The forgotten path was as treacherous as the old maps suggested. The hundred Vexin knights, led by Damon, navigated steep, snow-choked passes and icy ravines. The biting wind howled like a hungry wolf, and the landscape was a desolate expanse of white and grey. Yet, they pressed on, their movements swift and silent, driven by the urgency of their mission.
Three weeks into their march, they reached the outskirts of the northern lord's territory. Instead of a heavily fortified castle, they found a sprawling encampment nestled in a valley, a surprisingly large force gathered with makeshift defenses. Lord Elric, the rebellious lord, clearly had the support of many in the northern marches.
Damon, concealed by a line of snow-dusted pines, surveyed the encampment. A direct assault would be bloody and costly, playing right into the king's hands. He needed a swifter, more decisive solution. He had taken Isolde's words to heart—this was not a war of brute force, but a game of political cunning.
He dismounted, drawing his longsword, its polished steel gleaming dully in the overcast light. He strode into the heart of the encampment, his movements drawing the immediate attention of the surprised northern soldiers. They were a rough-looking bunch, clad in furs and mismatched armor, but they were numerous.
"I am Damon Vexin," he called out, his voice echoing across the stunned silence of the camp. "Lord of the House of Vexin, sent by King Theron. Lord Elric, I challenge you to a duel!"
A murmur rippled through the assembled soldiers. A duel? It was an old custom, a way to settle disputes between nobles without unnecessary bloodshed. But it was also a bold move, a challenge to the authority of a lord who had declared himself independent.
After a tense moment, the flap of the large tent was thrown open, and a tall, burly man emerged. He was clad in thick furs and carried a heavy waraxe. His face was hard, weathered by the harsh northern climate.
"I am Elric," he bellowed, his voice carrying across the camp. "And I owe no fealty to your cruel king. But I will not refuse a challenge. If you wish to die on northern soil, I will gladly oblige you."
The two lords met in the open ground between the tents, a circle of wary northern soldiers forming around them. The air was thick with anticipation. Elric hefted his waraxe, its heavy head glinting menacingly. Damon held his longsword steady, its point aimed at the ground.
The fight began. Elric charged, his waraxe a blur of brutal power. Damon moved with a speed that belied his size, deflecting the heavy blows with his sword. Sparks flew as steel met steel. Elric relied on brute strength, each swing of his axe designed to crush and break. Damon relied on skill and agility, his sword a precise instrument, finding weaknesses in Elric's defense.
Damon parried a wild overhead swing, the force of the blow jarring his arm. He used the momentum to step inside Elric's guard, his longsword flashing in a swift counter-attack. A thin line of blood appeared on Elric's arm.
Roaring with anger, Elric pressed his attack, his blows coming faster and harder. Damon was forced to give ground, his movements fluid and defensive. He dodged a sweeping blow that would have taken his legs out from under him, and then, with a sudden burst of speed, he lunged forward. His longsword found its mark, piercing Elric's side.
Elric staggered back, clutching at the wound, his face contorted in pain and surprise. Damon held his sword ready, but he did not press the attack. He had proven his superiority.
"Yield, Lord Elric," Damon said, his voice firm but without malice. "This bloodshed serves no one. Your grievances are with the king, not with my men or your own."
Elric stared at Damon, his chest heaving. He looked at his own surprised and now uncertain soldiers. Slowly, with a groan, he lowered his waraxe.
"I yield," he said, his voice hoarse.
A stunned silence fell over the encampment. Damon had defeated their leader in single combat. The rebellion had been broken with minimal bloodshed.
Damon sheathed his sword and turned to the assembled northern soldiers. "Your lord has yielded," he said, his voice ringing with authority. "I have no quarrel with you. Your fight is not with the House of Vexin. My orders were to bring Lord Elric to heel, and that is what I have done."
He looked at Elric, who was being helped by his men. "I will take Lord Elric as my prisoner. Those of you who wish to return to your homes may do so. Those who wish to serve a lord who understands the harshness of the north, a lord who fights with honor and keeps his word… you are welcome to ride with me."
A murmur went through the northern soldiers. They had just witnessed Damon's strength and his honorable conduct. Their own lord had led them to a rebellion that had ended swiftly and decisively. They looked at Damon, a figure of strength and fairness in the desolate landscape.
Slowly, one by one, the northern soldiers began to lay down their arms. A few approached Damon, their faces etched with a mixture of respect and resignation.
"We will ride with you, Lord Vexin," one of them said, his voice rough but sincere. "The north needs a lord like you."
Damon nodded, his gaze sweeping over the assembled men. He had come to subdue a rebellion. He was leaving with new allies. The king's plan to weaken the House of Vexin had backfired spectacularly.