The Chosen’s Champion

“That’s not how it works I’m afraid,” the mercenary sergeant drawled, “First you have to demonstrate that you’re worth the High Commander’s time, then you get to challenge him. Not a moment before.”

Broken Sword scowled at the woman, and Matthew was impressed that she only averted her gaze. Once the rain abated, Matthew had been able to get a good look at him and he had been even more frightening than Matthew had imagined. He was large, but not as inhumanly large as Matthew had thought, for it had turned out that he was wearing armour. His mail was twisted and black with tar, a sign of too much time spent on the road, and too little money. Why he wore his armour on the march Matthew could not say, though he had a sneaking suspicion Broken Sword had simply forgotten to take it off. Even without the armour enhancing his bulk he looked strong enough to rival a horse, ox, and mule all working in tandem.

His hair was as black as his armour and as wild as a storm. His beard was much the same except for a peppering of grey and several bare patches where scars marred his face. One scar twisted his lips into a snarl and another had removed half of his left eyebrow. A dozen others, large and small crisscrossed his face, giving it the appearance of old leather. Nestled amongst these scars were his eyes, and they were his most appalling feature of all. Like two holes sunken into his face, they were as dark and unforgiving as Dread’s own banner.

“And how do I show the High Commander that I am worthy of his notice? Do I kill you?”

The sergeant snorted, trying to regain some of her bluster, “That’d get his notice about as fast as swatting a fly. No, you fight one of his champions. He has about a hundred, toughest soldiers you ever seen, saving the High Commander, o’ course.”

“Then take me to one of these champions so I can cut off his or her head and get on with it.”

She scowled, “I don’t know if—”

All of a sudden there was a bag flying toward the woman. She caught it and was rewarded with the rustle of coins. The sergeant’s demeanor suddenly changed. She smiled at Broken Sword, “With me.”

Broken Sword followed. Matthew, unsure what to do, lagged behind with Stillow, who was taking a great interest in the mercenaries going about their daily chores. Matthew watched as the philosopher walked over to one young mercenary relaxing on a bench, “Excuse me ma’am, you are of some rank yes? The sword on your tunic drew my eye.”

“Not quite. Means I’m a veteran. Seen one battle.”

“I see. I was wondering if you could illuminate me on the nature of your establishment. Surely the experience lost when an aspiring leader kills one of your commanders makes the whole enterprise a travesty.”

“Only the strongest ought to rule. That way they’ll be followed. We never break, never give ground, ’cause we know our leader is going to beat them for us, you see?”

“So you value morale over sound tactical reasoning? Most peculiar. Then again, so did the squirrels I kept. They grew bold in their attempts to kill the dog, but never tried anything effective. Only ever rushed him en masse. Had I been one of the squirrels, I would have chewed his throat out whilst he slept. Stealthily as well, none of that chee chee chee business,” Stillow sat by the veteran, “I would have made a fine squirrel.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

She slid a ways down the bench away from him.

“We have tacticians, they’re just not our leaders.”

“Really? You consider the wise unfit to lead? Pha, that’s ever been the case. When humanity learns otherwise, then we will rule the lands.”

“Who rules it now if not humans?”

Stillow smiled at her so hard one of his eyes rolled backwards and the other started doing circles, “Rats! Haven’t you seen them? They’re everywhere. They don’t have to work. They take the food from our hands and climb the little ladders we fashion for them to reach our stores. Lashing those twigs together is hard, but they are indeed our masters, so what can be done?”

The veteran edged further away and began searching her waist for her knife.

“Tell me veteran. Do you know of Stalwart?”

“The ancient king? Yes… Only a few legends though,” she said.

“Allow me to teach you a few more. Stalwart was a leader. People followed him with fanaticism, his enemies often dropped swords and joined him, running back to pick up their swords so they’d actually be useful to him, then striding quickly back to their new position in his army, mindful not to run because, well you know what they say about running with swords— Aye, Stalwart’s soldiers were devoted to him.”

“Are you trying to draw a parallel between the High Commander and King Stalwart?”

“Nay! I am drawing a perpendicular. Stalwart was, by all contemporary accounts, an absolute buffoon with the sword. He didn’t even know which end to hold half the time! That’s why they called him Stalwart Halfhand.”

The mercenary frowned, tightening her fingers on her hilt, “What do you want? Why do you disparage Stalwart’s name? By all accounts he was a great warrior. The Chosen is based upon his example!”

Matthew decided it was high time to intervene. He grabbed Stillow under the arms and lifted him from the bench, “Come on Stillow, we don’t want to miss the fight.”

Stillow trotted happily along behind Matthew, blissfully unaware, as always, as to how close he had been to getting stabbed.

A circle had already been cleared in the center of the camp. The champion, a whitehaired man wearing a red coat of plates over his hauberk, stood in front of Broken Sword, longsword held high. Broken Sword, with his black armour, black hair, and a grin the colour of bone, mirrored the champion’s pose. There was a shout, and the two men were in motion. Four clashes sounded as the blades struck one another, and then the champion was on the ground.

Matthew’s eyes hadn’t been able to follow the exchange. A large mercenary next to him leaned over, “First fight?”

Matthew nodded.

“It can be hard to follow if you don’t know what to look for. Strike on the shoulder. His sword arm is useless.”

Matthew now noticed the champion was unable to use his arm to help himself as he struggled to rise. Instead of going for the killing blow, however, Broken Sword stood back, “Have I won?”

The champion nodded, fear in his eyes. A roar went up from The Chosen. A healer rushed to the former champion’s side and checked the wound. He signaled two of The Chosen who came forward. Together the three men bore the former champion away to a white tent with a black cross on either side of the flaps.

Broken Sword came over to Matthew.

“That’s it?” Matthew asked.

Broken Sword twisted his lips into an even greater snarl. It took Matthew a moment to realize he was grinning, “Before I was Broken Sword, I was one of the finest swords in any dom and that was half a century ago. Still, I’ll admit I wasn’t entirely sure about that fight. Had no idea how good these Chosen were. Queen Talah will be pleased.”

“What’s Queen Talah have to do with anything?”

Broken Sword’s face split into another smile, “She’s planning for war and I may have promised her that I had an army.”

Matthew goggled at him, “You lied to a queen?”

“If I fail against the leader of The Chosen, I’ll be dead, so there’ll not be much to worry about. If I succeed, I’ll have an army and I’ll meet with her as planned. Besides,” he chuckled, “she said she could pay me.”