“I believe the challengee gets to choose the weapons,” Tric says in response to Merriver’s demand for a duel. Really, though, he has no idea how this works.
“Usually it is lance followed by sword, but since you have neither…”
“It would be unfair of me to choose a bow, as you are perhaps not as well versed in that weapon as an elf. So let’s make this simple.” He holds up his hands. “Fists at dusk.”
“Make it noon. You have an hour to regain your composure.”
“Likewise,” Tric says brightly, excited at the prospect of the stories that will come of this brawl. He and Heppa remove themselves from Merriver’s hall, but they do not return to Terwaen’s home. Tric wishes to avoid his sister until after this matter is completely settled. The elves stroll around Dolydd for a while, and Tric’s good cheer begins to waver. “Merriver’s probably also good at punching, even though that’s not an ‘honorable’ activity. I bet she works out all the time.”
“She did look pretty strong,” Heppa agrees. “But I can heal all of it afterwards,” she assures him.
“If I knock her out, certainly I’d like you to bring her back up,” Tric jokes. He bounces on his feet and takes a swing at the air. “Get back up! I’m not done with you yet!” he says with a laugh. “I’ll make you redraw that map!” It makes more sense now, how the humans thought the Grey Woods was their domain, considering the casualness with which they include forests in Wesnoth’s borders.
“But she doesn’t have the authority,” Heppa points out. “That’s why they might be rebelling. Oh, I have a potion that will fortify you. Would you like it? I couldn’t sleep last night, so I brewed this while I was reading through the Lay of Gritta again. It did use up the last of my alchemy supplies; I’ll need to refresh those before long. Oh, we’ll be in South Tower soon. I can do it then. But I’ll have to find an alchemist who’s not Damal.” Heppa’s allegiance lies with Alric in that family squabble. She still needs to figure out how to approach delivering Lonfar’s message to him, but as usual, she pushes off that commitment until later. “Damal overcharges us, anyway.”
“Sure, I’ll drink it. This is going to be great. How many people get to duel Dame Merriver? Not many, I bet.” Tric has a snack, downs the potion, and does some stretches. Then he and Heppa return to Merriver’s compound. She meets them in the yard, thankfully not clad in platemail, just lightweight clothing like their own.
“I’ll just be over here with my poultice pouch,” Heppa says, giving the combatants space but sticking around to watch.
In the first round, Tric stays light on his feet, feinting multiple jabs. He is less agile than the typical elf and not as strong as most human fighters, but he makes up for it with cleverness. He fights bare-fisted—without his willow knuckle dusters—because he has no desire to lose his dad’s gift.
This is the strangest opponent Merriver has ever faced. The herald does not fight like a soldier or an orc or even an elf. In addition to that, being on the ground with someone in her face so much is a change of pace. Usually Merriver is high up on a horse, her foes at her feet. She starts the fight defensively, watching carefully and evaluating the style. When she finds an opening to exploit, she lands a few solid blows, one of which rocks Tric’s head back.
I can’t imagine what this would look like with lances, Heppa thinks as Tric and Merriver punch and block. Butterbell couldn’t take it.
Tric takes the hits, but he notes the specific stances that accompany them. “Oh, is that from the Dan’Tonk School of Boxing?” he quips, unable to resist making up stories. Although he has a black eye starting and it feels like his cheek is split, he remains in good spirits. Merriver’s fighting style is as foreign to him as his is to her, but he is starting to get a feel for the rhythm. They break apart for a moment, and he eyes her. She looks a bit winded, perhaps because she is used to her horse carrying her around all the time instead of fighting on foot. “I can take the knocks,” Tric says, as he bounces lightly on his feet. “I can do this all day. C’mon! I’ve seen barmaids hit harder than that,” he taunts, his voice carrying a piercing dissonance. Merriver shakes her head as though her ears are ringing and then rushes him. They tussle a bit more, this round more about grabs than strikes, and he jibes, “That’s from the Weldyn Wrestling Academy, isn’t it?”
Merriver is unable to force Tric to the ground, and when they separate again, her breath comes more raggedly than his. She is likely older than Tric is, and this match is tiring her. He might be able to slowly wear her down, but that is not Tric’s style. He walks a couple steps away from her, catching his own breath, and then does an abrupt about-face. He charges recklessly at her, leaping at the last moment and bringing his fist down right at her jaw, just as he did to Mal-Vektor. Like last time, there is a loud crack, only now it is from Tric’s wrist, not his knuckle dusters. His blow knocks Merriver to the ground, and he stumbles past her with the follow-through, shaking his injured hand and gasping. As she stares dazedly up at the sky, Tric tells her, “You know, I didn’t come here looking for a fight, but you gave one!” His lip is cracked, but his smile is huge. I dueled a horse lord and won! “And now you know that elves might look absurd at times, but we’re not as frail as we seem.”
Absurd? But I have otherworldly grace! Heppa jests in her head. She opens her poultice pouch and steps forward, ready to offer medical assistance.
“Well met!” Tric says cheerfully, offering his uninjured hand to Merriver. “Whatever you put your mind to and your body to, you really go at it. Phew!”
Merriver accepts his help and presses her lips together in a firm smile acknowledging his compliment. After she climbs to her feet, she says, “Our conflict is resolved. Under the Horse Clan dueling rules, I must surrender to you the weapon used in combat. And you do look like you could use a replacement.” She nods at the hand Tric is cradling. “But obviously that is not reasonable under these circumstances, so if it is all right with you, I will immediately ransom it back.”
What was her plan if she won? Heppa wonders. Humans have far too many customs that cost hands.
“You wish to ransom back your hand? Yes, you may, but for the price, I ask for something not for myself,” Tric tells Merriver. He has no interest in a bag of money; it is never about money for him, always about the story. And he sees the perfect way to end this one. “I think one of your knights needs a new sword. I would like you to provision Sir Anyc with one of your finest weapons.” Having lost the duel, Merriver agrees to this cost with no argument. “And he had no knowledge of what Heppa and I were aware of,” Tric adds to make sure Anyc does not get into any trouble for bringing them to Merriver’s doorstep. He does not, however, explain why Anyc needs a new sword. He sees no reason to inform Merriver of the topic of Sir Anyc’s recent duel.
Tric still does not know whether Merriver is sponsoring an insurrection, but she is not amassing an army to attack elves. He is in good spirits from finding out as much as he could—and winning the duel. He wishes her well in her endeavors and adds, “And should you require our assistance as friends, let us know.”
“I have medical skill, if either of you would like,” Heppa says, but Merriver declines medical aid and bids them both good day. Heppa leaves Merriver’s compound alongside Tric, not as cheerful as he is; she really would have liked to examine another human.