[ WP ] Describe a single strike by the greatest warrior in all the land .

**The Greatest Warrior** 
 
 The two knights stood opposite each other, on a hillock streaked with mist; a golden haze in the early morning light. 
 
 Beneath the haze, felled banners lay on dewy grass, dead hands holding them. There were so many -- the Red Horse of House Stayvrick, the Flayed Moon of the House Argold. The Dancing Nudes of House Gorstock, the Fluttering Wings of House Quicktreat. The flags of every major army in Ten Kingdoms, strewn amid rotting corpses. 
 
 The knights were wading through the haze, gold fog coiling about their waists. One of them was limping; a man in rusty steel, leaning on a halberd to hold him steady. The visor of his helmet was up, to reveal a bruised and beaten face beneath. His blue eyes were the only feature visible amid the mud, blood and grime. 
 
 The other man was fully armoured, in what looked like layers of onyx. His visor down, his face was a gleaming black space. He was eight feet tall with a body thick as an oak tree, and he held a broadsword in one hand. 
 
 During the fray, nobody had been sure whose side the Black Warrior was on. He had simply turned up at the melee, swinging and hacking at anyone in his path. Looking for fame in battle, uncaring of where he found it. 
 
 `` Wait,'' gasped Sir Gallant, the blue-eyed man. `` Just wait one second for me to catch my breath, would you?'' 
 
 Surprisingly, the Black Warrior did so. After all, they were the only two left standing. There was no harm in a short delay, for the sake of honour. 
 
 Dark birds wheeled in the sky, impatient. They were waiting for the last spurts of movement to fade away, so their meal could begin. 
 
 `` Just one thing,'' Sir Gallant gasped, still leaning on his halberd; swaying now, clearly in no shape to fight. `` Just one thing.'' He looked up at the Black Warrior, and smiled. 
 
 `` I'm Sir Argo Gallant,'' he said, `` the greatest warrior in the land. You've heard of me?'' 
 
 Slowly, the Black Warrior nodded -- inclining his whole body to covey the gesture through his armour. 
 
 `` You think you are a match for me? You think you could defeat me at my best? Come now, a fellow of your size must.'' 
 
 Slowly, the Black Warrior nodded again. 
 
 Sir Gallant took a straining breath, readying his strike. Abruptly, he let his halberd drop, and fell to his knees. His platemail clanked. 
 
 `` Then really,'' he wheezed, `` would n't you rather battle on a day when I can stand? Would n't the glory be tenfold?'' 
 
 The Black Warrior looked at the unarmed man, and said nothing. He held his sword steady for a moment. 
 
 Then he turned, and began lurching toward the hilly horizon, away from the battlefield. 
 
 Sir Gallant was left to wheeze and gasp, glad his strike had landed. A firm blow to the ego. Usually did the trick. 
 
 Little did the Black Warrior know, Sir Gallant was not the greatest warrior in the land because he was the strongest, or the quickest, or the best equipped. 
 
 Sir Gallant was the greatest because he always found a way to live. 
 
 While all the better fighters lay dead and gone around him, soon to be food for the birds. 
 
 

