The Hand of the Princess

[Wylder Treejumper]

Fenric didn't take the bait. A quick flick of the wrist, and Captic's blade clicked off his sword's crossguard. Fenric silently reevaluated his opponent. Captic was no pushover; he meant what he said. "Come now, Count, can't do any better than that?" he said, hoping to incite Captic to anger. The Count had a tremendous temper, as he had seen previously. Anger causes beasts make mistakes. If Captic ever wanted to do well in battle, he'd better learn to cool it.

Going with his new strategy, Fenric eschewed great blows, simply flickering in, out, and around Captic's guard, attempting small pricks here and there just to rouse the Count's blood. Most were skillfully rebuffed, but he got in a couple scores near the edges of the Count's guard.

[LT Sandpaw]

His shoulder stinging from a recent score from Fenric the count ground his teeth together, frustrated at his lack of success. The combined pressure of both the insult and the attacks brought his self control to breaking point. Snarling he leapt forward in a wild swing leaving himself wide open. Unhesitant Fenric took the easy opening bringing his blade forward smashing it against Captic's helm before twisting away to parry the oncoming saber.

His ears ringing, and his ego destroyed Captic made an ungainly retreat, only just clinging to his sword. Once he was a safe distance away he straightened up breathing hard. "Well fought, sir." He puffed slipping a paw into his helm he dabbed at the fresh bruise that was forming. "Perhaps his Majesty could hire you as a rug beater, your swings are phenomenal. And you have little need for honor."

Captic walked slowly to the sidelines taking a wet rag from Belvonal and wiping the sweat from his eyes. He turned to face Fenric throwing the rag over his shoulder. "Shall we continue sir? Or would you like to yield yet?"

[Wylder Treejumper]

Fenric bowed deeply to the Count. "Whenever you are ready, milord." He turned towards the Royal Box and doffed his helm towards the King and Princess. Leana winked at him. Surprised, he smiled and lowered his visor.

Turning back to the Count he said, "Indeed, I have no doubt that my common blood makes me ineligible for honor. And yet, I think, were we to test the claim," he looked pointedly at Captic's shoulder, "We should find your blood no bluer than mine."

[LT Sandpaw]

 
Captic saw the wink as well and his gut twitched involuntarily. He simply couldn't understand how such a beautiful and smart squirrel like Leana could be so infatuated with a commoner. A knight, and skilled fighter for sure, but there wasn't a drop of noble blood in his body. By all rights any squirrel maid would fall for him, his handsome looks, and position guaranteed it. So what did Leana see that Captic was missing?

Setting his teeth he readied his saber advancing towards Fenric, steadfastly determined not to let his temper control him again. "I don't doubt your capability knight, but you will never understand something you will never have, nor you've ever possessed."

Having decided not to compete with Fenric's speed or strength Captic decided to outthink the knight,  by throwing himself forward in a seemingly wild attack. Hoping to push the knight back he pressed on until they were a few mere paw steps away from the edge. Tail streaming behind him the count came in low and fast slashing his blade long ways towards Fenric's footpaws designed to force his opponent back over the marked edge causing him to become trapped by the press of spectators.

[Wylder Treejumper]

Taken aback, Fenric backpedaled towards the edge of the arena as he parried and countered the strong assault. However, he guessed Captic's intention to drive him into the spectators, and started to circle off the the left, around the Count's guard. Before he cover any real ground, however, the Count slashed low. Not deigning to parry the blow, he hopped over the blade and swung left, recovering his guard and putting Captic closer to the edge. Parrying a blow, he thrust sharply towards the Count's waist.

[LT Sandpaw]

Shying away from Fenric's sword Captic discovered he could only avoid so much of the blade. A metallic click sounded and the sword broke through armor and flesh. A few small blood specks spattered across the cobblestones, however the count hardly noticed the small wound. Keeping his eyes on Fenric he tried to work away around the problem he now found himself in.

Pure ferocity had drained his energy reserves leaving his back to the spectators, and his front to a knight who seemed to have no end to his strength. Captic was stuck in a horrible situation. He could not match Fenric in speed, or skill, and savage attacks seemed to have little affect.

Fear starting to creep into his mind Captic readied himself. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Please yield." He whispered just loud enough for Fenric to hear. "I don't want to do this."

[Wylder Treejumper]

Fenric grunted as their swords locked together. The duel had taken its toll on him; he was beginning to tire- but he suspected the Count was worse off.

"Please yield." He whispered just loud enough for Fenric to hear. "I don't want to do this."

"Never," he growled, his face just inches away from Captic's as they struggled with crossed blades. "This duel of honor will be finished, one way or the other." He shoved Captic and jumped back, settling deeper into his guard. He began prowling to the left, circling around Count Flint's swordpaw. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Princess watching anxiously, and the Count's friend, Belvonal, looking more anxious yet. Momentarily distracted, his guard dropped slightly and he came off bleeding from a vicious scratch on his off arm.

Regaining his focus, he leapt towards the Count and, with a quick feint towards the face, slashed at his upper legs.

[LT Sandpaw]

Not falling for the feint Captic's sword flashed in a desperate parry only just knocking away the seeking blade. Grinding his teeth together the squirrel held his ground putting every ounce of speed and strength into his blows. "I was afraid you would say that." He snarled, every movement sent small speckles of blood onto the cobblestones, he had to hurry before he lost too much blood. "So lets finish this then."

Even in Captic's mind desperate acts were foolish, yet he had no other choice. Yelling the war cry of Southsward he suddenly launched forward grabbing hold of Fenric's sword paw. He felt the blade smash against his helmet, but with nowhere near the force required to do serious damage. Struggling to keep Fenric's sword out of play Captic swung his own sword, trying to slam the pommel into Fenric's head, while kneeing his opponent in the stomach.

[Wylder Treejumper]

Taken aback, Fenric grunted in surprise. With his off paw, he swept away Captic's sword and grabbed his wrist- but not before gashing his paw on the blade. The Count's knee drove into his stomach, and he felt his breath being driven from him. Still, he held tight to Captic's wrist, not daring for an instant to loosen his grip. Gasping for breath, he straightened up and brought his full strength to bear on the Count.

They both struggled futilely in close quarters, neither strong enough to overpower the other and pressed too close to make any effective moves. "Now would be a good time for a break, milord," he managed, as he attempted to wrestle his sword out of the Count's grip. "Of course," he grunted as he blocked Captic's knee again with one of his own, "I'll continue as long as you will."

[LT Sandpaw]

Determined to ride out his advantage Captic struggled in vain, his arms locked in a rash attempted to overpower Fenric. They grunted and strained neither was able to deliver a blow that carried any real damage behind it. Clenching his jaw the count jerked his head hardly able to see past the lines of sweat the clouded his vision. There was no victory to be gained struggling on until one fell from exhaustion. And Captic didn't known whether his own waning strength would outlast Fenric's.

"Quarter it is then knight," He grunted dryly, they remained in their locked stance for a few seconds more. "Now, swords away." They broke off mutually and Captic took several paces back ready to fight should their duel resume. Seeing that Fenric didn't mean to continue he turned towards Belvonal his sword dragging behind him.

[Wylder Treejumper]

Fenric sheathed his sword and walked back to one of the benches. He drew a dipper of water from a bucket, then sat down, cut off a piece of his tunic with a knife and wound it around the wounds on his off arm, bandaging it tightly. He inspected himself, and, finding no other wounds to treat, drew his sword and polished it carefully, wiping away the blood and dust that had collected on his blade until it shone in the mid-morning sun. Once that was finished, he did a quick once-over on his armor, wiping the sweat from the inside of his helmet, polished the breastplate, and inspected the broken chain links on his sleeve. He thought back to something his old instructor had once told him, "Appearance is half the battle. If you look and act like you've already won, you probably have."

Besides, this was the only set of armor he had. Count Flint might be able to replace his, but this was it. It had served him well, and it always helped to have your equipment in good order.

He stood up and saluted the royal box, one royal in particular, then glanced over to see if the Count was ready yet.

[LT Sandpaw]

The much needed rest did little to build Captic's confidence for the upcoming bout. Resting on one knee while a squire wiped sweat from his eyes, the squirrel count mulled over what had gone right over the course of their fight. Unfortunately not much had gone right. In fact, it seemed Captic's only advantage was being unpredictable, and the more they had fought the less unpredictable he had become.

Drinking lightly from a proffered dipper of water the count took his freshly polished helmet stolidly from Belvonal. The dent now embedded in the metal could not be fixed on such short notice, and neither could the torn chainmail. But the blood had been washed away, and the wounds cleaned and bandaged. Fitting the helm over his tufted ears the count sighed strongly regretting his past decisions.

"What say you Belvon? What tactic should I follow?" The loyal knight considered Count Captic Flint for a moment. Then in his matter of fact voice.

"Sir, with the utmost respect, I suggest you apologize and give up Leana as a lost cause." Drawing his sword, claws clenched tight around its hilt. Captic's knuckles growing white from the prolonged stress. He hated himself for even considering such an action, and what a blow to his prestige. The name Flint would be mocked, his son's sons would be seen as pathetic excuses for nobles. Simply because he gave in on a fight he couldn't win.

"To a commoner?"

"I too am a commoner, m'lord." Belvonal reminded Captic before the miffed Count could go on. "Do what you believe is right." Grimacing at his friend's solution, and unhelpful encouragement Captic stepped back into the ring just as Fenric was saluting the royals. Copying the knight's salute he took up the ready stance, still stuck in limbo between giving up the fight, or battling till the bitter end.

[Wylder Treejumper]

Fenric noticed his opponent's slight reticence, but misunderstood it. It looks like this will be my fight to begin, he thought. Shrugging slightly to himself, he went the easy way, still feeling the pain in his left arm: a slight tap flicking the Count's sword to the left, and they were back into the thick of it. Parrying the Count's riposte, he replied with a sharp slash, and so it went. The blood soaked through his bandage through his bandage and dripped down his arm, but he paid it no notice. Their swords flickered, first left, then right. Up, then down. But the Count's wounds were telling, and he looked haggard. Step by step, Fenric forced him back, until they were making a slow circuit of the ring.


Captic was a fool. Like all noble beasts, he thought of nothing but himself and his pretended honor. What had he ever done that was truly noble? He played a good game, struck a nice figure, commanded ably and angrily, and oppressed those he considered beneath him. Nothing compared to the northern stock Fenric's family was from. Up north, everybeast was equal, and your worth was in your work.


Suddenly, lost in his reverie of disdain, Fenric misstepped. His paw came down on a rock, and he turned his ankle hard. With a yelp, he fell to the side on one knee. A gasp went up from the spectators. Captic, who was hard pressed just a moment before, gave a fierce grin and jumped forward to press his advantage.


Well, I've done it now, he thought grimly.

[LT Sandpaw]

  He had been dueling in a halfhearted manner, constantly defending and retreating with little incentive or opportunity to strike out himself. Count Captic, fighting a lost battle as he was, resided himself to staying alive until a fatal error occurred and Fenric's blade found his heart. He had lost all motivation to strive for victory. Every movement, every pawstep, every swing of the blade only signaled closer the ever looming inevitability of death.

What have I become? He wondered, dodging away from a slash. A fool to be slain by his own stupidity? Or a coward to forsake my honor when I cannot abide the threat of death? Captic faltered, righting himself just in time to parry Fenric's sword, the last vestige of desire shattering into a thousand pieces. His fate seemed sealed.

Then, as fortune would have it Fenric stumbled, his sword disengaging and his knee striking the ground. The desperation in Captic's eyes turned to hope and he sprang forward, saber clutched in both paws, a grin on his lips, blade angled for a gap in Fenric's armor.

"NO!"

A desperate, feminine plea resounded in Captic's ears and he swerved his attack, sending his jewel adorned hilt instead of the razor blade crashing towards his opponent's helm, throwing himself off balance in the process.

[Wylder Treejumper]

The minute he felt the rock under his paw, Sir Fenric Galante knew he was only an instant away from his death. Time seemed to slow down as he felt his ankle turn, and he toppled sideways. Briefly, his thoughts flashed to Leahna. Was it only yesterday that he had been considering marriage to a princess? And now, he was defending it with his life. Really, he was defending her with his life, and this duel was a referendum on whether she had the right to break the ancient chains which bound the kingdom to its traditions. Chains which also held the peasantry and the nobility-- His knee struck the ground, and he yanked himself from his thoughts. A combat veteran, he knew the dangers of getting wrapped up in his own head.

His helmet was knocked slightly ajar by the impact, but he saw the flash of sunlight on the Count's blade as it arced towards his face. In a last, desperate measure, he gripped the hilt of his sword with both paws and lashed out towards the glinting steel with every ounce of strength he could muster. With a tremendous crash, blades collided, and dust flew up from the dry dueling ground. There was a sudden, collective intake of breath, and the spectators unconsciously held their breath as the dust began to settle. In the box, Leahna's paws gripped the edge of her seat so hard her claws dug furrows into the wood.

When they could see through the cloud, both duelers lay sprawled on the ground, blades wrenched from their paws: Fenric knocked off his knees by his tremendous parry and the resulting collision, and Count Captic jerked the opposite way by his sudden change of swing and the unexpected clash.

Fenric struggled to his paws. His left arm fur was coated in congealed and drying blood. Favoring his twisted footpaw ever so slightly, he walked over and picked up his blade. Halfheartedly, he moved his blade to ready position.