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New!
Duel of Faiths
by Kimmo Kyttä
(Author's notes: This short story is what came
out of mock combat ran with the combat
simulator program that uses the rules of the RPG The Riddle of Steel.
Mostly, the program was meant to provide people with a fast and clear
access to a method of testing the very rules'y combat rules of the game.
The simulator program is available from the homepage of the game at
http://www.theriddleofsteel.net. I decided to place these author's notes
within this second version of the file to demonstrate the core concepts
of the game it uses. Note that I needed to add very little in the way
of description to the battle… The moves, their effects, the locations
aimed, the system provided them all. Yet, the combat system seems to
be about as fast as, say, the Storyteller system of White Wolf.)
Gripping his sword, Gorben eyed the Gelurian
officer before him. On his feet lay two soldiers, who had thought they
were facing some peasant with a big blade. He'd showed them wrong, and
now the other lay down in a heap, repeating a name, presumably of his
mother's, over and over like a mantra. The other hadn't had time to
blabber like that - a blow from a sword as big as he was had made sure
of that, and even the helmet hadn't been a sufficient protection against
that. With two out of the three men of the patrol who'd caught him down,
he might have felt safe, but he still felt sweat forming on his forehead
as he tried to estimate his opponent and was being estimated in turn.
(This is just background, not involved with the
actual simulated fight.)
This man was dangerous. Unlike the others, who
had in all likelihood been peasants who'd recently entered the army
of the Sorcerer Emperor Uglub in hope of a life away from poverty, this
last man he was facing had killed before. It was in his eyes, those
cold, gleaming eyes gazing at him from beneath a skull cap of steel.
While his weapon, the giant doppelhander he'd named Daffon after his
dead father who'd also taught him how to use it, was a good weapon,
his enemy had a long spear that had a good half a meter or more of an
advantage in reach. This provided him with what amounted to a sizable
safe zone, and Gorben had no way of hurting him unless he could first
get past it.
(In game terms, Gorben is at a disadvantage because
he has a sizeable penalty for being out of range due to the reach advantage
the long spear his opponent wields.)
"I am lucky I found you. Bringing back the
corpse of the son of Daffon the Heretic is sure to win me honour and
a promotion. So come, peasant fool, and see that your superstitions
will not protect you from soldiers of the emperor."
Gorben listened to the words, spoken evenly and
with the tension of a man who knew how to be afraid just enough to boost
his performance, rather than hindering it. Trying to think of a way
to goad his opponent into making a mistake, he finally concluded that
he could not force the man he had started calling Ice to make the first
move. Carefully, without letting his eyes leave his opponent for an
instant, he lifted his sword high and to his right, in a posture of
obvious aggression. He saw Ice's eyes narrow, and whispering a quick
prayer to Righteous War of Three-Gods-Become-One, he stepped forward
to attack...
(In the game, you could try to goad your enemy
into attacking first. The simulator, though, doesn't have this ability
included. Gorben takes an aggressive stance, providing a bonus to attack
and penalties to defence.)
Only his enemy had moved first!
Seeing Gorben raise his sword in a position from
which defence was difficult, Ice had seized his opportunity and charged
forward, thrusting at Gorben's midsection with his spear, hoping to
eviscerate him. Gorben leapt aside just in time and took a few quick
running steps to gain distance before swinging back to face Ice again,
just in time to prepare for another stab, this time aimed higher, at
his chest. He brought his sword down from its position in a desperate
bid to deflect the lance while leaping to the right again, but only
managed to move partially from under it, feeling it scrape him, making
him feel the impact even through his coat of chainmail. Surprised at
seeing his thrust blocked by so far unseen armour, Ice let down his
onslaught just long enough for Gorben to step out of range again.
(This is the first combat round. Ice uses most
of his combat pool for the first attack, which Gorben evades, but the
second attack hits, though stopped by the chainmail does no damage.)
"You do know that owning armour is expressly
against the law against any not in the army, don't you?" asked
Ice, an ugly grin on his face. He was a man who liked killing, Gorben
decided.
"I am to be executed anyway for holding
to my beliefs - wearing some metal underneath my coat will make no difference
to that."
"Perhaps not, but it will buy me a month's
worth of whores back in Teilzanrac," Ice grinned, and charged yet
again.
(This, actually, is one of the key concepts behind
The Riddle of Steel - The game asks the player's character the question
"What are you willing to kill or die for?" Gorben, it seems,
desperately wants to leave the country that persecutes him for his beliefs
and is acting in self-defence. Ice is the kind of man who kills both
because he's good at it and because it's how he lives.)
This time Gorben was ready and swung hard at
the lance, striking it aside and stepped in. The cold eyes widened as
they saw the strong form of the swordman closing in, inside the range
of his spear. Bellowing, Gorben brought down his sword at his opponent,
only to see Ice manage to deflect it by changing his grip and striking
at it with all his force. The blade sailed over his head. Not wanting
to give Ice any more time than necessary, he swung again at Ice's side
above his pelvis. Almost comptemptuously, the man moved his spear in
a two-handed grip to deflect the blade, when Gorben suddenly changed
the course of his blow in mid-strike, first raising it and then, stepping
in, bringing it crashing down the unarmoured arm gripping the spear.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Ice as the arm was cut off just
below shoulder, and the force of the blow forced the officer back a
step. The eyes that had so recently been full of confidence were now
glazed with shock, the realisation of what had just happened not having
fully sunk in yet.
(What happens here is that Gorben wins the defence
against Ice (instead of coming up with a tie) and thus seizes initiative.
He attacks but is parried. Then, the next round, he hits with a low
dice-pool attack, which Ice won't waste many dice on, figuring the main
strike will come next. Gorben's player declares a feint and adds the
rest of his combat pool into that attack. This is very risky - if he
misses or doesn't do much damage, he's as good as dead. Also, feints
are less effective than normal attacks, the dice added after declared
defence are not taken from the attacker's combat pool on a 1-for-1 basis.
However, this time, the risk pays off.)
A grim snarl on his lips, Gorben raised the giant
sword above his head and brought it crashing down on the top of the
skull of his opponent with all the might his large frame could muster.
There was a great crashing sound as the blade actually cut through the
steel cap of the man who used to be Ice, sinking deep into the skull
and the brains beneath.
(Ice is still in shock from the last attack,
and has no combat pool left this round, so he cannot defend. The results
are obvious.)
Muttering a short thank to Righteous War, the
god of justice, Gorben stood still a short while, trying to catch his
breath, before tearing his sword free and cleaning it on the coat of
arms of the now dead officer.
"I am leaving Gelure," Gorben muttered
under his breath. "And I will not return, not unless it be at the
army of a king sworn to bring down Uglub and his twisted rule. This,
I swear."
(This marks the beginning of a Spiritual Attribute,
probably Passion: Hates Uglub and Gelure, or Drive: Work against Uglub,
or maybe even Destiny: Return to Gelure in an invading army.)
The dead did not hear his vow, and even the sole
survivor seemed oblivious that the battle had ended. The grass beneath
him had been stained red by the blood flowing from the gaping wound
in his thigh, and the cries were getting weaker. Sighing at the pointlessness
of it all, Gorben walked to him and ended the boy's suffering. Then,
never looking back, he started walking towards rising sun, where the
land called Cyrinthmeir was said to be. This would be his first time
in another country, but Gelure wasn't - couldn't be - his home any longer.
Who knew what lay ahead of him? He would most
likely sell the services of his sword or enlist in the army if he could.
Maybe there, in the land that was said to believe in the Three-Gods-Become-One
as he did, he could find men he could live his life with without always
having to be afraid of letting them know of his true faith. Perhaps,
if he learned enough, he might even solve the fabled and elusive Riddle
of Steel?
Who knew, indeed. The past was past, and the
future, while uncertain, was open for the skilled man to make of what
he willed.
The Fencing Lesson
by Matt Gomez
"Come out old man! It's time
for my fencing lesson!" Alfonse di Anatole's face felt flush, but
unlike his jeering companions, no drink had passed his lips this night.
It had started simply enough, a discussion as to who was the greatest
swordsman in the city of Xend, the capitol of Fauth. Alfonse had claimed
the title and had cited his fifteen duels fought and won as to his proof.
Everyone in the tavern agreed with Alfonse, being unable to think of one
other swordsman to match that record in living memory, everyone but one
gray haired man.
"Bertucci. He had twice that number of kills to his name before he
was your age, and all in open combat. None of this skulking and sneaking
that you see nowadays. He can still claim the title of best, or would
if he had any interest in it. His temper has cooled some in his age. Probably
is why he's alive," the old man said.
"The scholar?" Alfonse and his friends scoffed. They all knew
Maestro Bertucci, knew him as one of the old men who gathered in the shade
and reminisced the old days, trying to recapture their youthful glory
in the memories of their friends. Some also knew him as a teacher of oratory,
or mathematics, and of philosophy. He could hardly be a swordsman with
the dry, monotonous voice and collection of dusty books and esoterica
from around the world.
Alfonse allowed his friends to convince him to call the old teacher out,
to climb over the low wall into the courtyard and shout until he was given
a fencing lesson.
A light came on in a window, then in a second one. A door opened out into
the courtyard, and out stepped Maestro Bertucci, bleary eyes and scowling.
He was dressed in a nightshirt that came just above his knees, he was
barefoot, and his white hair and beard were rat's nests of tangles. What
seized Alfonse's attention, however, was the large sword that Bertucci
was resting on his shoulder.
Bertucci approached Alfonse, bent down, and placed something on the ground
between them before removing himself to the other end of the courtyard.
Alfonse peered into the dark, but could not make out what it was on the
ground.
"Well?" Maestro Bertucci asked.
"Well what?" Alfonse said, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"Well there is a piece of paper there with an inkwell and quill.
Write down your name, the name of your father and his address," Maestro
Bertucci said with the patience of a parent explaining something to a
small child.
"Why?"
Bertucci sighed. "Why? Because if you don't I'll be forced to pay
the five mules for a beggars funeral for you."
"I'm here for a lesson old man," Alfonse declared, drawing his
rapier.
"You are here to die," Bertucci countered. He rested the sword
tip down and perpendicular to the ground, folding his hands over the top
of the pommel that came up about six inches short of his chin. "I
give lessons from after I have lunch to before I have dinner and only
a barbarian or bandit would demand differently, therefore I will treat
you as such. Now write down your name and that of your father or I will
see you buried nameless and unmourned."
Alfonse approached the paper and bracing it against the wall, wrote down
his and his father's name.
"Put it there," Bertucci said, pointing to a low stone structure
that sat in the middle of the courtyard and that turned out to be a covered
well when Alfonse approached it.
Alfonse then turned and dropped into the reclined opening stance as taught
by his fencing master, Maestro Perrelli.
Bertucci chuckled. "Perrelli, right? Or one of his students who is
teaching the same tired material," he said. "Makes no difference."
As Alfonse edged forward, gauging his range, Bertucci adjusted his grip
on his sword, resting the tip on the ground out in front of him, edge
up, one hand gripping the hilt, the other grabbing one of the rings that
formed the crossguard.
"Let's see what you can do, old man," Alfonse said, extending
his tip out and slightly shifting his weight forward.
Bertucci responded by shifting his guard, bringing the sword up and resting
the pommel on his shoulder. Alfonse lunged while Bertucci was still transitioning
between guards, driving the tip forward, aiming for the soft spot just
above the breastbone. Bertucci slipped to one side and brought the sword
down, looking to strike Alfonse's exposed arm. Alfonse was already recovering,
shifting his body to the side so that Bertucci's strike sliced nothing
but air.
Alfonse retaliated with another lunge, but Bertucci moved the greatsword
with deceptive speed, knocking the tip of the rapier out of line and bringing
the tip of his own weapon in line with Alfonse's face. Bertucci thrusted,
but Alfonse evaded by ducking down under the attack. Alfonse was a little
slow, however, and the wide brimmed hat he had just recently purchased
was knocked from his head. Alfonse lunged in, twisting his body ad with
his free hand grabbing part of the hilt of Bertucci's blade. Undaunted,
Bertucci shifted his grip on the sword and twisted the hilt sharply. There
was the snap of a bone breaking and Alfonse screamed in pain, retreating,
his hand hanging limply at his side where Bertucci had broken his wrist.
"Time for you to die, old man," Alfonse hissed, and leapt to
the attack, fully devoted to it now, lunging in with as much power as
he could muster. Bertucci stepped to the side once again, but this time
closed the distance between him and Alfonse as he did so, bring his sword
up in an ascending cut that caught Alfonse between the legs and bit deep.
Alfonse opened his mouth in disbelief, but the all that came out was blood.
"The lesson is over," Bertucci said after dislodging his weapon
and stooping to wipe off his blade on Alfonse's cloak. He walked back
into his house, whistling a tune from his youth. At least he wouldn't
have to worry about burying the body, he would send a servant to the di
Anatole household tomorrow, explaining that their son had trespassed and
paid the price for his impudence. The law was firmly in Bertucci's favor
after all, and had the boy truly wanted a fencing lesson, he should have
arrived at a reasonable hour. Bertucci shook his head. Perelli still teaching.
Who would have thought it!
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