Aragorn vs Al'Lan Mandragoran

Aragorn vs Al'Lan Mandragoran Dec 14, 2013 17:58:53 GMT

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Post by shgondunstan on Dec 14, 2013 17:58:53 GMT

Dec 14, 2013 16:44:03 GMT GuardianAngel1911-Admin said:

(suggested by shgondunstan )

Today we have a royal duel of literary kings. Aragorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, Heir of Isildur, King of all the Dúnedain, King of the West, Lord of the Dúnedain, Envinyatar, King of Gondor, King of Arnor, High King of Gondor and Arnor, Lord of the House of Telcontar hailing from the Lord of the Rings series vs Al'Lan Mandragoran, Lord of the Seven Towers, Lord of the Lakes, True Blade of Malkier, Defender of the Wall of First Fires, Bearer of the Sword of the Thousand Lakes. Dai Shan, Uncrowned King of Malkier, Aan'allein hailing from the Wheel of Time series. These kings face off in a duel of swords under Code Duello (which after much research a while back I discovered is the actual real term for this go figure). This duel between kings will take place in an empty open field, both men have nothing but their armor and their blades, man to man, blade to blade for the honor of their kingdoms. Who will win, the Ranger from the North turned King of Gondor, or the Warder and uncrowned King of Makier?

Just about my bed time at the moment(working third shift), so I wont be able to say much until at least tonight, but... I think I have time for a little copy/paste feat dumping.

Lan Vs two Fades.

AMoL

“Dai Shan!” someone called. Prince Kaisel. He pointed to where the Trollocs had managed to divide
Lan’s guard. His banner was tipping.
Andere. The man’s horse fell, pulled down as Lan urged Mandarb between two Trollocs. Prince Kaisel
and a handful of other soldiers joined him.
Lan couldn’t continue on horseback, lest he accidentally trample his friend. He threw himself from the
saddle, hit the ground and crouched beneath a Trolloc swing. Kaisel took that beast’s leg off at the knee.
Lan dashed past the falling Trolloc. He saw his banner and a body beside it. Alive or dead, Lan did not
know, but there was a Myrddraal raising a dark blade.
Lan arrived in a rush of wind and spinning steel. He blocked the Thakan’dar blade with a swing of his
own, trampling his own banner as he fought. Within the void, there was no time for thought. There was
only instinct and action. There was—
There was a second Myrddraal, rising up from behind Andere’s fallen horse. So, a trap. Take down the
banner, draw Lan’s attention.
The two Fades attacked, one from each side. The void did not shake. A sword could not feel fear, and for
that moment, Lan was the sword. The Heron Spreads Its Wings. Slashing all around him, blocking their
blades with his own, back and forth. The Myrddraal were like water, flowing, but Lan was the wind
itself. He spun between their blades, knocking back the attack to the right, then the one to the left.
The Fades began cursing in fury. The one to his left rushed Lan, a sneer on its pale lips. Lan stepped to the
side, then parried the creature’s thrust and lopped its arm off at the elbow. He continued in a fluid stroke,
his swing continuing to where he knew the other Fade would be attacking, and took its hand off at the
wrist.
Both Thakan’dar blades clanged to the ground. The Fades froze, stupefied for a second. Lan cut the head
of one from its neck, then twisted and drove his sword through the neck of the other. Black Pebbles on
Snow. He stepped back and swiped his sword to the side to spray some of the deadly blood free of the blade. Both
Fades fell, thrashing, flailing at one another, mindless, dark blood staining the ground.
A good hundred and fifty Trollocs nearby fell writhing to the ground. They’d been linked to the Fades.
Lan stepped over to haul Andere out of the mud. The man looked dazed, blinking, and his arm hung at a
strange angle. Lan tossed Andere over his shoulder, and kicked his banner by its staff up into his free
hand.
He ran back toward Mandarb—the area around him now clear of Trollocs—and handed the banner to one
of Prince Kaisel’s men. “See that cleaned, then raise it.” He slung Andere across the front of his saddle,
mounted, and wiped his sword on his saddle blanket. The man didn’t look mortally wounded.
He faintly heard Prince Kaisel behind. “By my fathers!” the man said. “I’d heard he was good, but . . . but
Light”

And to set up his big fight with Demandred in AMoL, we must first set up Demandred. Which means setting up the two guys, Gawyn and his(and Rand's) half brother Galad, Demandred fought before Lan.

First lets start with Gawyn fighting a Warder who, once upon a time, was lucky enough to win 2 out of 7 sparring matches against Lan.

TGS

Hattori had been quite pleased when her Warder had finally arrived at Dorian; she'd lost him at Dumai's Wells, and his story was
the sort gleemen and bards sang about. Sleete had lain wounded for hours before deliriously managing to grab his horse's reins
and pull himself into the saddle. It had loyally carried him, near unconscious, for hours before arriving at a nearby village. The
villagers there had been tempted to sell Sleete to a local band of bandits—their leader had visited earlier promising them safety
as a reward for revealing any refugees from the nearby battle. However, the mayor's daughter had argued for Sleete's life,
convincing them that the bandits must be Darkfriends if they were seeking wounded Warders. The villagers had chosen to hide
Sleete instead, and the girl had nursed him to safety.
Sleete had been forced to sneak away once he was well enough to travel; the girl had apparently taken quite a liking to him.
Whispers among the Younglings said that Sleete s escape had also come because he had begun feeling affection for the girl
himself. Most Warders knew better than to let themselves grow attached. Sleete had left in the night, after the girl and her family
fell asleep—but in return for the village's mercy, he'd hunted down the bandits and seen to it that they would never plague the
village again.
It was the marrow of stories and legends—at least, among regular, lesser men. For a Warder, Sleete's story was almost
commonplace. Men like him attracted legends as ordinary men attracted fleas. In fact, Sleete hadn't wanted to share his tale; it
had come out only owing to a vigorous campaign of questions from the Younglings. He still acted as if his survival were nothing
to brag about. He was a Warder. Surviving against the odds, riding in delirium over miles of rough terrain, cutting down an entire
band of thieves with wounds not fully healed—these were just the sorts of things you did when you were a Warder.
Gawyn respected them. Even the ones he had killed. Especially the ones he had killed. It took a unique kind of man to show this
kind of dedication, this kind of vigilance. This kind of humility. While Aes Sedai manipulated the world and monsters like al'Thor
got the glory, men like Sleete quietly did the work of heroes, each and every day. Without glory or recognition. If they were
remembered, it was usually only by association with their Aes Sedai. Or it was by other Warders. You didn't forget your own.
Sleete attacked, sword lancing forward in a straight thrust delivered for maximum speed. The Viper Flicks Its Tongue, a bold
strike, made more effective because Sleete fought in tandem with the narrow, short man rounding toward Gawyn's left. Marlesh
was the only other Warder in Dorian—and his arrival had been far less dramatic than Sleete's. Marlesh had been with the
original group of eleven Aes Sedai who had escaped Dumai's Wells, and he had stayed with them the entire time. His own Aes
Sedai, a pretty young Domani Green named Vasha, watched idly from the side of the barn.
Gawyn countered The Viper Flicks Its Tongue with Cat Dances on the Wall, knocking aside the strike and going for the legs in
one sweep. It wasn't intended to hit, however; it was a defensive move, meant to enable him to keep an eye on both opponents.
Marlesh tried Leopard's Caress, but Gawyn moved into Folding the Air, carefully knocking aside the blow and waiting for another
from Sleete, who was the more dangerous of the two. Sleete repositioned, taking smooth steps, his blade to the side as he set
his back to the massive piles of hay at the rear of the stuffy barn.
Gawyn moved into Cat on Hot Sand as Marlesh tried Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose. Hummingbird wasn't the right form to
use in such an attack; it was rarely useful against someone on the defensive, but Marlesh was obviously tired of being parried.
He was getting eager. Gawyn could use that. And would.
Sleete was advancing again. Gawyn brought his sword back in to guard as the Warders approached in tandem. Gawyn
immediately moved into Apple Blossoms in the Wind. His blade flashed three times, pushing a wide-eyed Marlesh back. Marlesh
cursed, throwing himself forward, but Gawyn brought his sword up from the previous form and moved flu-idly into Shake Dew
from the Branch. He stepped forward into a series of six sharp blows, three at each opponent, knocking Marlesh back and to the
ground—the man had stepped back into the fight too quickly—and forcing Sleete's blade aside twice, then ending with his blade
against the man's neck.
The two Warders looked at Gawyn, shocked. They had borne similar expressions the last time Gawyn had defeated them, and
the time before that. Sleete carried a heron-mark blade and was near-legendary in the White Tower for his prowess. He was
said to have bested even Lan Man-dragoran twice out of seven bouts, back when Mandragoran had been known to spar with
other Warders. Marlesh wasn't as renowned as his companion, but he was still a fully capable and trained Warder, no easy foe.
But Gawyn had won. Again. Things seemed so simple when he was sparring. The world contracted down—compressed like
berries squeezed for their juice—into something smaller and easier to see from up close. All Gawyn had ever wanted was to
protect Elayne. He wanted to defend Andor. Maybe learn to be a little more like Galad.
Why couldn't life be as simple as a sword match? Opponents clear and arranged before you. The prize obvious: survival. When
men fought, they connected. You became brothers as you traded blows.
Gawyn removed his blade and stepped away, sheathing it. He offered a hand to Marlesh, who took it, shaking his head as he
stood. "You are remarkable, Gawyn Trakand. Like a creature of light, color and shadow when you move. I feel like a babe
holding a stick when I face you."

Gawyn fighting a Bloodknife(assassin who use ring ter'angreals to make themselves superhuman(it slowly kills them)).

ToM

No, he told himself forcefully. This time, I'll do as she asks. He turned to go.
A sound made him hesitate, glancing over his shoulder. Footfalls and clothing rustling. It was too late for novices,
but servants might well be delivering late meals. Bryne and Gawyn weren't the only ones who kept unusual hours in
the White Tower.
It came again. So soft, barely audible. Frowning, Gawyn slipped off his boots, then sneaked forward to glance
around the corner.
There was nothing. Egwene's door—inlaid with gold in the shape of Avendesora—sat closed, the hallway empty.
Sighing, Gawyn shook his head, leaning back against the wall to slip his boots back on. He wished Egwene would
at least let Chubain set guards at her room. Leaving it un-watched was—
Something moved in the shadow just down from Egwene's doorway. Gawyn froze. There wasn't much of a dark
patch there, only a shadow a few inches wide made by an alcove, But as he studied that patch, he had trouble
keeping his eyes on it. His gaze slid free, like a dollop of butter on a hot turnip.
It seemed ... it seemed that the darkness was larger than he had originally thought. Why couldn't he look straight at
it?
There was a flash of movement, and something spun in the air. Gawyn threw himself to the side, and steel struck
stone. One boot on, he dropped the other as he pulled his sword free. The knife that had been thrown for his heart
skidded across the tiled floor.
Gawyn peered round the corner, tense. Someone was fleeing down the hallway. Someone wearing all black, a
hood over the head.
Gawyn took off after the person, sword held before him, arms pump-ing, gait awkward as his unbooted foot hit
opposite his booted one. The assassin was extremely fast. Gawyn bellowed the alarm, his voice echoing through
the silent halls of the Tower; then he cut left. The assassin would have to turn and come up the hallway here to the
right.
Gawyn burst into another hallway, charging on a heading that would cut off the assassin. He skidded around the
corner.
The hallway was empty. Had the assassin doubled back? Gawyn cursed as he ran forward and reached the
original hallway at the other end. It was empty. A doorway, perhaps? All would be dead ends. If Gawyn waited until
help came . . .
No, Gawyn thought, spinning. Darkness. Look for darkness. There was a deep patch of it by a doorframe to his
left. Far too small to hold anyone, but he had that same sense of disorientation as he looked at it.
A person leaped out, swinging a sword for Gawyn's head. He whipped his blade into Cutting the Reeds, knocking
aside the attack. The assassin was much shorter than Gawyn, so he should have had a strong advantage in reach.
Yet the assassin moved with a blurring speed, sword darting at Gawyn in a series of thrusts, not using any sword
forms Gawyn recognized.
Gawyn fell into Twisting the Wind, as he was forced to act as if he were surrounded. He barely kept the attacker at
bay. He could hear yells in the distance—guards responding to his call. He shouted again.
He could sense frustration in the attacker's moves; the assassin had expected to defeat Gawyn quickly. Well,
Gawyn had expected the same, but focusing on this opponent was very difficult. Gawyn's blows—when he could
make them—hit air when they should have landed on flesh. Gawyn twisted to the side, raising his blade for Boar
Rushes Down the Mountain. But that gave the assassin an opening; he flung another knife at Gawyn, forcing him to
the side.
The knife clanged against the wall, and the assassin fled down the hallway. Gawyn rushed after, but he couldn't
keep up. Soon the assassin was far away, darting to the left. That direction led to a series of intersections.
Such speed, Gawyn thought, stopping, breathing in and out in gasps, hands on knees. It isn't natural. Two of
Chubain's guards arrived a moment later, swords at the ready. Gawyn pointed. "Assassin. Listening at Egwene's
door. Went that way."

Gawyn fighting three Bloodknives at once...

ToM

Egwene's sleeping chamber. Her bed, one side against the far wall, was draped with white gauze curtains, and a
lamp burned on the stand beside it. Gawyn crossed the room to her, pushing the gauze aside. Was she sleeping?
Or was she...
He reached a hand toward her neck, but at a faint thump behind,
Gawyn whipped his sword around and blocked the strike coming at his back. Not one, but two blurs of darkness
leaped from the shadows. He spared a glance for Egwene; there was no blood, but he couldn't tell if she was
breathing or not. Had his entrance interrupted the assassins in time?
There was no time to check. He fell into Apple Blossoms in the Wind and began to shout. His men stepped up to
the doorway, then froze there, stunned.
"Get more help!" Gawyn said. "Go!"
Dark-skinned Mazone turned to obey while Celark, looking determined, leaped into the fight.
The Bloodknives shifted and undulated. Gawyn managed to slip into Cat on Hot Sand to test them, but each strike
hit only air. His eyes were already hurting from trying to follow the figures.
Celark attacked from behind, but was as ineffective as Gawyn. Gawyn gritted his teeth, fighting with his back
against the bed. He had to keep them away from Egwene, long enough for help to come. If he could—
Both figures twisted suddenly, striking in tandem at Celark. The man barely had time to curse before a sword took
him in the neck, and bright blood spurted out. Gawyn yelled again, falling into Lizard in the Thornbush, striking at
the backs of the assassins.
Again, his attacks missed. It seemed he was off by only a few hairs. Celark stumbled to the floor with a gurgle, his
blood reflecting lanternlight, and Gawyn couldn't step forward to defend him. Not without exposing Egwene.
One of the assassins turned back to Gawyn while the other beheaded Celark, with a slash that—despite the
shadows—looked a lot like The River Undercuts the Bank, Gawyn stepped back, trying to keep his eyes off the
fallen man. Defend. He only had to defend until help came! He edged to the side.
The Seanchan were wary; they knew he'd fought one of them off before.
But they had such a strong advantage. Gawyn wasn't certain he could stand against two of them.
Yes you will, he told himself sternly. If you fall, Egivene dies.
Was that a flicker of movement from the other room? Could help have come? Gawyn felt a surge of hope, and
edged to the side. From there, he could see Mazone's body on rhe floor, bleeding.
A third shadowed figure glided into the room and shut the door behind locking it. That was why the other two had
been hesitating. They'd wanted to wait until their ally arrived.
The three of them attacked together.
[...]
Gawyn fought for his life against three living shadows of darkness and steel They pressed him to the utmost of his
ability, leaving him bloodied half a dozen times over on arms and legs. He used The Cyclone Rages, and it defended
his vitals. Barely.
Drops of his blood stained the gauze draping Egwene's bed. If his opponents had already killed Egwene, then they
made a good show of con-tinuing to threaten her.
He was growing weak and tired. His boots left bloody prints when he stepped. He couldn't feel the pain. His
parries were becoming sluggish. They'd have him in another moment or two.
No help came, although his voice was hoarse from yelling. Fool! he thought. You need to spend more time thinking
and less time running straight into danger! He should have alerted the entire Tower.
The only reason he was alive was because the three were being careful wearing him down. Once he fell, that
sul'dam had indicated they would go on a rampage through the White Tower. It would take the Aes Sedai
completely by surprise. This night could be a disaster greater than the original Seanchan strike had been.
The three moved forward.
No! Gawyn thought as one of them tried The River Undercuts the Bank. He leaped forward, dodging between two
blades, swinging his weapon. Amazingly, he actually struck, and a voice cried out in the room. Blood sprayed
across the ground, one shadowy form falling.
The two others muttered curses, and all pretense of wearing him down vanished. They struck at him, weapons
flashing amid dark mist. Exhausted, Gawyn took another hit on the shoulder, blood trickling down his arm beneath
his coat.
Shadows. How could a man be expected to fight against shadows? It was impossible!
Where there is light, there must be shadow . . .
A last, desperate thought occurred to him. With a cry, he leaped to the side and yanked a pillow from Egwene's
bed. Blades cut the air around him as he spun and slammed the pillow on the lantern, smothering it.
Plunging the room into darkness. No light. No shadows.
Equality.
The darkness evened out everything, and in the night, you couldn't see color. He couldn't see the blood on his
arms, couldn't see the black shadows of his enemies or the whiteness of Egwene's bed. But he could hear the
men move.
He raised his blade for a desperate strike, using Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose, predicting where the
Bloodknives would move. He was no longer distracted by their misted figures, and his strike hit true, sinking into
flesh.
He twisted, yanking his blade free. The room fell silent save for the fall of the man he'd hit. Gawyn held his breath,
heartbeat thumping in his ears. Where was the last assassin?
No light came in from the room next door; Celark had fallen beside the doorway, blocking the light underneath.
Gawyn was feeling shaky now. He'd lost too much blood. If he had something to throw to create a distraction . . .
but no. Moving would rustle clothing, would give him away.
So, gritting his teeth, he tapped his foot and raised his blade to protect his neck, praying to the Light that the attack
came low.
It did, cutting deeply into his side. He took it with a grunt, but immediately lashed out with all he had. His sword
hissed, and with a brief tug it sliced true. A thump followed; a decapitated head bouncing off the wall, followed by
the noise of a corpse hitting the ground.
Gawyn slumped against the bed, blood gushing from his side. He was blacking out, although it was hard to tell in
the unlit room.

And finally(for him), Gawyn, now both a Warder and wearing all three of those Bloodknives rings, marching to his ~~stomp at the hands of~~"fight" with Demandred.

AMoL

Gawyn passed the charging Trollocs and came up behind a large group of Sharans with strange bows,
almost as big as those of the Two Rivers. They surrounded a mounted man in interlinking armor of coins,
bound at holes in the centers, with a gorget and armguards. The faceplate on his fearsome helmet was
open. That proud face was eerily familiar to Gawyn, handsome and imperious.
This will have to be quick, Gawyn thought. And Light, Vd better not give him a chance to channel.
The Sharan archers stood at the ready, but only two of them turned as Gawyn slipped between them.
Gawyn pulled his knife from his belt sheath. He’d have to drag Demandred off his horse, then go for the
face with his knife. It felt like a coward’s attack, but it was the best way. Trip him, and Gawyn could—
Demandred spun, suddenly, and looked toward Gawyn. A second later, the man thrust his hand forward,
and a beam of white-hot fire—thin as a twig—shot for Gawyn.
It missed, striking just beside Gawyn as he leaped away. Cracks opened all across the ground nearby.
Deep, black cracks, that seemed to open into eternity itself.
Gawyn leaped forward, cutting at Demandred s saddle. So fast. These rings let him react while
Demandred was still staring in confusion.
The saddle came off and Gawyn rammed his knife into the horse’s side. The beast screamed and reared,
throwing Demandred backward, saddle and all.
Gawyn leaped, bloodied knife out, as the horse bolted and the Sharan archers cried out. He loomed over
Demandred, knife raised in two hands.
The Forsaken’s body suddenly jolted, and the man was pushed to the side. Air blew about the blackened
ground, raising flakes of ash, as weaves of air caught Demandred and spun him about, depositing him on
his feet with a clink, sword unsheathed. The Forsaken crouched, and released another weave—Gawyn
felt air spinning next to him, as if threads of it had tried to grab him. He was too quick, and Demandred
obviously had trouble hitting him because of the rings.
Gawyn backed away and switched his knife to his off hand, unsheathing his sword in his right.
“So,” Demandred said, “an assassin. And Lews Therin always spoke of the ‘honor’ of facing a man faceto-
face.”
“I wasn’t sent by the Dragon Reborn.”
“With Night’s Shade surrounding you, a weave that none from this Age remember? Do you know that what
Lews Therin has done to you will leak your life away? You are dead, little man.”
“Then you can join me in the grave,” Gawyn said.
Demandred stood up, taking his sword in two hands in an unfamiliar battle stance. He seemed able to
track Gawyn somewhat despite the rings, but his responses were a hair slower than they should have
been.
Apple Blossoms in the Wind, with three quick strikes, forced Demandred back. Several Sharans came
forward with swords, but Demandred raised a gauntleted hand to warn them off. He did not smile at
Gawyn— this man did not seem as if he ever smiled—but he performed something that was similar to
Lightning of Three Prongs. Gawyn replied with The Boar Rushes Down the Mountain.
Demandred was good. With the edge granted by the rings, Gawyn narrowly escaped Demandred’s
riposte. The two danced through a small circle of open ground guarded by the watching Sharans. Distant
booms threw iron spheres at the hillside, making the ground shake. There were only a few dragons still
firing, but they seemed to be concentrating on this position.
Gawyn grunted, throwing himself into Storm Shakes the Branch, trying to push inside Demandreds guard.
He would need to be close and ram his sword into the armpit or between the seams of the coin armor.
Demandred responded with skill and finesse. Gawyn was soon sweating beneath his mail. He felt faster
than he’d ever been, his reactions like the darting movements of a hummingbird. Yet, try as he did, he
could not land a hit.
“Who are you, little man?” Demandred growled, walking back with sword raised at his side. “You fight
well.”
“Gawyn Trakand.”
“The little queens brother,” Demandred said. “You realize who I am.”
“A murderer.”
“And has your Dragon not murdered?” Demandred said. “Has your sister never killed to keep, dare I say
seize, her throne?”
“That’s different.”
“So everyone always says.” Demandred stepped forward. His sword forms were smooth, his back
always straight but relaxed, and he used the broad, sweeping movements of a dancer. He had absolute
mastery of his sword; Gawyn had not heard that Demandred was known for his swordsmanship, but this
man was as good as any man Gawyn had ever faced. Better, truly.
Gawyn performed Cat Dances on the Wall, a beautiful, sweeping sword form that matched Demandreds.
Then he ducked in with The Serpent’s Tongue Dances, hoping his previous form would have lulled
Demandred into letting a thrust slip past.
Something crashed into Gawyn, throwing him to the ground. He rolled, coming up in a crouch. His
breathing grew labored. He did not feel pain because of the rings, but he had probably broken a rib.
A rock, Gawyn thought. He channeled and brought a rock in to hit me. He had trouble hitting Gawyn
with weaves, because of the shadows, but something large could be tossed at the shadows and still hit
him.
“You cheat,” Gawyn said with a sneer.
“Cheat?” Demandred asked. “Are there rules, little swordsman? As I recall, you tried to stab me in the
back while hiding in a shroud of darkness.”
Gawyn breathed in and out, holding his side. A dragon’s iron sphere thumped into the ground just a short
distance away, then exploded. The blast ripped apart some Sharans, their bodies shielding Gawyn and
Demandred from the brunt of the blast. The soil rained down, like a spray of surf on the deck of a ship. At
least one of the dragons was still working.
“You name me a murderer,” Demandred said, “and I am. I am also your savior, whether you wish it or
not.”
“You’re mad.”
“Hardly,” Demandred walked around him, cutting the air with a few sweeps of his sword. “That man you
follow, Lews Therin Telamon, he is mad. He thinks he can defeat the Great Lord. He cannot. That is
simple fact.”
“You’d have us join the Shadow instead?”
“Yes.” Demandred’s eyes were cold. “If I kill Lews Therin, in victory I will be given the right to remake
the world as I wish. The Great Lord cares nothing for rule. The only way to protect this world is to
destroy it, and then shelter its people. Is that not what your Dragon claims he can do?”
“Why do you keep calling him my Dragon?” Gawyn said, then spat blood to the side. The rings . . . they
urged him forward. His limbs pulsed with strength, energy. Fight! Kill!
“You follow him,” Demandred said.
“I do not!”
“Lies,” Demandred said. “Or perhaps you are simply fooled. I know that Lews Therin leads this army. At
first I was uncertain, but no longer. That weave about you is proof enough, but I have a greater one. No
mortal general has such skill as this day has shown; I face a true master on the battlefield. Perhaps Lews
Therin wears the Mask of Mirrors, or perhaps he leads by sending messages to this Cauthon through the
One Power. It does not matter, I see the truth. I dice with Lews Therin this day.
“I was always the better general. I will prove it here. I would have you tell that to Lews Therin, but you
will not live long enough, little swordsman. Prepare yourself.” Demandred raised his sword.
Gawyn stood, dropping his knife, taking his sword in two hands. Demandred stalked toward him, using
forms that were different from those Gawyn knew. They were still familiar enough for him to counter, but
despite his greater speed, time and time again Demandred caught his sword and deflected it harmlessly to
the side.
The man did not strike. He barely moved, feet set wide apart, sword in two hands, battering aside each
and every attack Gawyn hurled at him. The Dove Takes Flight, The Falling Leaf, Leopard’s Caress.
Gawyn gritted his teeth, growling through them. The rings should have been enough. Why weren’t the
rings enough?
Gawyn stepped back, then ducked backward as another stone came hurtling toward him. It missed him by
inches. Thank the Light for these rings, he thought.
“You fight with skill,” Demandred said, “for one of this Age. But you still wield your sword, little man.”
“What else would I do?”
“Become the sword yourself,” Demandred said, as if baffled that Gawyn did not understand.
Gawyn growled and came in again, battering at Demandred. Gawyn was still faster. Demandred didn’t
attack; he was on the defensive, then, although he didn’t retreat. He just stood there, turning aside each
blow.
Demandred closed his eyes. Gawyn smiled, then thrust in Black Lance’s Last Strike.
Demandred’s sword became a blur.
Something struck Gawyn. He gasped, pulling to a stop. He wobbled and fell to his knees, looking down at
a hole in his gut. Demandred had thrust straight through the mail, then pulled his sword free in a single
fluid motion.
Why can’t. . . why can’t I feel anything?
“If you do survive this and see Lews Therin,” Demandred said, “tell him I am very much looking forward
to a match between the two of us, sword against sword. I have improved since we last met.”
Demandred whipped his sword around, catching the back of the blade in the crook between his thumb and
forefinger. He pulled the sword across, stripping the blood from the steel and splattering it to the ground.
He slid the weapon into his sheath. He shook his head, then released a ball of fire toward a still-firing
dragon.
It fell silent. Demandred strode away along the edge of the steep slope facing the river, his Sharan guard
forming around him. Gawyn collapsed to the ground, stunned, spurting his life onto the burned grass. He
tried to hold in the blood through trembling fingers.

That's one brother down. Now on to Galad... Luckly with him I'll just say "Galad>Gawyn win swordsmanship", and jump right to his fight with Demandred.

AMoL

Demandred was a blademaster. Galad had assumed this would be the case, but he preferred to test his
assumptions.
The two danced back and forth inside the ring of watching Sharans. Galad wore lighter armor, mail
under his tabard, and stepped more quickly. The interwoven coins Demandred wore were heavier
than simple mail, but good against a sword.
“You are better than your brother was,” Demandred said. “He died easily.”
The man was trying to enrage Galad. He did not succeed. Cold, careful. Galad moved in. The
Courtier Taps His Fan. Demandred responded with something very similar to The Falcon Stoops,
slapping away Galad’s attack. Demandred stepped back, walking around the perimeter of the ring,
sword out to the side. At the beginning, he had spoken a great deal. Now he made only the occasional
gibe.
They circled each other in the darkness, lit by torches held in Sharan hands. One rotation. Two.
“Come now,” Demandred said. “I’m waiting.”
Galad remained silent. Each moment he stalled was a moment Demandred was not sending
destruction upon Elayne or her armies. The Forsaken seemed to realize it, for he came in swiftly.
Three strikes: down, side, backhand. Galad met each one, their arms a blur.
Motion to the side. It came from a rock that Demandred had thrown at Galad by channeling. Galad
dodged it, barely, then raised his sword against the blows that came next. Furious strikes downward,
The Boar Rushes Down the Mountain, crashing against Galad’s blade. He held against that, but was
not able to stop the following twist of the blade that cut his forearm.
Demandred stepped back, his sword dripping Galad’s blood. They circled around again, watching
one another. Galad felt warm blood inside his glove, from where it had seeped down his arm. A little
blood loss could slow a man, weaken him.
Galad breathed in and out, abandoning thought, abandoning worry. When Demandred next struck,
Galad anticipated it, stepping aside and striking down with two hands, biting deeply into the leather
behind De-mandred’s knee guard. The sword glanced off the side of the armor, but cut true otherwise.
As Galad whipped back around, Demandred was limping.
The Forsaken grimaced. “You’ve blooded me,” he said. “It has been a very long time since someone
did that.”
The ground began to heave and break beneath Galad. Desperate, he leaped forward, getting close to
Demandred—forcing him to stop channeling, lest he topple himself. The Forsaken grunted, swinging,
but Galad was inside his enemy’s guard.
Too close to do a full swing, Galad raised his sword and bashed it— pommel first—at Demandred’s
face. Demandred caught Galad’s hand with his, but Galad grabbed Demandred by the helmet, holding
tightly, trying to force the helmet down over the Forsaken’s eyes. He grunted, both men locked, neither
moving.
Then, with a sickening sound Galad heard quite distinctly, his muscle ripped in the arm where he’d
been cut. His sword slipped from numb fingers, his arm spasming, and Demandred threw him
backward and struck with a flash of the blade.
Galad fell to his knees. His right arm—severed at the elbow by Demandred’s slice—flopped to the
ground in front of him.
Demandred stepped back, panting. He had been worried. Good. Galad held to his bleeding stump,
then spat at Demandred’s feet.
Demandred snorted, then swung his blade once more.
All went black.

And with the brothers out of the way, time for the "Lan" part of this feat bump...

AMoL

"Lan Charged towards the Trollocs. His lance, and its three replacements, had all shattered hours ago. At his neck, he wore the cold medallion that Berelain had sent through the gateway with a simple note.
I do not know how Galad ended up with this, but I believe he wished me to send it to Cauthon.
Lan did not consider what he was doing. The void did not allow such things. Some men would call it brash, foolhardy, suicidal. The world was rarely changed by men who were unwilling to try being at least one of the three. He sent what comfort he could to distant Nynaeve through the bond, then prepared to fight.
As Lan neared the Trollocs, the beasts set up a spear line to stop him. A horse would impale itself trying to push through that. Lan drew in breath, calm within the void, planning to slice the head off the first spear, then ram his way through the line.
It was an impossible maneuver. All the Trollocs would need to do was squeeze together and slow him. After that, they could overwhelm Mandarb and pull Lan from the saddle.
But someone had to destroy Demandred. With the medallion at his neck, Lan raised his sword.
A flaming arrow streaked down from the sky and hit the throat of the Trolloc right in front of Lan. Without hesitation, Lan used the fallen Trolloc as an opening in the line of spears. He crashed between the Shadowspawnm, trampling the fallen one. He would need to-
Another arrow fell, dropping a Trolloc. Then another fell, and another, in quick succession. Mandarb crashed through the confused, burning and dying Trollocs as an entire rain of burning arrows dropped in front of him. "Malkier" Lan yelled, heeling Mandarb forward, trampling corpses but maintaining speed as the way opened. A hail of light dropped before him, each arrow precise, killing a Trolloc that tried to stand before him.
He thundered through the ranks, shoving aside Trollocs, flaming arrows guiding his way in the darkness like a roadway. The Trollocs stood thick on ether side, but those in front of him dropped and dropped until there were no more.
Think you, Tam.
Lan cantered his steed along the eastern slope of the Hights, alone now, past the soldiers, past the Shadowspawn. He was one with the breeze that streamed through his hair, one with the sinewy animal beneath him that carried him forward, one with the target that was his destination, his fate.
Demandred stood at the sound of the hoofbeats, his Sharan companions rising in front of him.
With a roar, Lan heeled Mandarb into the Sharans that blocked his path. The stallion leaped, front legs driving the guards before him into the ground. Mandrab wheeled around, his haunches knocking down more Sharans, his forelegs coming down on yet others.
Lan threw himself from the saddle-Mandarb had no protection against channeling, and so to fight from horseback would be to invite Demandred to kill his mount-and hit the ground at a run, sword out.
"Another one?" Demandred roared. "Lews Therin, you are beginning to-"
He cut off as Lan reached him and flung himself into Thistledown Floats on the Whirlwind, a tempestuous, offensive sword form. Demandred whipped his sword up, catching the blow on his weapon and skidding backward a step at the force of it. They exchanged three blows, quick as cracks of lightning, Lan still in motion until the last blow caught Demandred on the cheek. Lan felt a slight tug, and a blood sprayed into the air.
Demandred felt at the wound in his cheek, and his eyes opened winder. "Who are you?" Demandred asked.
"I am the man who will kill you."

The lead in for mood setting reasons, and...

AMoL

"Lan held nothing back.
He did not fight as he had trained Rand to fight. No careful testing, no judging the terrain, no careful evaluation. Demandred could channel, and despite the medallion, Lan couldn't give his enemy time to think, time to weave and hurl rocks at him or open the ground beneath him.
Lan burrowed deeply into the void, allowing instincts to guide him. He did went beyond lack of emotions, burning away everything. He did not need to judge the terrain, for he felt the land as if it were part of him. He did not need to test Demandred's strength. One of the Forsaken, with many decades of experience, would be the most skilled swordsman Lan had ever faced.
Lan was vaguely aware of the Sharans spreading out to make a broad circle around the two combatants as they fought. Apparently Demandred was confident enough of his skill that he did not allow interference from others.
Lan spun into a sequence of attacks. Water Flows Downhill became Whirlwind on the mountain which became Hawk Dives into the Brush. His forms were like streams blending into a larger and larger river. Demandred fought as well as Lan had feared. Though the man's forms were slightly different from those Lan knew, the years had not changed the nature of a swordfight.
"You are...good..." Demandred said with a grunt, falling back before Wind and Rain, a line of blood dripping from his chin. Lan's sword flashed in the air, reflecting the red light of a bonfire nearby.
Demandred came back with Striking the Spark, which Lan anticipated, countering. He took a scratch along the side, but ignored it. The exchange set Lan back a step, and gave Demandred the chance to pick up a rock with the One Power and hurl it at Lan.
Deep within the void, Lan felt the stone coming. It was an understanding of the fight-one that ran deeply into him, to the very core of his soul. The way Demandred stepped, the direction his eyes flickered, told Lan exactly what was coming.
As he flowed into his next sword form, Lan brought his weapon up across his chest and stepped backward. A stone the size of a man's head passed directly in front pf him. Lan flowed forward, arm moving into his next form as another stone flew under his arm, tugging wind with it. Lan raised his sword and flowed around the path of the third stone, which missed him by a thumb's width, rippling his clothing.
Demandred blocked Lan's attack, but he breathed hoarsely. "Who are you?" Demandred whispered again. "No one of this Age has such skill. Asmodean? No, no. He couldn't have fought me like this. Lews Therin? It is you behind that face, isn't it?"
"I am just a man," Lan whispered. "That is all I have ever been."
Demandred growled, then launched an attack. Lan responded with Stones Falling Down the Mountain, but Demandred's fury forced him back a few steps.
Despite Lan's initial offensive, Demandred was the better swordsman. Lan knew this by the same sense that told him when to strike, when to parry, when to step and when to withdraw. Perhaps if they had come to the fight evenly, it would be different. They had not. Lan had been fighting for an entire day, and though he'd been Healed from his worse wounds, the smaller ones still ached. Beyond that, a Healing in and of itself was draining.
Demandred was still fresh. The Forsaken stopped talking and engrossed himself in the duel. He also stopped using the One Power, focused only on his swordpaly. He did not grin as he took the advantage. He did not seem like a man who grinned very often.
Lan slipped away from Demandred, but the Forsaken pressed forward with Boar Rushes Down the Mountain, again pushing Lan back to the perimeter of the circle, battering at his defenses, cutting him on the arm, then the shoulder, then finally the thigh.
I've only time for one last lesson...
"I have you," Demandred finally growled, breathing heavily. "Whoever you are, I have you. You cannot win."
"You didn't listen to me," Lan whispered.
One last lesson. The hardest...
Demandred struck, and Lan saw his opening. Lan lunged forward, placing Demandred's sword point against his own side and ramming himself forward onto it.
"I did not come here to win," Lan whospered, smiling. "I came here to kill you. Death is lighter then a feather."
Demandred's eyes opened wide, and he tried to pull back. Too late. Lan's sword took him straight through the throat.
The world grew dark as Lan slipped backward off the sword. He felt Nynaeve's fear and pain as he did, and he sent his love to her."

Just so you know, he lived through that.

Aragorn might have the better sword(though it's not cutting through Power wrought steel as easily as orc helmets), but.... Yeah, in "pure skill" and "drive to win", I'm going with Lan here.

Ragnarok Debating

Post by GuardianAngel1911-Admin on Dec 14, 2013 16:44:03 GMT

Post by shgondunstan on Dec 14, 2013 17:58:53 GMT

Post by matcauthon1987 on Sept 22, 2016 13:04:02 GMT

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