R. Salvatore - The Ancient

“Ye did no such thing, but ye didn’t argue,” said Mcwigik. “Not that ye could’ve argued and still kept yer blood in yer body.”

That brought laughter from the gathering, and Cormack swallowed hard.

“But that ye thinked it yer word, or counted it as such, says good about ye-for a human, I mean,” said Mcwigik.

“Says ye got honor, or says ye got no wits about ye,” Bikelbrin added, drawing another laugh. “Most with humans, we’re thinking the second.”

The laughing heightened, but Mcwigik cut it short. “Get it done,” he said, nodding toward Pragganag, who came forward, weapon waving at the ready.

“Ye know the rules?” Mcwigik asked Cormack.

“No.”

“Then ye do,” snickered Mcwigik, and the other dwarves laughed again, except for Pragganag, who wore as fierce a scowl as poor Cormack had ever seen. “Pragganag’s looking to finish ye, so if ye lose, expect to lose a lot o’ yer blood. For yerself, ye beat him down as much as ye’re wanting. Not a one of us’ll get in the way. Kill him or bash his head in, or whatever ye’re thinking to do-once ye’ve won, Prag’s cap is yer own to claim.”

“I ain’t for liking that!” Pragganag grumbled.

“Ye’re meaning to kill him, but we’re just for giving him yer cap,” Mcwigik argued.

“Me cap’s worth more than his life!”

“Well then he can just kill ye and take the damned thing!” Mcwigik shot back.

“Only way the dog’s getting it!”

Mcwigik started to respond, but then just offered a smile to Cormack and stepped out of the way. Cormack was about to ask a question, seeking assurances that he wouldn’t get gang-tackled if he did indeed gain the upper hand, but he didn’t even get the first word out of his mouth before Pragganag roared and charged in, smashing left and right with his club.

Cormack swung to his right, then again farther to the right, and a third time, which put him facing away from the furious powrie. He dove into a headlong roll, coming to his feet and springing forward immediately into a second dive and roll, for he felt the press of the charging dwarf. His third leap put him over some piled stones and gave him time to turn about on the far side, so that when Pragganag came roaring around the tumble, Cormack was ready and waiting.

“Are ye fightin’ or runnin’?” the dwarf just asked before Cormack rushed forward, inside the reach of his club, and smacked him with a left, right combination that abruptly stole his momentum. The monk leaped straight back, and threw his head back farther to avoid a short swipe of the club. He slapped the back of it as it flashed past, driving it out and down, and managed a quick left jab to the powrie’s hairy face before leaping back out of reach of the heavy backhand.

“Three hits for him,” Mcwigik laughed.

But Pragganag just snorted, and if he had even felt any of Cormack’s punches, it didn’t show. He roared ahead, swiping wildly and repeatedly, and Cormack could only dodge and dart back.

“How long can ye run?” Pragganag teased, and came forward in a sudden rush and launched a mighty overhead chop.

Far enough to avoid that strike, the dwarf realized, and his eyes went wide as his club descended past his field of vision, to see that Cormack had already reversed course and was coming straight for him. The man leaped and lay straight out, feet first, and caught Pragganag with a double kick about the face and shoulders that sent the dwarf flying back and to the ground.

Pragganag rolled to his belly and started up, but he had barely made it to his knees before Cormack fell over him, driving a knee hard into the side of his head. Pragganag turned to face that knee directly as Cormack pumped his leg, but it took three smashes before the dwarf managed to bite the man, and even then, Cormack was able to quickly retract his leg so that Pragganag had hardly broken the skin.

Cormack fell over the dwarf and rolled about, looping his hands up under the kneeling powrie’s arms and up behind the dwarf’s neck. Normally this move would ensure victory, for the victim could be rendered helpless from the waist up, but normally Cormack wouldn’t put the double vise hold, as it was called, onto a powrie dwarf.

Pragganag balled his legs under him and with tremendous strength lifted himself to a standing position, driving the human up behind him. Cormack tried to jerk and twist to keep his opponent off-balance, but Pragganag went into a sudden frenzy, spinning about left, then back fast to the right, then back and back again, stomping his heavy boots all the while.

Cormack felt as if he were riding a bull. His feet were off the ground more than on, and so he could do little to interrupt Pragganag when the dwarf took up a sudden run. Cormack fell lower on the dwarf’s back, letting his legs drag, trying to halt the growing momentum, but Pragganag roared ahead, then bent low at the waist, lifting Cormack back up. At the last instant, Cormack understood the intent, and saw the cluster of large rocks fast approaching, but Pragganag slapped his arms in a cross up high on his chest, reaching back behind his shoulders to grab Cormack’s wrists and hold him fast. Then with sheer powrie power, Pragganag ducked again and launched himself into a somersault, bringing poor Cormack right over the top.

Cormack hit the side of the largest rock, and Pragganag sandwiched into Cormack. They hung there for a moment, like a splattered tomato, before both rolled down to the sand.

“Get up,” Cormack told himself, trying to untwist, trying to get air back into his lungs. He hardly knew where he was, with bloody-cap dwarves howling all about him, but he kept his wits just enough to realize that it wasn’t a good place, and that if he didn’t get up soon, he’d be murdered where he lay.

He just started to his knees when the club flashed in. Purely on instinct, purely through the long hours of training he had received in the arts martial, Cormack snapped his left forearm up vertically to intercept that blow. The crack sent a wave of nauseating agony ripping through him, but his trained muscles continued the practiced move. He dropped his arm straight down, catching the shaft of the club in his left hand as he twisted about sidelong to his attacker, his right hand knifing up to catch the club right at the powrie’s hand. Tugging down with his left and shoving upward with his right, Cormack gained the angle and tore the club from the dwarf’s grasp. He kept the club turning, bringing his right hand right over his left; then he let go with his left as the club came back to horizontal, now directly across his chest.

Cormack gave a grunt and drove his right hand back, stabbing the fat end of the club right into Pragganag’s eye with a thunderous crack. The dwarf’s head snapped back and he stumbled several steps.

Cormack pursued, spinning the club out far to his right and then driving it hard against the side of the stunned dwarf. Still backpedaling, Pragganag tried to twist and block the blows, but wound up falling right over-to the appreciative howls of Mcwigik and the others.

Cormack went in for the win, thinking to drive the dwarf prostrate and pin him helplessly until he surrendered. Pragganag rolled his shoulder in tight, then burst back out, launching a backhand, and one that Cormack would willingly accept. The man curled only a little, bringing his left arm up to again absorb most of the blow, thinking to come in right behind it with another smash of the club.

But he didn’t absorb it.

An explosion of fire ripped through Cormack’s arm. He staggered backward, dropping the club and grabbing at his torn skin. He hardly understood what had happened until the dwarf leaped to his feet and faced him directly, the bloody axe swinging easily at the end of his left arm.