A stout dwarf named Gaffond jogged out with two war hammers resting on his broad shoulders.
He stopped before the knight and squire he would be facing and screamed in their face.
The one dwarf still waiting at the far end of the bench laughed and clapped his thigh. “Gaffond, you right crazy bastard. Keep your mind focused for once!”
I grinned at the dwarf’s enthusiasm as well, for now Gaffond was shouting at the crowd, both hammers up as if challenging the entire arena.
At last, he quieted, and the match began.
I watched with interest as the fight got underway, the dwarf proving once again that his race had the speed and dexterity it took to survive in combat.
Gaffond had just blocked a spear thrust and kicked the squire’s shield, denting it in the middle, when I received a most unpleasant surprise.
Preston scooched down the bench and cleared his throat.
I glanced over and sighed. “Whatever your business was with Ilona, the past is the past. I have enough enemies in Enea, Preston. I don’t need another.”
“Wisely stated, Dagon. But I am not here to be your enemy.”
I examined the elf’s face and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, for now. “Okay, what is it you want?”
Preston shrugged. “I feel an apology is far too dramatic of an expression. I would like to say that I underestimated you and your friends.”
Rul grunted beside me, rubbing one of his big fists. “We might be commoners, but a hammer doesn’t care who swings it.”
The elf nodded, accepting Rul’s wisdom. “Just so. Sherwood bested a truly gifted fighter. I am impressed by his skill if not the restraint of his tongue.”
I laughed and held a hand up to the elf. “And you are any different?”
“Not by any means,” Preston admitted, a smile crossing his face. “No, I’ve always been what the Kazamari like to call an asshole. Crude term, but it does ring true occasionally.”
This time, even Rul chuckled.
Not sure what else to do, I held out my hand to Preston. “I meant what I said. I say we leave the past behind us. I have a few asshole friends already. One more wouldn’t hurt.”
Preston took my hand and shook it.
Then a loud clang announced the beginning of the end for those in the arena.
The knight had taken a hammer blow to the middle of his breastplate.
Knocked unconscious, the elf wasn’t able to yield.
Gaffond ignored the fallen elf, however, and in thirty seconds managed to best the squire as well by flattening the elf’s armored boot, planting a shoulder in his chest, then sliding a dagger up under his chin.
The dwarf roared to celebrate his victory, and the crowd applauded his vigor.
Rul glanced down at the dwarf and shouted, “Your friend has lost his mind. I think I’ll buy him a few drinks when this is through.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” the dwarf replied with a wink. “The bastard just fought his battle half sober. He’ll be wanting to fix that immediately.”
I shook my head, unable to imagine fighting after drinking.
It would explain Gaffond’s intense behavior, but how he’d moved so efficiently while partially in his cups, I couldn’t imagine.
The arena floor was cleared, and then a knight and a squire entered.
The squire had the same tall shield and saber combination most of the rest had before him.
But the knight’s armor was a charcoal gray. No green or white marked its exterior. Stranger still was the elf’s choice of weapons.
Two broadswords hung from the knight’s hips.
Preston gasped beside me.
When I turned to the elf for an explanation, his gaze remained locked on the gray-clad knight.
“Unlike Sirdane, Wylas was chosen to fight in the Shirgan vanguard. He is the first second-tier champion ever to do so.”
Rul leaned across me, obviously interested. “So, this Wylas is a worthy foe, then?”
Preston scoffed. “More than worthy. He has progressed further than most ever will. Some attribute his potency to the work he’s done with his core.”
Glancing to me at last, the elf asked in a quiet voice. “Have you heard of meridians?”
I sighed, the word all too fresh and familiar in my mind. “Indeed, I have.”
One of Preston’s brows rose in surprise. Tilting his head toward me, he whispered, “Some claim he has unlocked all five of his meridians. That usually doesn’t happen until the third or even fourth ascension.”
Our private conversations were interrupted when the herald called the challenger.
“From Talwod in distant Hearth Ring, welcome Dagon Haldorson!”
Rul cursed beside me. “Damn it, Dagon. You get to have all the fun.”
Preston wished me good luck, telling me at last in a display of infinite wisdom, “Avoid Wylas’ swords. He likes to cut people with them.”
Chuckling despite my nerves, I got to my feet. I nodded to the few remaining challengers still awaiting their own bouts.
As I walked toward my gear, I tapped into the mana potion I’d swallowed before the match started. One of Ilona’s finest, the potion not only granted minor healing, but it contained a large amount of mana I could keep in reserve.
It was the last Ilona had brought with us, and facing one of the best elven fighters, I was pleased I’d saved it.
“I have to admit, I’m starting to like your people, Preston,” I said as I took up the ten-foot bonewood spear I’d commissioned in Kazamar. Then I fixed my shield over my forearm and slid my helm onto my head.
Picking up my shield last of all, I felt ready for the challenge ahead.
The elf asked with a crooked grin, “And why is that?”
I looked between the elf and my orc friend and winked. “They don’t call me beast or savage, and they even pronounced the name of my village right.”
“Good luck, Beast,” Rul shouted as I stepped from the staging room, making me laugh despite my nerves.
As I walked across the sand of the arena, I observed a thousand differences between Shirga and Kazamar.
The sand, for one, was more stone than it was dust, a reliable and even surface to fight on. It also had a different smell.
The Shirgan arena still had the lingering stench of spilled blood. Such a reality could not be scrubbed clean.
But an herbal aroma, savory and pervasive, filled the air as well.
Staring up at the endless balconies, I realized how damn tall the structure truly was. It was dizzying to behold.
I pushed the thoughts away and glanced to my opponent. The squire stood behind Wylas, hunched in a fighting position with shield and saber.
I ignored the elf entirely.
I had but one foe in this arena, and that was most certainly Wylas.
The elf stood casually, his face exposed.
Our eyes met briefly. His were a stone gray that analyzed me efficiently. His helm was customized, lacking a top plume as well as the visor.
Wylas bowed his head an inch before drawing his broadswords at the same time.
The sound of steel ringing in the air warmed my blood faster than anything else could.
I reached inward and tapped into Rage, urging mana to flood my limbs.
Something different happened.
This time, when the mana filled my limbs, I felt the energy return almost at once, cycling back toward my core. My newly opened meridians acted like rivers turned in upon themselves.
Rather than diminish the effect of Rage, my body possessed the same enhanced power, but I doubted I’d be using much if any of my mana to do so.
I grinned, reveling in the sensation of boundless strength.
Then all went silent as the bout began.
Wylas didn’t move.
His squire moved forward instead, closing the distance between us.
My mind spun as it worked out the problem set before me.
Unless I imbue my spear and skewer the elf in a single attack, that shield will block most of my attacks. Leaving the spear where it lies and using my hammer to cave in the shield would work.
Then Wylas would have the advantage.
Keep the spear, force the squire to make a mistake, and if he fights well, I’ll imbue the spear and go for a wounding attack.
I waited until the squire was ten feet away before acting.
Then I let my spear fly.
Clutching my shield before me, I let the spear flick forward in the first steps of Cycle of the Adder.
My first attack was aimed at the squire’s leading thigh. It rebounded off the elf’s shield as the squire repositioned it in an instant.
The second attack flicked high toward the visor.
The squire parried with his saber and sidestepped at the same time.
But my third attack, sped up by Rage, found its mark by slamming into the squire’s armor over his hip.
The plate mail deflected the attack.
Must be mana-forged or tempered, I thought. Might need to imbue the spear after all.
Regardless, the piece of armor dented in, causing the squire to hitch to one side in pain. I had slowed the elf no matter what.
Still, Wylas stood patiently.
His eyes studied me as I prepared for another combination.
Showing spirit, the squire was the next to push the attack, however. Darting forward with impressive speed, the squire deflected the tip of my counter with his shield and thrust out at me with his saber.
The elf’s aim would place the sword just inside the reach of my shield. I’d opened my guard a bit when countering, and the elf took advantage of that window.
The sword might very well have penetrated my scale armor as well had I not been prepared for such a daring assault.
I spun the spear in my hands while giving ground.
Cycle of the Adder made use of a spear’s tail as well as its fangs.
The butt of my spear clanged against the squire’s saber a half second before it landed.
The level of training this young squire had received impressed me. But the real fight was waiting for me, and waiting patiently.
I could have let the squire back away and traded blows with him a few more rounds before ending it.
My blood lust demanded otherwise.
Letting the spear continue to rotate, I struck the squire’s unguarded helm with the butt of my spear on its second pass.
Knocked off balance, the squire stood vulnerable.
Catching the spear’s shaft under my arm, I gripped it firmly and thrust forward.
I aimed for a place on the squire’s leg that would injure him badly enough to end the match in a single blow.
Wylas shouted, “The squire yields!”
I averted my attack at the last second and took a few steps back.
The squire glanced to his knight, then muttered something in the Shirgan tongue.
Bowing to Wylas, the squire turned and raced off the arena floor.
The famous knight smiled coolly. “Thank you for sparing my protégé. He will be deadly in a few more years, and I didn’t want him to be hindered by a limp. Not all injuries can be perfectly healed, after all.”
I nodded but kept my mouth shut.
I wasn’t here to chat with the elf. I was here to knock him down and move on to the next round of the trials.
Wylas lifted his two swords, taking a stance for the first time. He stood balanced, one sword forward and tilted up, the other hanging down over his right shoulder.
Before I could think of what strategy might work best against his stance, the elf shot forward.
My spear darted out to ward the knight’s approach, but Wylas swept the spear away with his leading sword.
I let the spear rotate in my hands and struck again.
Wylas tilted his body and let the blow land on his armored shoulder instead of his neck. Then, twisting sharply, he slashed my spear with both of his swords at once.
The bonewood was a resilient material to be certain. Even when struck by a sharp blade, it should have only chipped.
Yet both of Wylas’ broadswords cut clean through and sent only the slightest shiver down the shaft. The faint glow of mana I saw around the blades told me the rest of the story.
Wylas could imbue his swords like I could my spear.
Regardless of how sturdy my dwarven armor was, I couldn’t let the knight touch me.
Dropping what remained of the spear, I took a half step forward.
Wylas had committed to his slashing attack, and his body remained twisted to my right.
I placed a foot between his, gripped the edges of his breastplate in both hands, and pivoted with all my strength.
Dropping to my knee, I hurled Wylas over my shoulder.
Even dressed in full plate armor, the elf weighed less than I did, and with my enhanced strength, he flew ten feet in the air before landing.
Wylas tumbled once, twisted to adjust his fall, and recovered before he struck the sand a second time.
It was an impressive display of coordination.
But I’d already unsheathed my cleaver sword, which had been my goal.
Wylas grinned with feral glee. “You have plenty of skill, Dagon. I’ll hand you that. But do you think you can beat me?”
“The gods will decide,” I said plainly, taking my first step toward him.
The elf scoffed. “Men and their gods! I think my blades will decide.”
With that, he charged toward me.
Wylas had committed himself to this fight. He’d shown me his hidden advantage, and for all he knew, I could not do the same.
I intended to use that to my advantage.
So, when the elf came at me with a flurry of slashing attacks, all designed to keep an enemy at bay, I remained on the move.
I needed him to think I was afraid of his mana-imbued swords.
My short sword was a poor match for the length of his broadswords. I would only have one chance of defeating Wylas soundly.
The elf pressed toward me, lashing out with his blades almost continuously.
I ducked and dove away, always careful to avoid any actual contact.
He increased his pace and forced me to block at last.
Even then, I ducked down to avoid the worst of it.
Crouching in the blood-soaked sands of the Shirgan arena, I watched a foot of Wylas’ glowing broadsword slice cleanly through the top of my round shield.
Time slowed as the blade scored a path through the tempered metal and wood of the shield, performing as no sword could without the assistance of mana.
I couldn’t see my opponent but could picture his posture in my mind’s eye.
Both of his swords were extended to his sides, the one still cutting my shield like a ribbon, moving away from his body.
Bunching my legs and tapping into Rage, I launched myself into the elf.
My damaged shield crashed into Wylas’ chest and stomach with incredible force.
I heard the whoosh of the elf’s air leaving his lungs.
And when I stopped and looked over the shield, the knight was still reeling from my counter.
Surprisingly, he managed to keep his feet.
This time, as the crowd gaped at us in near silence from above, Wylas didn’t respond with verbal attacks. His handsome face contorted in frustration, and he stalked forward to finish the fight.
He is more human than he would ever admit, I mused. His emotions and overconfidence will be the reason he loses to me. Otherwise, the elf has me beaten in skill, if not raw strength.
Feeling the cold calm of certainty, I lifted my sword and shield into place and waited.
It was easier to see Wylas now that the top eight inches of my shield had been shorn off.
He moved with a leopard’s grace.
He would try to end this in a single combination.
I backstepped as he flung out a feint.
Spinning, Wylas swung in an overhand chop. He assumes I’ll avoid this one as well. It’s the thrust behind it he plans to finish me with.
Drawing from my reserves, I flooded my shield and blade with mana.
Fear and desperation made me use even more than I had back in the gym.
Then, instead of evading his overhead strike, I stepped into it.
My shield deflected the blow with such efficiency that Wylas lost his grip on the sword. In slow motion, it spun and vibrated, no longer bound by the elf’s mana.
The thrust I’d been anticipating came, but the elf’s aim was off from the unanticipated impact of his sword. I turned to the side, letting his sword glide past my torso. Its blade cleaved through the black, metal scales of my armor and into my flesh.
It wasn’t deep enough, however.
With all the speed I could muster, I swung my cleaver sword down on the elf’s wrist. The blade cut through the armor as well as the flesh and bone beneath with terrifying ease.
Before Wylas even registered my next move, I gripped the back of his shoulder and brought my rear knee up into his gut.
Like I’d done with Jag, I made sure to augment the limb with plenty of mana.
The fancy charcoal plate armor buckled inward, and Wylas tumbled away bonelessly.
Then time resumed its normal pace.
I panted as I watched the defeated elf struggle to breathe.
His hand still gripped his broadsword, an injury that was regrettable. Still, knowing the elf’s resolve, he’d find some way to recover and adapt to a new style of fighting.
It was his fault for assuming weakness on my part.
I dropped my shield and held up my cleaver sword, a single streak of crimson marring its dark metal.
The crowd rose to their feet and applauded.
I searched for Caydri or Ilona but could find neither. They were out there, though, so I tilted back my head and roared in triumph. I shouted for them and the young ones still growing in their bellies.
At last, when the crowd quieted and healers surrounded Wylas, I turned to leave.
“Dagon!” Wylas shouted in a strained voice.
I looked back.
The elf was on his feet, and the healers had finally unclasped his caved-in breastplate, which allowed him to breathe more easily.
His eyes were gleaming with a hint of madness or zeal.
He pointed at me, his one remaining hand shaking slightly. “You. You are like me!”
I shrugged. “Before we fought, less so. Now that you’ve tasted defeat, maybe more. Take the lesson you’ve been given today, Wylas. If you do, some day you’ll be unstoppable.”
The elf’s face twisted with rage, but the emotion rebounded into something else.
Recognition perhaps.
Finally, Wylas slammed his gauntleted fist to his chest and nodded. “As you say, Dagon. As you say.”
I smiled at the battered knight, impressed with his reaction to my harsh words.
Then I nodded before walking away.
A general murmur of the crowd buzzed above and around me.
I’d managed to make a stir once more. This is your doing, Raven, I said to my god. You are the one who loves spectacle.
I received no answer but hadn’t expected one.
Walking toward the arch that led out of the arena, I did hear something that caught my attention though.
I didn’t know if it was an elf, orc, human, or dwarf, but their words stood out distinctly.
“That sword of his is incredible! That man there is a butcher, no doubt about it.”