Should he had proceeded into the narrow passage, the hobgoblin would've not been able to touch him. However, out of character, Sauldor readied for battle against the rogue hobgoblin.
Was it escaping? Was it simply out for him? It did not matter, Sauldor had steeled his resolve to fight the scourge, convinced that he would be abandoned should he fail to prove his worth to the prince.
The hobgoblin was almost identical to the one he had faced earlier. Only that the smugness is gone, and before him was a scourge who had just watched a massacre unfold. Still, it approached with hostility and killing intent, further intensified by desperation.
Banking on the observations he had made of the prince as he fought the scourges, Sauldor closely anticipated the scourge's next move.
The sluggish movement should have brought him enough time. But when the hobgoblin made the similar horizontal swing, he did not feel any less fear. Nonetheless, he had learned his lesson. He evaded and did not parry.
As soon as the swing was full, and the mace was back to the ground, Sauldor jumped to his feet and charged towards the scourge's open belly, imitating Meldor's tactics.
He prepared a stabbing strike from beside the waist, using the strength of both of his hands. And he seemed to be merely a couple of meters away from the abdomen, when without notice he found himself flung into the air.
Not knowing how to break his fall, he ungraciously crashed to the ground, with his left shoulder receiving the full weight of the impact. His sword broke free from his hand, and for a while, he laid on the ground, wincing and defenseless. Turning his eyes to the scourge, he realized what had happened. While he was focused on landing the strike, he failed to noticed that the hobgoblin has separated one of his hands from the mace to meet his attack.
Although still in great pain, he scrambled to find his weapon, when he felt the tremors from the hobgoblin who had turned to finished what it had begun.
The torch on the wall aided him, and in the dimness, he saw his blade glimmer against the light. He crawled towards it, using only one of his hands, as the other had been crippled by searing pain. After a few seconds, that felt like minutes, he had reached where the blade was. He rummaged through the dark and dust, and finally found the hilt.
Then, as if a giant boulder had fallen unto his back, he was pushed back to the ground. With his upper back pounded, and his chest pressed against the ground, blood was forced out of his mouth. Were it not for his elven cuirass cushioning the strike, he would've sustained greater damage.
His vision faltered, his breathing grew unstable and the pain that was only in his shoulder, intensified and spread throughout his upper body. He felt like he was dying, and for a moment, he considered giving up, and let the second smash finish his agony.
But as his mind prepared for the final thoughts to be thought, he remembered how effortlessly the prince dealt with tens of hobgoblins. In a sharp contrast, he was already dying after he had only fought one.
He felt insulted. And he had begun to think of how his fellow elves would react to such a death. The prince would comment on what a disappointment he was, a far cry from his father. Cirdan would tell of how he dared to exchange words with him when he couldn't even deal with lowly scourges. Elendiel would probably be indifferent. Tholpiel on the other hand, the kindest of them all, would likely be sad, but not sad enough.
Irritated by his thoughts, a sudden burst of strength coursed through him, and he was able to turn his body around.
Giving him no break, the first to greet him was the descending head of the mace. Adrenaline had quickened his senses, and he blocked the smash with his blade. Impressively, the sword withstood the fury of the blunt weapon.
However, behind his block were his aching joints, and thus he quickly tilted the sword to the side, letting the mace fall to his left and relieve him of the weight. Then he rolled over to his right, and attempted to jumped back up to his feet. But his injuries would only allow him back to his knees.
Still, he was in a better position.
He had better vision of the enemy, and through the hobgoblin's large and clumsy movement he was able to predict the next move: a wild one-handed horizontal strike in his direction.
He prepared to duck in his kneeling position, but as he lowered his body, a stabbing sensation made him quickly revert. Left with no choice, he was forced to parry the strike.
He knew it was foolish, but he did not know it would be the end for his sword. The blade shattered, and made way for the weapon. And though the head of the mace would miss him, he was caught by one of the spikes, incurring a large tear across his temple. Blood abundantly poured out of the deep wound, covering half his face.
"I'm really going to die." he whispered underneath his breath.
He cursed his pitiful position. He regretted he did not train when he had the chance. And that he did not listen to the prince's advices.
Looking at the broken blade in his hand, reminded him of how useless he was, even to the very end. And with his hope extinguished, he looked up to at least bravely meet the killing blow.
He thought it was his fading senses fooling him because he did not see the hobgoblin in front. When he looked around, he saw the scourge walk away from him.
Yet, his relief would be short-lived, it turned out, the mace slipped away from the scourge's grasp with the last strike and the hobgoblin was simply retracting his weapon.
Yet, his despair would be just as fleeting. He saw an opportunity, between his broken blade and a foe who had his back turned.
Using the last of his strength, and the last embers of his resolve, he pushed himself to stand. He clenched his jaw and held his breath, bracing for the pain. Then he charged towards the hobgoblin with his injuries protesting for him to stop and fall.
He continued on even past the point where it was unbearable. And past the unbearable… was numbness. To his surprised, his pain grew ever numb as he continually defied his weaker self. Before he knew it, he found himself within reach of the scourge.
With a shout, he burst forth, his eyes glowing and his sword aflame. Both of his hands on the hilt, he delivered a blow on the scourge's heel. The shattered weapon delivered, and inflicted a tear, cutting the heel bone.
The hobgoblin groaned in pain as the wound opened up like the front of a broken shoe. Having thin legs did not help, and imbalanced, the scourge came crushing down. Sauldor quickly moved to finish his work. He placed himself on the shoulders, and pierced the nape, slaying the hobgoblin.
He noticed that the battle ended right in front of the throne room's entrance. He half-expected the prince to emerge and congratulate him. He did not. In fact, he was out of sight. All he saw were corpses, including the goblin king with an Orchgond already carved out.
He was tired and aching, but the fear that the prince had already abandoned him, made him deny himself rest the second time. His hands limp at his sides, he trudged past the gates.
To both his relief and anger, he saw the prince digging through the pile. Meldor had known his presence but kept his attention to the metal wares.
"My lord, why have you forsaken me?" he said. "I could have easily died in the fight when you could have easily assisted me."
"In all of elven history, no armed elf had died in the hands of a scourge." Meldor said as he scrutinized a sword. When he found it wanting, he threw it back to the mound, and pivoted his head to Sauldor.
"If you did, wouldn't it have been a historic moment?"
Sauldor did not take kindly the jest and hurt, he couldn't help but tear up.
"Come forth, Sauldor son of Holdor, Scholar of the Atherdaine." the prince beckoned him.
He was formally addressed, and in a manner only royalty does. Out of instinct, he obeyed, and approached Meldor.
"Kneel." was the next command.
He obliged.
"You remain clumsy and weak, without any semblance of skill belonging to a warrior. You are a far cry from your father."
The words, followed by the sound of a sword being slowly unsheathed, made his skin crawl. His senses told him to run. But it was his prince, and to die in his hands would be a far better death than what might await him further along the road.
"But you displayed courage and perseverance… and that is half the journey."
The blade gently landed on his shoulders.
"I, Meldor, son of Meldor, rightful ruler of the Atherdaine, formally accept you in my service."