Jeff Crook - Dark Thane

Unlike his opponent, Jungor wore no armor. He had not expected to compete in the arena this day, and in his anger, he had rushed to the arena floor without even bothering to grab a shield. Now he glanced quickly around the arena and shouted for someone to lend him a shield. A familiar face at the arena’s edge greeted him—the Theiwar thane, Brecha Quickspring. Shouting his name, she tossed a battered steel buckler at his feet. Dented and worn, it was still a serviceable piece of armor.

Stooping, Jungor slipped the buckler over his left arm then drew his short sword as Vault Forgesmoke edged toward him, curved broadsword held in a guarded position, round shield pushed forward defensively. Nearly a foot shorter than the tall thane, the Daergar warrior respected Jungor’s reach and skill well enough to make full use of his stout iron shield.

“Six months ago, you murdered my brother in the arena after he begged mercy from you,” Vault Forgesmoke formally pronounced, following the rules of the arena.

“I offered your brother mercy, but he repaid my chivalry by trying to jab me with a poisoned needle as we clasped hands,” Jungor responded.

“That’s a beardless lie!” the Daergar warrior shrieked as he leaped. He drove his shield against Jungor’s side, trying to force his opponent back while at the same time stabbing under it with his broad blade. The tall Hylar thane spun past this obvious tactic, his lighter blade flickering in a quick succession of lunges that Vault barely blocked with his shield. As the two fighters separated, the crowd screamed in delight. Usually, the arena saw only clumsy brutality—entertaining, to be sure, but nothing compared to the artistry of two skilled sword wielders.

The Daergar shook back his black mane of hair and dared Jungor to attack, taunting him by holding his shield aside and exposing his breast. Jungor circled grimly, his face expressionless, feinting half-heartedly at the proffered opening, while watching his opponent warily. The crowd grew restless and shouted for blood. An empty bottle sailed out of the stands and landed with a chink near the two warriors. For a split second, Vault’s attention shifted, and as quickly Jungor launched his attack.

The Daergar leaped back in response, easily avoiding the sword blade licking at his throat and laughing at his escape, only to find that the leather strap of his shield had been neatly severed just above his forearm. The shield dangled uselessly from his fist. He angrily tossed it aside.

“Now we are more evenly matched,” Jungor said to him.

“A lucky blow!” Vault Forgesmoke blustered, but a note of fear had crept into his voice.

The Hylar thane only smiled wolfishly and continued to circle. Now his movements were light and fluid, and his feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. He feinted untiringly, forcing his opponent to continually defend against a sword strike that never fell. The Daergar warrior’s own movements grew desperate, his blows wild. Like most dwarf warriors, Vault sought to plant his feet and swing with all his might, to kill with a single blow, whereas Jungor’s attacks were designed to chip away at his opponent’s confidence and strength, to force him to wear himself out, to use his strength against him. He never remained in one place for long, moving east and attacking west, as the old military scholars liked to say.

“You fight like an elf,” Vault Forgesmoke growled after missing yet another vicious sword blow.

Jungor darted in while the Daergar was still complaining, his right hand raised for a devastating overhead swing. Meanwhile, he switched his sword to his left hand and drove in low with the blade while Vault was lifting his own sword high in defense. The point scraped against the metal scales of the Daergar’s vest and slipped harmlessly under his armpit. Jungor caught Vault’s sword arm before he could counter the blow, and Vault trapped Jungor’s weapon under his arm. Grunting furious oaths, feet stamping on the hard-packed floor, the two warriors grappled in a dance of death to howls from the crowd.

Vault was the more muscular of the two, but Jungor’s height gave him leverage over his opponent. He began to force his opponent’s sword arm into an awkward position over his head. In response, the Daergar spat full in Jungor’s face. Blinking through the spittle, Jungor only bent his arm more pitilessly than before, muscles cracking and joints straining to the breaking point.

Suddenly, Vault’s knees gave, and he dropped to the ground with a cry of agony. Normally Jungor would have followed up with a killing blow, but his alert senses detected deception in that bellow of pain. Vault had fallen before his strength had given out. Jungor released his grip on the Daergar’s sword arm and leaped back.

At the same time, Vault scooped up a handful of dust and flung it in the Hylar thane’s face. Jungor turned aside and threw up one hand against the cloud of dust, while slashing in a wide arc to prevent his opponent from following up on the blinding attack. Something wet and sticky struck him on the right side of the face and clung there like tar.

Immediately, the flesh around his right eye began to sting horribly. He clawed frantically at the burning substance even as he slashed blindly with his sword, desperately trying to hold back his opponent while he fought to clear his vision. Some clinging vitriol was even now eating away at the flesh of his face, sizzling in the wet tissues of his right eye. Jungor ground his teeth against the hideous pain and fought to see through the haze. In the gray blur of his vision, he detected movement and little else. He turned, his sword held defensively before him.

A sharp blow knocked the weapon from his hand, and he ducked instinctively as his opponent’s blade whistled over his head. He caught up a double handful of dirt and flung it blindly upward. Hearing the Daergar splutter in rage and surprise, Jungor rolled free and came to his feet in a stumbling run.

He careened blindly across the length of the arena, blundering to a stop against the wall. Members of the crowd hung over the wall’s edge, howling with fury and bloodlust, pounding the stone with their fists. He stared up at them, blinking through his ruined right eye. He felt the flesh on the right side of his face begin to sag, and darkness clouded his vision, but after a few moments, he was able to make out the individual faces of those leaning toward him. There were dwarves from all the clans. Some taunted him, more shouted encouragement.

Jungor glanced quickly around, still blinking furiously against the stinging pain. His right hand and wrist burned where he had used them to try to wipe away the clinging acid from his face. He searched for his bodyguard and found him, pinned to the second tier of seats by members of the crowd who wanted to prevent the captain from interfering in the combat. Across the arena, Vault Forgesmoke was shaking the last of the dust from his eyes and spitting curses that were lost in the uproar.

Jungor reached for the dagger he usually wore at his belt, but he had left it in the royal box in his haste. His sword lay on the ground on the other side of the arena. Weaponless, half blind, and weak with pain, he knew he had little chance of besting an armed foe as determined as Vault Forgesmoke. He had but one tactical choice—to accept a wound in order to come to grips with his opponent.

Jungor steeled his resolve and started to advance toward his opponent when something fell at his feet. At the same time, he heard a voice cry his name over the din of the crowd. He looked down and saw an ornate staff lying before him. He turned toward the voice and saw that once again the Theiwar thane Brecha Quickspring had come to his aid. She leaned over the barrier wall, crying his name and urging him to pick up the staff she had thrown to him.