs, Alois smashed the lip of the shield across the visor of Morton’s helm, ripping the steel from its hinges. His leg’s failed him, and he went sprawling to the ground, the visor clattering on the cobblestone and exposing the pulpy mass that had once been the Duelist’s face.
Alois retreated again, putting his back to Morton to goad him on, slashing his sword through the air as he returned to his original position in the courtyard.
“Well,” Alois, back still to the man, said suddenly as he nonchalantly studied the battered edge of his sword, “Are you going to rise or shall I finish this now?”
The battered man grunted and, slowly, pushed himself to his feet once again. Alois waited until he had taken up his stance, then launched himself once more to the attack, barreling the man over onto his back with a full body blow and landing atop him. Alois grabbed him by the throat, holding him down, pinning Morton’s shield arm to the ground with his knee, as he raised the shield high above his head.
Morton screamed out in pain as Alois brought the shield hard down on the wrist of his sword hand over and over again, smashing his bones between oak and cobblestone. He heard bones crack and shatter with every solid blow as the man’s grip on his sword began to loosen, finally falling from numb fingertips to clatter across the cobblestone. Finally, Alois rose, and Morton was still screaming.
He retreated again, walking back to his position, listening to Morton whimper and moan as he stood with his back to him. “I can’t believe you threatened to shove a blade down my throat. If you ask, you will have your mercy. Of course, you won’t ever be much good at Tourney again. . .”
He turned just in time to catch the blow aimed at his head. Morton stood there, blade held in his left-hand, striking hard and fast, driving Alois backwards once again. His left eye was swollen shut, but Alois could see all the hate the man had for him shining in his right eye as he struck heavy blows over and over again, aiming to cleave Alois’ helm and bury the steel in his brain.
Alois battered blade gave suddenly, cracking down the middle, then breaking completely in half, as his opponent’s blade found its way through the gap between the breastplate, cut through the heavy links of maille and buried deep in his chest. He collapsed to his knee, could feel the sword inside him, grinding against the bone of his breastplate as searing pain shot through his entire body.
Putting his boot on Alois’ chest, Morton wrenched his blade free, the steel sliding out in a sudden spray of gore. It was Alois’ turn to scream as he felt his blood streaming from inside him.
Morton’s battered face peered down at him, his entire body heaving from strain and exhaustion. Without a word, he pulled off the Knight’s helm, raised the sword high above him and brought it down at Alois’ head.
Alois threw himself against Morton’s stomach, tumbling them both to the ground and knocking the sword from the Duelist’s hands. They grappled for a moment, both men weak from the battering they had taken, until finally Alois smashed a steel gauntlet into the Noble’s unprotected face. The bones of his nose crunched and his face pulped as he was knocked senseless to his back.
Alois climbed atop him once again, ignoring the taste of blood in his mouth, reaching in his boot for the Far-Eastern dagger Pate had kept sharpened to a fine edge. He placed the tip of the dagger underneath Morton’s chin.
“Yield!” he roared, stabbing the knife into Morton’s throat just deep enough to draw a rivulet of blood. Morton took a moment to take a deep breath of air, then spat a stream of bloody spittle across Alois’ face.
“Pity,” Alois said simply, pulling back and driving the blade with all his might through the Nobleman’s left eye, burying it hilt deep inside his skull. Morton twitched a moment, then lay still.
He heard footsteps and without turning knew it was Pate. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, stumbling away from the dead man before collapsing to a knee. Pate was at his side in a moment.
“I’ll get the brothers,” he said, his words hurried and full of fear, “My God, Ser, you’re bleeding!”
Alois grunted, trying his hardest to stay conscious for just a moment longer. “Pate, I want you to do something for me,” he said, jerking his head towards Morton’s body. “I want my dagger. Please.”
Pate nodded, moving away from his Master towards the corpse. Bending over, he grabbed the hilt of the dagger and pulled it free in a sudden spray of gore.
