In a Furrow, On a Hill
THEY had reached an impasse. Even the air, I must admit, seemed in a mood to mock those men that afternoon. The wind would blow down from the north, cold though gentle, and set the trees and tufts of wildflowers into a soft swaying all along the hill.
“It hardly seems just,” said the swordsman at the south, “that you should have the wind at your back, while I must suffer it to be at my eyes.”
“Yes,” the other replied, lowering his sword. “T’is not proper. We most certainly have reached an impasse.”
Oh, the Nine, blessed though they be, care little for our worldly affairs!
If any adventurer should strike out east and a little north of Bleaker’s Way, crossing the Silver Road just north of our fair capitol, that eager soul would thus feast upon the sight of some of the steepest hills in all Cyrodiil. A humble village man such as myself must heave his way up their entire height, cursing his calves at such a simple exercise in exhaustion. Therein lay the dilemma of these two duellists: the steepness of the hills provided the comfort of seclusion so necessary in a duel, yet this same terrain proved to be a sorry expanse for duelling. The only available ground that was level and proper to their purpose was in a small furrow; a narrow rut of low grass running north to south along the edge of the ruins of Anga. If the north wind blew, which, by Akatosh, it was on that fair day, one man might turn an unnatural advantage upon the other.
Standing near to me (for I was not the only party present) were two other men there to witness the event, each for reasons of his own. One, a hot mouthed, suavely dressed printer was there to fill his Bravil paper with yet another sensational story. “The Argonians down there really eat these ‘honour dramas’ up,” he had spoke so proud. The other, a red-headed youth dressed in naught but an unadorned robe, the deep green of a novice of the arcane arts, kept his intentions quietly to himself.
“Shall we retire then, so as to wait for the wind to die?” asked the north-standing swordsman.
“I suppose we ought.”
The two men sheathed their swords, but neither relinquished his position. Even for honour’s sake, trust was not a thing to be trusted easily. The south-standing soldier eventually broke the stalemate by lifting his helmet, where revealed beneath was a handsome face, though slightly scarred, with emerald eyes and head of black hair. Were I not but a simple medicine man from out the village way, but perhaps a long-standing gambler or maybe a maid yearning for marriage, I suspect that his name would have flown instantly upon my lips. He sauntered past his opponent and settled on one of the ruined pillars nearby. The other swordsman clearly pondered doing the same.
Finding a pillar of his own would not have been difficult, that much was true. The stones of Anga were white with a bit of black tarnishing about them and lay scattered here and there around the forest at the crest of the hill. I confess to knowing nothing of the lore of the place, save that now it is dead and empty; its purpose having long been lost to the weather and the ivy tangled round it all. The wind, as it blew through the spaces of the stones, gave off a hollow calling.
When the other swordsman finally decided to sit and likewise lift his helmet, a sweating head of unmistakable auburn was revealed.
“Tell me true, sir,” said the Printer to the Youth. “You are none other than that swordsman’s relation, are you not?”
“Yes. It is so.”
Though it was evident that the Printer needed more news to pad his paper, the Youth sat contented, a grim expression speaking on his mouth’s behalf.
“Perhaps, then,” tried the Printer at another tack, “you might offer me the reasons behind these two coming to clash arms here today?”
“T’is an old feud, I fear.”
The Printer’s eyes enlivened as the romance of the whole affair intrigued him. “And for how many years has this feud been waged, then?”
“Too many to rightly know. Centuries, I suppose.”
“Oh, come again?”
“T’is a blood feud. We inherited it from our fathers, and they from theirs.”
The Printer smiled at what was turning out to be a fair tale. “Please, pardon my prying, but why has it persisted for so long a time?”
“I have often wondered the same.”
The wind lessened and the leaves and wildflowers along the hill returned to stillness. The two swordsmen waited a generous interval (this was not the first time the wind had spoiled this sport) before returning their helmets and marching out to their former positions in the furrow.
“Quickly,” the Printer cried. “What happened so many centuries ago to bring your two families to blows?”
The Youth spoke with his eyes upon the fighters, speaking more to himself than the Printer. “I have often wondered the same.”
The two duellists unsheathed their swords and, for the second time that day, the hills received the sound of steel. Neither man carried a shield—protection of that sort would only exhaust the process. Each was viciously aware of the stakes.
I confess, knots were bundling in my stomach as I watched those two men raise their swords in salute. Their eyes, though barely seen beneath the black slits of their helmets, stared stark and graven. This was not a clash of drunk passion, nor a settling of scores; to them it was duty, much as the meat must face the grinder. I found myself in a state of shivers.
“If not a soul can recall the reason behind this feud,” continued the Printer, “what in Tamriel are these two at arms for?”
“That one’s mother,” said the Youth pointing toward the swordsman at the south, “she tells him that he may not marry lest he humiliate or slay the enemy heir, who, by chance, is my brother. Though I am the elder of us two, my life has been consigned to magic, so I cannot inherit by the laws of my name. Thus my brother fights this day.”
“Truly, you look much younger than he!”
“My brother has seen some dark days.”
Silence settled among us while all Cyrodiil went still. Even the birds and crickets went mute as they do with the coming of the rains.
“Let us commence.”
The north swordsman raised his blade a little above his chest. The south set his weight upon his knees. They both risked an inch forward, a single step, before returning to a stare. Each was gauging the other, like lions plucking at one another’s manes. Several feet’s worth of distance remained between them. The south swordsman, now a viper in the low grass, widened his feet along the earth for better balance. The north countered by tightening his grip higher on the handle. Another uneasy stare ensued.
Suddenly the south swordsman sprang out of his stance, crying out and swinging in a single slash upwards. The north brought his blade down hard and the sound of meeting steel rang out around the trees. The north applied pressure, knowing that leverage was in his favour.
The south, seeing his disadvantage at once, drew his sword to the side, grinding it along the underside of the north’s blade, and soon freed it with a fine space to aim its tip into the north swordsman’s chink at the armpit. Each pressed his own advantage and remained oblivious to the intentions of the other; a vision twinkled in their eyes as each felt that he had bested the other. The north raised his blade for momentum. The south steadied for accuracy. In a second more, they both leapt to life. The south’s blade struck the mark first, his sword ploughing deep into the north swordsman’s side. The north however, by instinct and by sheer momentum, continued with his slash downward and buried his blade right into the neck of his opponent—a spew of gore more terrible than I had ever witnessed erupted from under that man’s helmet.
The Printer’s mouth fell open as he cried out.
I gripped my eyes in my hands and fought off of the urge to weep and vomit both at once.
Their bodies struck the earth, a mix of flesh and dead metal. The south swordsman was gone before he even hit the ground. The north lay with his lung punctured, his hand raised to the Heavens. It seemed as if he were trying to cry out, but the words were lost to a primitive gasping. Within time, he began to writhe in panic like an animal arrowed at hunt.
Shock held us rooted in our place. When one among us finally did brave motion, it was as if emerging from a stupor. The Youth started off down the hill, walking calmly, picking his way round the stones hidden in the high grass. His brother’s continued gasping and gurgling was piteous without compare. But what could either the Youth or I have done? The man’s lung was punctured, in through one side and out the other—well beyond the reach of my medicine and the Youth’s limited magery. He was to be dead within the minute.
“Is it done!” called the Printer in a rage, tears now upon his cheeks. “Is it over now that both the bloody heirs are dead in this wretched way? Is it done and over? Oh, by the Nine, let it be so!”
And I shall never forget the Youth’s reply. The wind had started again, howling through the hollows of the stones as he peered over his shoulder and said, “If you have to ask, sir, it most probably is not.”
END
