R. Salvatore - The Companions

He had to attend the classes of Murgatroid Stonehammer, of course, for they were not optional in Citadel Felbarr, but he feared that these sessions were actually dulling his senses and unlearning the great lessons repetition and action had so deeply imbued within him.

And of course, there was always the possibility that he would forget himself in one of these ridiculous training fights and accidentally humiliate, or even lay low, a fine young dwarf.

The dwarf sighed and turned down a lonely lane in the quarter of the underground complex that housed the city soldiers. He brought his wooden axe up onto his shoulder and thought of another weapon, one many-notched …

The attack came a long while to realize become the olderon from the side, a heavy and squat form charging out at him, shield-rushing behind a thick oaken buckler. Hardly even thinking of the movement, indeed thinking of nothing but getting out of the way, the surprised Bruenor threw himself forward and down to the side, exactly as he had done with the Argut boy earlier. Up came his shield to cover his head and facilitate the roll, and he came around in perfect balance as the highwaydwarf, or whomever or whatever it might be, sped past.

Unlike in the practice fight, however, Bruenor wasn’t about to let this one get past him so easily. He flung himself around, his wooden axe reaching out fast at the attacker’s trailing ankle. With a proper weapon, he might have severed the fool’s foot, but with the practice axe, he took a different tact, hooking the axe head around his attacker’s ankle and tugging hard. When that proved futile, given the difference in size, where Bruenor could not hope to pull this one’s feet out from under him, Bruenor instead scrabbled forward with all speed.

He unhooked the axe as he crashed against the attacker’s leg and again, could barely budge the assailant, who had recovered his balance by then. Up went the practice axe’s tip, right between the attacker’s legs, prodding at his groin, and when Bruenor’s opponent predictably hopped up on his toes and rushed forward, Bruenor swatted the trailing foot so that it tripped up on the back of the suddenly retreating attacker’s forward ankle.

Now the assailant staggered, and when he tried to put his feet back under him and swing around, he found a dwarfling flying upon him, crashing against him ferociously, climbing up him and rolling right over him, and so perfectly setting the wooden axe handle across the assailant’s throat as he did.

Bruenor threw himself over the shoulder, twisting as he went, gripping the handle down low with one hand, up high with the other, as if his very life depended upon it. For indeed, such seemed to be the case!

The assailant gasped something indecipherable as he fell back with Bruenor tumbling atop him as they went down in a heap.

Bruenor knew that he couldn’t hope to choke the life out of this one, or even to extract himself and get away. For all his skill, he couldn’t outfight an attacker so much heavier and stronger, and certainly not with a practice axe. So he bit the assailant’s ear instead, his jaw clamping down through the thick fabric of a veil or mask of some sort, and with a growl, he stubbornly took hold.

His victim issued a stream of invectives, along with a long, grunt, “Arr!” And he pushed back against the chokehold and Bruenor couldn’t hope to counter the strength of this adult.

Or could he?

His thoughts swirled back to the throne of Gauntlgrym and he felt the power of Clangeddin coursing through his veins, tightening his muscles. He let go of the ear then and focused on the axe handle, bringing it in tight against his victim’s throat, pressing the assailant’s windpipe despite the desperate counter-push.

But then from the memory of the throne came the wisdom of Moradin, reminding him that no dwarfling his age could possibly win out in a contest like this. He was revealing a great secret in holding fast against the stubborn pull of his frantic victim.

Better that, he realized, than being murdered in an empty lane.

The attacker growled again, so Bruenor thought, but then he realized that the “arr” was really “Arr Arr!” and in a voice that the old dwarf in a dwarfling’s body;}span.bigI the olderon surely recognized.

With a squeal, Bruenor gave up the fight and let the assailant, Muttonchops Stonehammer, wrest the wooden practice axe from his grasp. As Muttonchops came forward with the sudden release, Bruenor rolled out to the side, put his feet under him and scrambled away.

“By the gods, ye little rat!” Muttonchops said, gasping and choking through each word. He rolled up to a sitting position and stared back at the young dwarfling, who was on his feet again, set in a defensive posture and ready to throw himself into the fray or to run away in the span of an eye-blink.

“Ye near broke me neck,” the old dwarf said, rubbing his throat, his other hand going to his bleeding ear.

“Why?” Bruenor demanded. “Master, why? Was I angerin’ ye, then?”

Muttonchops began to laugh, though he found himself coughing repeatedly as he did.

Bruenor didn’t know what to make of any of this.

“I knew ye was cheatin’ in the fights!” Muttonchops declared as if in victory. “And cheatin’ against yerself, ye durned fool!” Bruenor shrugged, still not catching on.

Muttonchops stood up and Bruenor inched aside, ready to flee, but the old dwarf tossed him his practice axe and seemed to relax then.

“Ye ain’t for doin’ yer father proud in the fightin’ classes,” Muttonchops explained. “Yer father, ye know? Arr Arr, Captain o’ the Guard. As fierce a fighter as Felbarr’s e’er known.”

Again Bruenor merely shrugged and held his hands up helplessly, at a loss.

“And ye ain’t losing in yer fights because yer fightin’ yer betters, oh no,” Muttonchops accused. “Ye’re losin’ because ye ain’t tryin’ to win! I seen it and I knowed it!” He rubbed his bloody ear again and spat onto the cobblestones-and there was a bit of blood in his spittle, too, from his bruised throat. “And ye just proved it.”

“B-Bryunn’s a tough one, then,” Bruenor stuttered, trying to find some out.

“Bah! Ye could’ve put him down. Ye just put meself down!”

Bruenor stammered over that dilemma. “Fighting for me, uh … life,” he tried to explain. “Ye scared me crazy.”

“Ye’re always fightin’ for yer life, ye little fool!” Muttonchops scolded, coming forward and poking a twisted old finger Bruenor’s way. “Always! Ye win a hunnerd and lose but one, and ye’re dead, like yer Da.”

Bruenor started to respond but thought better of it.

“Ye’re only losin’ in the class because ye don’t care for winning-and what’s Uween to say, then? How’s she to tell Arr Arr to rest easy under the stone o’ his cairn when his only child’s a coward, then?”

Bruenor’s eyes narrowed at that remark, and he had to call upon the wisdom and temperance of Moradin once more to stop from launching himself at the irreverent old warrior yet again. He didn’t know where to go with this. He couldn’t deny Muttonchops’s observations, though surely the old veteran couldn’t have been farther off regarding the motivation behind Bruenor’s half-hearted efforts. He held back not out of boredom, and s;}span.bigI the olderonurely not out of cowardice, but because he was hiding something, something he could not reveal. Not yet.

“I seen ye now, Little Arr Arr,” Muttonchops said. “I seen what ye can do, and I’m not for lettin’ ye spend yer fights running away and pretendin’ with yer trips and yer stumbles. Ye do yer Da proud, I tell ye, or ye’re to feel the broad side o’ that axe o’ yers slapping about yer rump! Ye hear me, then?”