I will prevail.
When the fighting starts again, Doug becomes more and more winded and is practically wheezing through his helmet by the time I land my first blow. I’ve let him dance around and swing wildly for almost two full minutes, staying just out of his range. I step around him like a boxer and fend off his blows; I’ve become an impenetrable wall.
When I finally land the blow—on his left elbow again—I can tell by the way he sucks in his breath that it hurt. This time, he at least has the self-control to curb his tongue. But I’ve struck his wielding arm with two good blows, and it’s going to weaken him. I wonder if I can sweep this round. I just need two more hits…
Doug’s sword crashes down on my buckler the second the yellow flag between us is moved away. I shove it back toward him, forcing his arm at an uncomfortable angle, and he gives an audible grunt about a millisecond before I catch him on the side of the breastplate. Another hit for me.
He does manage to get one hit in on me just before I land my third on him. I take the buckler round with ease, noting the minute it’s finished how he immediately drops his left arm and hands his sword off to his squire while we re-equip for the last round.
I have a full-sized oblong shield—harder to wield due to weight, but provides more coverage. Doug wields his round shield, which looks much like his buckler, only bigger—complete with the heraldry, a rampant black lion on a field of red, poorly painted on it.
I also note that he’s switched to his lighter sword for this round. It will be easier for him to maneuver, but that sword doesn’t have as long a reach. Therefore, I calculate that if I keep him at a distance, he will have difficulty reaching me in order to make a hit. So not only is my sword longer, but my shield’s coverage is superior. Together with the fact that he’s obviously favoring his wielding arm, I estimate that I have at least a three-to-one advantage on him. Possibly more, if I play this smart.
Doug is no longer playing to the crowd as we face each other for the last time. We stare through our visors, yet are unable to see each other’s eyes. I briefly muse that it would be great if everyone wore helmets and visors in real life so that eye contact wouldn’t be as important to neurotypicals as it is now.
The flag comes up and Doug charges at me with a roar. He gets close enough to crowd me, so I leverage my big shield against him, giving him a mighty shove. He’s thrown off balance, and having difficulty finding his footing, so he falls to a knee. I’m allowed to get in one hit in a case such as this—when the other knight has fallen. So I take the opportunity and sweep down on his shoulder with a harder-than-necessary hit. He rewards me with a grunt.
That was for making her cry, douchebag.
And I have plenty more where that came from. For making her worry about her tiara. For making her doubt herself and believe those horrible things you said to her.
This third round will be all about payback—Doug has it coming to him.
The yellow flag is again lowered between us, and I step back as Doug lumbers to his feet. He’s dropped his shield, and his squire scrambles to pull it out of the dust and settle it back on his right arm. Something occurs to me…since we are mirror opposites—because he’s left-handed and I’m right-handed—I can shove my shield against his to upset his balance again.
The minute the flag comes up between us, I test this maneuver out on him. He is visibly shaken by it and steps back, lowering his weapon-bearing arm just slightly. Then he hesitates as if he’s trying to figure me out. So I use his uncertainty to my advantage, pushing forward again with a burst of speed he hasn’t seen from me before. I give him another shove, and this time, before he can find his footing, I acquire another hit.
Doug throws down his weapon and the flag comes down again. One more hit and I will have swept him in the third bout. More importantly, the duel will be mine.
His squire is pressing the sword back into his gauntlet, trying to encourage him. I can’t hear what they are saying, but Doug’s voice sounds tight, like he’s talking through his teeth. He’s no longer bothering to rile up the crowd.
Oh yeah, the crowd. They’re still there, but I’ve completely forgotten about them. I’m in the zone, a place I never could have imagined attaining—that place of ultimate focus, like when I’m painting in my studio or working at my forge.
As the flag comes up again, it’s obvious that Doug’s anger has gotten the best of him. He’s swinging wildly, every way he can, chopping through the air, probably hoping to overwhelm me. In my focused state, I block each hit with either my shield or my sword, and in seconds I see my opening and take it, slamming the blade down near where his collarbone would be under his armor. My third hit.