Duel

Sunlight spilled over the castle walls, baking the mud in the courtyard hard.

Karl stood in the center of the courtyard, his full plate armor gleaming beneath the sun. The armor had been stripped from Walter and only finished being altered yesterday.

The shoulders had been widened by two finger-widths, the faulds narrowed, and leather padding had been riveted into the elbow joints of the vambraces. Brom and Todd had worked on it for most of the afternoon, cursing with every hammer blow.

Karl lowered his visor, reducing his field of view to a narrow strip of light. He jumped twice on the spot first, his armor clattering, then landed with his knees slightly bent and his body leaning forward.

He shifted into a sprint with almost no delay, running from the main keep to the wall, turning around, and racing back. The sound of his breathing came through the gaps in his helmet.

Brom stood beneath the low awning of the forge, squinting as he watched Karl run. His thick fingers rubbed back and forth through the beard on his chin. "The pauldrons aren't restricting him," he muttered to himself. "The faulds aren't catching on his knees. Good."

Karl stopped and took a blunt sword from the weapon rack—a training sword made from old issued swords discarded by recruits after their edges had been ground down. He swung it twice one-handed, the blade tearing through the air and leaving a faint afterimage.

Then he gripped it with both hands and chopped down from a high guard. The blade abruptly stopped midway. With a twist of his wrist, he swept it sideways, then stopped again. Every strike was reined in at its absolute limit. The inertia of the plate armor tugged his shoulders, waist, and back forward, only to be firmly controlled by his powerful core.

He planted the sword tip against the ground and nodded at the armored veteran across from him. Click. The veteran lowered his visor.

Karl made the first move, slashing diagonally down from the upper right. The veteran raised his sword across his body. When the two blades collided, it did not sound like iron striking iron, but like a cathedral bell being struck with full force. Dust shook loose from the courtyard walls and drifted into the grass at their base.

The veteran blocked the blow, then let his blade slide down along Karl's sword spine toward his knuckles. Karl released his grip and shifted his hold. The hilt turned, and his crossguard caught the veteran's blade. Both men exerted force at once. Their blades ground together, producing a sharp, trembling shriek that made teeth ache.

The clash of iron swords drowned out every other sound in the camp. The forge bellows stopped. A carpenter's hammer froze in midair. Everyone stared blankly at the two men fighting.

A man stood among the crowd. His hair was gray-white, cut short and close to his scalp. His shoulders were broad, his back straight.

He had emerged from the lower hold of that ship several days ago. A chipped Temerian lily badge hung from his belt. He had neither thrown it away nor polished it.

Old Gott stood there, his fingers clenched around his belt, his eyes fixed on the battle in the courtyard.

Karl and the veteran continued, two iron-gray storms tangled together. Every collision sounded as though someone were swinging a hammer against an anvil.

Karl's sword chopped down from the veteran's left shoulder. The veteran twisted aside, and the blade scraped across his breastplate, leaving a long, thin white mark.

Using the momentum of his turn, the veteran stepped forward and reversed his grip, driving the hilt toward Karl's visor. Karl tilted his head aside. The crossguard scraped over his faceplate, scattering sparks.

The veteran's rear foot ground a half arc into the dirt as his blade swept upward. Karl blocked with his sword, then counterattacked with the motion.

Clang! Clang! Clang!!!

When the two battered old swords collided for the third time, sparks burst with the impact. Both blades snapped and flew away at once. The air rang with a lingering hum that refused to fade...

Old Gott's Adam's apple bobbed. He knew what that level of skill meant, and precisely because he knew, he found it unbelievable.

During his years of service in Temeria, he had seen knights whose names were turned into poems, champions of grand tournaments, and witchers with catlike pupils. Their swords had moved too fast for human hands.

But there was more than one person like that here.

Slowly, he turned his head toward the veterans leaning against the wall at the edge of the courtyard, their arms folded as they watched. They were watching, but their expressions did not suggest they were witnessing an evenly matched duel. It was more like watching two comrades warm up.

Twenty-two

Old Gott remembered what the scholar in the camp had said. He had claimed that the giant was a commander, an imperial prince from a place called Calradia. These people were his personal guard, who had drifted to this continent with him through a storm at sea.

At the time, Old Gott had been squatting beside the campfire. After hearing that, he drained the porridge from his bowl, wiped his mouth, and said nothing.

Prince, personal guard, storm, shipwreck—he had heard it all before. In army camps, taverns, and docks, every deserter claimed to have served a king, and every mercenary captain claimed to be the descendant of some noble from a fallen nation. He had always merely smiled and let it pass.

But now, he was no longer sure.

In the courtyard, the two men stared at each other for about the span of a breath, then raised their visors at the same time, revealing sweat-soaked faces beneath.

At the forge, Brom flicked a piece of soot from his beard and cursed under his breath. "Damn it, the joints need another layer."

He did not look at the men, only at the armor. In his eyes, the burst of action and the collisions had broken down into repeated impacts against the connections between the plates. His final conclusion was simple: "It needs to be redone."

No one spoke. The courtyard fell quiet for a moment before everyone dispersed and returned to their work.

Brom drew back his gaze. He was squatting beside the forge, its coals burning orange-red. An old sheet of parchment lay spread before him, bearing the charcoal outline of a human figure.

It was far taller than an ordinary person, with shoulders nearly twice as broad, and a chest thrust outward like the iron bands around a barrel. Measurements crowded the margins, numbers repeatedly crossed out and revised, charcoal smudged everywhere.

Brom picked up a charcoal stick and added a new set of numbers around the shoulder socket.

"Thicken the padding inside the pauldrons. Otherwise, when he swings his sword, his shoulder blades will slam into the plates."

His gaze shifted to the chest.

"The breastplate will need the material from two suits of armor. One sheet isn't enough—it'll have to be forge-welded. Put the seam in the middle and add a raised ridge like a spine. It'll hide the weld mark and strengthen the structure."

He looked up at Ron, who was walking back from the training ground. His gaze moved from Ron's broad shoulders to his waist, then from his waist to his forearms.

"Tch. The materials alone will cost twice as much as for anyone else. Twice the iron, twice the charcoal, twice the labor—not even counting the forge-welding and riveting."

He picked up another sheet of parchment. It bore the design of a sword: a long blade, a straight crossguard, and a leather-wrapped hilt.

The pommel was a simple counterweight. The entire sword had no decoration whatsoever, as though an iron slab had simply been cut into the shape of a sword.

"This is a sword? This is a fucking city gate bar!!"

Todd was crouched beside the quenching trough, changing the water. He curiously leaned over for a look, his lips moving, but he did not dare say anything.

Brom set down the design and looked at Ron, who was approaching.

Ron reached out, picked up the drawing, and examined it carefully.

"Can you make it?" Ron asked.

Brom considered the requirements on the drawing, then looked up at Ron's build, which was about the same size as an ordinary troll. He snorted.

"I can." He pulled the drawing from Ron's hand. "But don't expect it quickly. Forging, riveting, quenching, tempering, grinding, and whatever the hell else you noted..."

"Dimeritium embedded in the armor. A certain proportion of silver added to the greatsword. Even though your equipment is several sizes larger than normal, it shouldn't affect the strength of the materials."

"But every step will take more time than ordinary weapons and armor. One mistake, and I'll have to start all over again."

"You're not even a witcher. What kind of weird demands are these?"

Sorom frowned and added another line along the edge of the drawing before looking up at Ron.

"In a place like Velen, who knows what we might run into later?"

Ron did not elaborate. He only looked at him quietly.

"One month."

"Don't rush me in the meantime. My workshop does not allow defective products."

Ron nodded. Brom lowered his gaze again and continued studying the drawing.