I couldn’t release. They both danced through each other’s shadows, weaving in and out of my only clear line of fire and I would sooner die than risk hitting Baron.
Yet the truth hollowed out my stomach. If nothing changed, the sheriff was going to kill him.
The sheriff seemed to reach the same realization I had, and his lips peeled back into an ugly sneer. His sword rasped slowly, deliberately, along the length of Baron’s blade until their cross guards locked. The sound was a harsh, grating snarl of metal. They stood chest-to-chest, blades crossed, breath mingling in short, violent bursts.
“After I finish with you, boy,” the sheriff hissed, forcing his blade harder against Baron’s, “I’ll take care of that tramp once and for all.”
For a heartbeat Baron didn’t move.
Then something inside himtransformed.
The fear built up from years of flinching under his father’s hand bled out of his expression, along with the reticence he felt in fighting his only blood relative. In its place rose something fierce and unshakable. Even the sheriff faltered and the first flicker of doubt tightened in his jaw.
Baron surged forward, shoving his father back so violently the sheriff’s boots dug trenches in the earth. Baron’s strikes now were the ones coming fast and relentless, hammering blows that sent shockwaves up the sheriff’s arms. The clearing rang with the violent symphony of their duel: swords slashing air, steelsmashing steel, and the sharp crack of branches under their boots.
It was a testament to the sheriff’s training that he stayed upright at all, especially with his arm already wounded. But his parries grew strained and his blocks started driving him sideways instead of stopping the blows outright. The father and son moved in sync, each anticipating the other’s counters, each fighting with the knowledge of where the other was weakest.
Baron pressed harder, his long reach and sheer power forcing the sheriff backward step by step. I could see the strain in the sheriff’s arms as he lifted his heavy blade; sweat ran down his brow, and his movements grew jagged and sloppy.
Yet Baron didn’t let up.
With a final, brutal swing, Baron’s blade crashed into his father’s and tore it free. The sheriff’s sword spun across the clearing. He stumbled after it but Baron planted his boot firmly on the fallen weapon before it could be retrieved.
The duel was over.
The sheriff sank to his knees, gasping, with sweat-slicked hair hanging in his face. Baron stood over him, sword raised, every muscle trembling. His jaw clenched and his chest heaved. I could almost hear the echoes of every awful memory warring inside him.
The sheriff glared up at his son, hate curdling in his eyes. Baron met his father’s stare with cold resolve, his fingers tightening and loosening on the hilt as he wrestled with a choice no child should ever have to make. My shoulders screamed from holding the bow drawn, but I didn’t dare ease the tension.
Finally, Baron spoke.
“I’m not going to kill you.” His voice was steady. “I’m done being the kind of monster you are. But I want to be very clear. I want nothing to do with you. You prey on the weak. You abuse women and children. You make the world worse just bybreathing. You took years of my life and you won’t get another second.”
He ripped the badge from his tunic—the one marking him as one of Prince John’s senior officers—and threw it into the dirt at his father’s knees.
“You can never pay enough for what you have done to me,” Baron continued. “There is no punishment bad enough to make you feel even a fraction of what I have endured all these years, and you are not worth killing. I hope you live a long life and suffer every day knowing what a coward you are.”
He gave one last look of revulsion at his defeated father then turned away.
That was when the sheriff struck.
In the space of a heartbeat, he lunged, hands scrambling for his discarded sword the moment Baron’s boot left it. His fingers closed around the hilt, and he swung wildly upward, blade arcing toward Baron’s unprotected spine. Baron would never be able to defend himself in time.
I didn’t think.
I simply released.
The bowstring snapped with a crack. I didn’t even see the arrow fly.
It was as if the arrow had materialized in the sheriff’s chest. Right over the heart.
Baron spun, horror etched across his face, gaze darting between his father and me. I stood frozen, the bowstring still trembling, my breath caught in my throat.
The sheriff staggered, dropping the sword as red bubbled from his lips. Even as his own life trickled away, he was still blinded by hate.
“You chose a murderer over your own father! You’re no son of mine!”
“You were never a father to me,” Baron said softly, steadily.
