Aldus stood at the edge of the dueling ring, his leather boots toeing the white sand border. “Last chance to walk away,” he said. “You don’t need to die here today.”

The challenger at the opposing edge did not move. His stained tunic rustled in the wind. He’d tied back his unruly dark hair to reveal a sharp face. The bridge of his nose was like the edge of an ax. “No.”

The challenger before Aldus called himself Phineas. If Aldus was being generous, the stubborn lad was a lowly commoner with misplaced confidence, and if he was being honest, he was an unprepared fool with a death wish.

“Are you so eager for the afterlife?” Aldus asked.

“I reject any notion of an afterlife, for it would be too good for you,” spat his opponent. “When I run you through and push my blade’s hilt against your gut, I need to believe there is nothing next. Though holy, your elevated status as a council knight must be meaningless. For if I’m to have satisfaction, I need to know that you are finished, that every fiber of what makes you, you, is terminated. I need to destroy you utterly. And if that means rejecting our God, then so be it.”

Somewhere in the distance, the growl of thunder sounded, as if the sky was muttering its approval.

Aldus was taken aback by the diatribe. He’d drawn the ire of folk before, but he had never been hated with such raw fervor. Then again, wouldn’t he feel the same if their fates were reversed? “So that’s a ‘no’ to my offer then?”

A scowl would be too meager a word to describe the look of disgust that pinched his opponent’s face. “Your offer is but the sullied laundry of a chamberlain.”

Phineas turned heel and marched across the field to meet his ragtag retinue at the wood’s edge. The three men huddled next to the dark trees in anticipation of violence. They weren’t trained squires, and even from a distance, Aldus could see how green they were by their posture and movement. Commoners playing make-believe, the lot of them.

Aldus looked to the judicial mediator near the official’s tent. The plump man nodded with a solemn tilt of his chin. “Turn the sand glass!” he shouted. His deep voice carried well across the afternoon air. “The duel will commence when the sand settles!”

Aldus moved toward his own support crew of trained squires. They fidgeted about his armor trunk like peckish birds, trying to unlatch its many shining buckles. He loathed the steel attire inside. Though blessed in the order’s divine forges, it was heavy and burdensome, making every movement stiff and arduous. The idea of donning it nagged at him, but the suit was now unavoidable.

He thought giving Phineas one final chance to back down had been charitable—an untrained commoner dueling a knight was nothing less than suicide—but his mercy had been utterly rejected. All logic had been swept aside by his pure desire for revenge.

A haunting of wind rose. It caught the planted banner flags, twisting the opposing houses' colors: Aldus flew the yellow of House Feather, bordered with white to indicate his knighthood within the holy council. A flat maroon flew at Phineas’s camp. Aldus didn’t recognize it. Whatever house the flag represented had long since perished, and now it stood resurrected as if by necromancy.

Still, despite the gulf in prestige between their names in the duchy, rules were rules. The challenge must be carried out, lest his house’s reputation tarnish.

The first drops of rain wet his hair, already lank with natural oils. “Shit,” he mumbled. He ran his fingers through the golden mane, pushing at his scalp out of frustration. “Here comes the fucking mud.”

DECADES AGO

Aldus sat at the river’s edge, his tunic dirtied from a day exploring his family’s plot. A boyish grin was on his face as he stacked and slapped little rounds of mud on the rocks.

The sun beat down, hardening his work. He looked upon the rows of earthen patties and beamed, proud.

His smile faded as he heard footfalls and knew deep down that his mother approached. He’d been found.

Lady Feather held up the edges of her yellow kirtle as she plodded across the pebbled river bank, her step a touch unsure likely due to another afternoon in her cups. How Aldus loathed the red liquid that too often possessed his mother’s temperament.

Aldus looked back at his work, his pride turning to shame as it always did when his mother caught him in childish endeavors. He was only a boy of seven, but the responsibilities of manhood shadowed his upbringing. He was simply expected to be above things like this, but still, the simple pleasure of playing pretend called to him, as it did to all youth.

Drawing to the river’s edge, his mother inspected his creations as a crane would fish. A strand of gold had escaped her severe braid and it hung loose in her face. Finally, her gaze fell on Aldus. “And what is all this,” she asked. “A Feather in the mud?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he tried and then saw her scowl. “I mean, no ma'am.”

“Choose one tact or another, but never both,” she chided. “This house has no room for waffling imbeciles.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, feeling a fool.

“Then choose your answer, Aldus. Don’t make a woman repeat herself.”

He pointed to the little flattened balls of mud with an earth-stained finger. “They’re pies,” he said. His face was growing hot and he wished he could simply run into the river’s currents and be swept far, far away.

“Why?” she asked, as if a boy playing pretend needed a good reason.

“It was a bakery. Well, not a bakery, but I was thinking the rocks were the counter and I was...” the words mumbled away into silence.

“And you were the what?”

“The baker.”

She bent down and struck him. The clap was quickly suffocated by the rush of the river. The space between them drew taught with shame.

“Do you think your father intended his name to be passed to a baker?”

“No, ma’am.” He stared at her feet.

“Do you think he fought and died fighting for the legacy of a baker?” Her question was the hiss of a snake.

“No.”

“You are a holy knight’s son. He was a great man and now his greatness is yours. You will not sully his name! Now get back to the manor. Dinner is near and our baker has done the work that you will never lower yourself to do.”

He rose from the silt and made his way across their land. That night, his mother scrubbed the dirt from his knees until they bled.

NOW

“Three quarters of sand remains!” bellowed the judicator.

Aldus’s head squire tightened the straps on his cuirass, and he felt the unique claustrophobia that only a full set of armor could provide. It was a prison for one. He grunted as a shiver took to his spine.

The day’s rain now arrived in earnest and it soured his mood further.

“Can we get a damn tent up?” he groaned.

“Of course, sir,” said another squire, and the young man hustled towards a nearby crate.

Aldus squinted across the pitch to his opponent’s camp. Phineas was struggling into this armor. His trio of attendants looked as if they were solving a puzzle as they removed pieces from an antiquated trunk.

Whatever house the armor had belonged to, it had been an old one. The procedure looked as if they were pillaging a grave of its bones. The simple fact that this peasant’s family had held onto the armor for so long was shocking. Even decrepit, a full set would still fetch a good price from the right buyer. It must have meant something to him and his brother.

The squire at his side set to work tightening another strap and Aldus whispered a curse for Phineas and his troublesome kin.

YEARS AGO

“Get up, squire.”

From down in the muck, Aldus looked up at the towering shadow that was Edmund. With the sun at the sergeant brother’s back, it was difficult to make out his stony features—but they were probably cold and indifferent, as per usual. A smattering of horse flies orbited his bald head like harpies over their nesting grounds. The training pitch stank of horses and the air was full of the little, flying bastards.

On his back, the mud had seeped into the armor’s joints and seams of Aldus's armor. The day’s rain had ceased, and in its place, the sun now bore down on him. His tunic and breeches were turning into a layer of wet heat that clung and bunched around his irritated skin.

“Can’t we wrap this up?” Aldus grumbled. He crunched up to sit. The weight of the plate armor pulled at him relentlessly. Every move was an act of labor. He’d known the journey to council knight would be grueling, but he hadn’t expected this level of superfluous sadism. “Mud’s near ruined my whole panoply.” He reached toward Edmund for a helping hand.

Edmund smacked it away like a gnat. “Get. Up.”

Curse this man. The battering of time had made the old sergeant a right asshole. Aldus struggled before slipping and falling back into the caked puddle. “Tomorrow would be a better fit for training.”

“Do you think bloodshed waits for blue sky?” growled Edmund. “That a gnoll would stay its cudgel until a moderate clime set in? Violence happens when it decides to happen, and trust me when I say this, squire: more times than not, it decides to happen in the mud. This was something your father understood and accepted.” Edmund rolled his massive shoulders back and stood taller. “Now, get up and strike me.”

The thought of his late father driving him, Aldus managed to crawl to his knees. With a grunt, he got one foot under him. Before he could rise, Edmund drove his heel into his shoulder, knocking him back down.

“Hells!” cried Aldus. A flash of anger shot through him. “Why?”

“Because you need a lesson in respect. Wallow in the dirt, squire.” Edmund dropped into a squat, bringing his leathered face down to Aldus’s. He tilted his head as if inspecting an odd bauble. “Better men than you have found victory in it. Met death in it. Dirt, mud, sand, it cannot be crushed like an enemy under a morningstar. It simply is. On every battlefield, some form of earth will be under you, and at a certain point, you will be under it. Accept the mud, boy.”

NOW

“Half the sand remains!” The announcer's voice lifted above the challenge grounds only to die in the rain. He waddled back to the official's tent where a handful of council elders sat, layered in robes and furs.

Aldus’s attendants had finally erected a small tent, and the torrents of rain flowed over its edge like a veil. What had started as a steady pattering had turned into the constant hammer of downpour on waxed canvas.

He removed his sword from its scabbard and laid it across his lap, inspecting its sheen for imperfections.

Edmund’s first lesson about a knight’s blade had been a lofty lecture about intent and responsibility. Aldus had only retained snippets—it had been awfully boring at the time; some maiden of the hour had been on his mind. As time passed, the old sergeant brother’s teachings had washed away like a river bank during rising waters. That was fine. Edmund’s wisdom lacked practicality. If Aldus’s life had taught him anything, it was that words were very different from experience.

Blades were not the complex metaphors of a poet. Or altars on which oaths were offered and tempered, as Edmund had implied. They were sharp and pointed. Plant one in a soft spot, and you win.

Simple.

MONTHS AGO

If the tavern was one thing, it was sticky. Sticky tables, sticky floors, sticky bread rolls. If it was another thing, it was cheap. Despite his status as a knight and the generous wages it provided him, Aldus still hated paying a premium for anything. That didn’t mean he detested nice things—quite the contrary—but nice things were only nicer if they were won. It was one thing to purchase jewelry, and fully another to claim it during a conquest. So, when he could, Aldus saved his coin by frequenting the cheaper haunts the dukedom had to offer, leaving luxuries as the pure profits of victory.

He swayed in the hearth’s lowlight, his long shadow tilting along with him. A heady buzz had taken him—a goal he had set early in the night and achieved swiftly upon arriving. His slurred boasts were met with practiced awe from the establishment’s roster of comfort wenches who stood before him. The obvious falsity didn’t bother him much. To be honest, the fact that they had been instructed to swoon filled Aldus with a sense of control.

He rambled in the tavern’s muggy warmth as the wet night outside pitter-pattered ever onward. There was something to drinking on a cold, wet night; the tavern’s snugness felt all the more cozy for it. A hearth, an audience, some good—

Something jostled him in the back, and Aldus lurched forward. The contents of his tankard sloshed across one of the young wenches in front of him. At that moment, stained with mead, her act of admiration crumbled. The illusion of captivation dispelled, Aldus saw the exhaustion in her eyes plain as day. Her disappointed expression was an echo of his mother, and it stung like a barb. His mood darkened to match the night.

“The fuck!?” he shouted, spinning to find whoever was responsible. The tavern seemed to spin with him.

A young man—slight, but taught in the type of muscle that came with working land—looked back at him, defiance plain on his face. His head had been sheared with imprecision, like a wretched sheep.

The commoner made to move away, but Aldus snatched him by the arm. “Apologize to the lady.”

The lad tore his arm from Aldus’s grip. “Not my fault you can’t stand straight,” he spat.

The room’s merry din wound down to a smattering of mumbles. The wenches who had so recently been hanging on his every word had receded into the crowd. The drum of deluge reigned dominant as the patrons waited on Aldus’s rebuttal. Even out of uniform, many recognized him as a council knight. If he let this slight against him stand, it would set an unwelcome precedent. An attack on the Feather name, though small, could not stand unrebuked. No, he had to put this youth in his place. And with drink tangling his tongue and thickening his brain, he could only think of one way to do that.

Aldus drove his fist into the peasant’s midsection. Hard.

The young man folded over, holding his stomach. Aldus grinned and surveyed the room. The faces of the common folk looked back, and he found a range of emotions across their faces. Admiration, shock, fear, disgust. Regardless, they knew—

A bottle caught him across the jaw and exploded in a hail of glass. Aldus’s vision dimmed dangerously as he lurched backward. He steadied himself on a nearby table, nearly flipping the round surface completely over, spilling mead and stew. He brought his attention up just in time to see the young man drop low and rush him. With the force of a bucking pack mule, the peasant connected with Aldus, tackling him out of the bar entirely. They careened through the open door and stumbled together into the sodden twilight outside the tavern.

Aldus spun and shouldered his opponent away from him. He stumbled back, regaining his footing in the mud.

A dark and blurry world coalesced as he squinted against it. The worn ruts of wagon tracks had carved the street into a mosaic of muck. Rainwater filled the many grooves and potholes. Warm light from nearby establishments smeared the wet street with reddish tones, lighting puddles afire. The crude smell of piss and shit rose from it all.

The tavern’s patrons gazed out of the doorway, not wanting to miss the violence, but also not wanting to get even a little damp.

The peasant stood before him. His tunic was already soaked through and trickles of water washed over the lines of a fierce grin. Squaring his shoulders, the young man brought his fists up. “Come on now. Let’s have it!”

Aldus felt the thick wetness of the street seep into his boots and soak his socks. The cold water worked its way between his toes. A pang of revulsion struck Aldus. How dare this meager lad force him out into this weather to fight like a commoner in the filth and horse shite. The audacity. The absolute nerve of this small man.

He was a great man and now his greatness is yours.

The memory burned like poison nettle. Here in the mire of civilization, Aldus didn’t feel like a great man. He felt lowly.

Aldus bent down and drew the dagger from his leather boot. The weight of it felt good, as if it could right this whole mess.

Confidence drained from the boy’s face like blood from a lamb slit.

“This ain’t but a scrap,” said the peasant. “Fists and feet, man.”

Aldus tightened his grip on the hilt, white-knuckled under cold water.

The boy’s arms fell to his side in defeat. “It’s done, right?”

Aldus took a few angered strides and slipped the blade into his opponent's stomach with ease.

The peasant staggered back, a look of horror in his eyes. He fumbled at his gut as if he could simply lace it shut like a boot. With a final sigh, he fell back into the slopped earth. Aldus watched as the young man's life drained into the mud, dark, tacky, and imbued with a newfound grit.

NOW

“The final quarter of sand remains!” The mediator’s shout fought through the heavy rain.

Under the shelter of his tent, Aldus took hold of the pole from which his house banner flew. He would carry it to the dueling circle and plant it firmly, marking his lineage and all the power it held.

He inspected the fresh canvas: the sweeping yellows of his house sigil, the screaming falcon with a snake in its talon, and the white, embroidered edges, each stitch earned by a history of victory and servitude to the council. He’d managed to maintain that last part through hard training and commitment. If he had failed to rise, it would have been stripped. The first son in House Feather who fumbled knighthood... The shame it would have brought upon his family would have been immeasurable.

But Aldus has persevered and reaped all the benefits of holy knighthood. He’d stood above the masses, elevated and just. His actions had become the hand of God.

He was one of the chosen who maintained the fine line between chaos and order.

His father would have been proud to call Aldus his son. There was no doubt in his mind.

He glared through the sheets of rain towards his opponent's tent. And what did this low-ranking citizen stand for? Revenge, no doubt. But it was a bastardization of revenge. A tainted retribution that held no merit. A peasant’s revenge was as cheap as sawdust.

Aldus would purge this idea of retribution like a sickness.

DAYS AGO

Aldus yawned so hard he pulled his jaw. The courtroom was stuffy, warm, and it made his focus fleeting and his eyelids heavy.

Draped in flowing white finery, the chancellor sat at the raised podium. He glared down at the parchment before him as if it had spoken rudely of his mother. The podium was flanked by other elders of the holy council who murmured amongst themselves. All in attendance were lit by the warm glow of firelight. Collections of fused candles, their wax piled high and wide across tables and lecterns, littered the hall. The attendants left the wax to stack and pile over the decades, a lineage of sorts. The many, many trials and hearings that had taken place were shown by the mountains of wax. It was the piled mess of history.

“But my brother had surrendered,” cried the commoner. The claimant had the same slight, yet strong frame as his deceased sibling, but his hair had grown out in dark waves, like river weed. “Your holy knight is a murderer!”

Aldus sat at alert, willing himself back to the present. Even if this man didn’t deserve his focus, the court demanded it. “The lad threatened me,” he said, words rank with indignity. “Attacked me!”

The claimant slammed his fists down on his table. “That lad had a name,” he rebuked.

“And it will not sully my tongue,” hissed Aldus, waving his hand.

Aldus eyed the retinue of councilors in the benches. The gaggle of bald and bearded men looked nearly as bored as he.

The chancellor looked up. Despite heavy cataracts, he found the claimant’s pleading eyes below. “Your brother assailed a holy knight. His fate was sealed when he threw the first blow.”

The claimant fidgeted in frustration. “But he didn’t—”.

The elder rose from his seat, wobbly as a pauper’s marionette. “Court dismissed.”

The sparse audience rose with the sound of screeching chairs.

“A duel!” The words rang out loud as a wyvern cry. It grabbed the attention of the entire room, including Aldus. The claimant was still seated, his posture rigid and his gaze locked forward.

The man couldn’t be serious. A commoner challenging a trained knight wasn’t just unheard of, it was a suicide.

“My great, great grandfather left his armor. His blade. My family was not always farmers,” said the peasant, a hint of madness in his delivery. He rose and clasped his hands behind his back. “I, Phineas Lowridge, will seek my own justice where this court fails to find it. In the name of my brother and for the honor of my father and all his kin.” For a lowborn, he knew his way around language and had a penchant for drama.

The chancellor frowned as he scratched his chin. “This is highly irregular.”

“Your honor,” said Aldus over a chuckle, “we can’t entertain the delusions of imbeciles in this high court. This duel would be an execution.”

“And yet a challenge has been made,” said the chancellor. “Within the walls of the holy court, no less.” The chancellor made to sit but changed his mind midway. “So be it. Challenge witnessed and approved.”

NOW

“No sand remains! Duelists, to positions!” The judicial mediator stood at the edge of the official’s tent, biding his time out of the rain. The day had worked itself into a storm, and now the roar of rain was constant.

The mediator motioned both parties towards the ring at the center of the field.

Aldus took up his banner and strode across the soft pitch, steel armor ringing with the pounding of rain. His plate pulled him downwards with immense weight. His feet sunk deep into the ground with each step, slowing his progress. Large puddles had formed and he nearly had to wade through them. He used his banner pole to stabilize himself like a walking staff.

At the woods’ edge, the peasant Phineas did the same. Helmet under his arm, he approached the dueling circle. The light from the dark sky marbled his plate armor an uneven gray. His opponent’s set was old but appeared combat-worthy. It was everything Aldus’s armor wasn’t: dark, rounded, and antiquated. But it looked as if it could take a hit.

Aldus noted Phineas’s gait and the intention behind each step. The lad was doing his best not to topple over. Without training, he would die today. Aldus would exercise mercy and put him down swiftly. Like a rabid hound.

They came to face each other in the ring. “Last time to back out,” offered Aldus.

“One would think you are the one who wants to back out,” Phineas said. “Are you such a coward?”

Aldus felt something on his face twitch. He wasn’t a coward. He just wished to be anywhere but here, preferably somewhere warm. “Your name will bear little shame if you retreat now, low as it is,” he said.

“You think I care for this name? This ghost house?” He looked to his twisting banner. “My dead lineage is a means to an end. When we are finished here, it will go back to the catacombs of history to rot. A name is meaningless.” Phineas slammed his helmet down over his head, his slickened dark hair vanishing beneath its metal. “And yours will not protect you.”

“So be it.” Aldus donned his own and slid the visor into place.

The competitors walked a few paces back to their positions through inches of water and drove their banners into the ground.

The mediator drew his cloak tight as he approached the dueling ring, its white sand all but washed away. “On my mark, the duel will commence,” he bellowed. “It will end upon one or the other’s death. Fleeing the marked ring will be met by immediate execution. Object now or prepare yourself.”

Neither Aldus nor Phineas objected.

“Very well,” said the mediator. “May you be at peace with God.” He took a few steps back and raised his hand straight in the air.

Aldus drew his blade and checked his arm’s shield.

Phineas freed his steel in response.

The mediator’s hand dropped. “Commence!”

The peasant moved first, as amateurs do. He swung his two-handed sword before him in a wide arc. Aldus took a step back and bashed the blade downwards with his shield. He watched Phineas follow his weapon’s momentum and weight to the side, leaving him exposed.

Aldus made to lunge forward, to end it with a decisive blow, but his armored foot had sucked into the mud. Wrenching it free cost him seconds and his stab went wide. He cursed.

By the time he turned, Phineas had regained his footing. Aldus heaved his blade in a back handed swing, but Phineas was ready. He stepped back and parried. Steel rang. Aldus attempted to apply pressure while his opponent was on his back foot, but his heel slipped a few inches in the muck. He stepped back and adjusted his stance, stabilizing himself.

Frustrated at another lost opportunity, Aldus rushed forward and simply shouldered the man, full force. Obviously surprised by the aggressive move, Phineas took the hit dead on. He fell to the ground with a splash, his blade lost somewhere in the dark waters.

Aldus loomed over him. He could end him now, but the eels of pride twisted in his gut as if boiled. Any notion of mercy receded in the heat of it. “You should have backed down,” he shouted through the rush of rain. “I showed you grace!”

Phineas got to his knees. The lad pushed up against the earth, gauntlets sinking up to his vambraces in the sludge. Aldus drove his boot into him, knocking him to his back.

“Did you think you would end the Feather lineage?” Shouted Aldus, his heart beating with power. “That a man from a lost house would smote my name with a rusted blade?”

Aldus paced the ring, his thighs burning with the effort as he watched Phineas fight to rise from the mud. The peasant struggled like a tortoise flipped, his shell too burdensome.

Aldus laughed. “House Feather was built strong by men greater than you. You and your brother will be forgotten and it will still stand. Your challenge was meaningless!”

It was time to end this circus. Let it be an example for all the men who choose to rise above their station. He raised his blade above his head.

Phineas kicked his leg wildly, catching Aldus in the shin. The clang of metal sounded. Aldus toppled, landing on his side.

Phineas rolled to his stomach and crawled forward as Aldus struggled to right himself. The peasant collided with him, and Aldus felt his blade slip from his hand.

Aldus reeled as Phineas' gauntlet connected with his helmet, ringing it like a church bell. His assailant seized the opportunity as Aldus’s head spun, and before he could get a hold of the situation, Aldus had been flipped to his stomach.

Phineas clambered over him as Aldus tried to worm his way toward his lost blade. The immense weight of his armor clad opponent bore down on his lower spine. Phineas drove an elbow down. Something cracked. He tried to flip, to crawl, but he was stuck like a wagon in a ditch. He sputtered as water leaked into his helmet, flecks of muck splashing his lips.

Aldus felt the weight on his back shift. His face plunged into the puddle, his visor shoved downward into the mud. He struggled to breathe. Water and dirt filled his mouth and nostrils. It pressed under his eyelids. His lungs burned. All he could hear was the rush of blood and the thrum of rain.

Wallow in the dirt, squire.

Phineas' weight pushed him deeper.

Slapping backward towards the commoner’s legs, Aldus screamed into the water.

Better men than you have found victory in it.

He just needed an opening. His opponent would tire eventually.

He was just a commoner.

Met death in it.

Aldus sank deeper and deeper.

And at a certain point, you will be under it.

Aldus felt as if he was falling down, down, down. Until finally, the earth’s depths swallowed him and his name whole.