Opposite us, Ryfon stands alert. He will be needed immediately once a victor is chosen to tend to their wounds.
Faelyn lunges slightly with a testing thrust from his lead hand, Orrian effortlessly swats it away.
The two never break eye contact.
Orrian strikes, aiming the tip of his blade towards his slender opponent’s abdomen. Faelyn nimbly steps to the side as Orrian’s attack passes harmlessly next to his ribs.
He now has open access to Orrian’s unguarded back. Taking the opportunity of the young king being off-balance, Faelyn arcs his nearer sword down towards the base of Orrian’s neck who thankfully manages to bring the flat off his own weapon over his head to knock the attack off course.
Orrian swiftly turns, avoiding a jab from Faelyn’s other blade, to face the hopeful usurper once more. The circling resumes, with Faelyn yet again taking advantage of his longer reach to keep Orrian at a comfortable distance.
I flinch as Faelyn leaps to cut down at Orrian’s legs, the feint works, as Orrian lowers to block he leaves himself exposed to Faelyn other arm, already on the move, which slashes deep into his left shoulder blade.
The first blood of the fight has been drawn, bringing about a small commotion in the otherwise silent crowd. The tension is palpable in the silence, disturbed only by the occasional gasp.
Orrian grits his teeth as he worms his way free, I can’t help but grimace as his back turns towards me. The cut has been made and the fight must go on, Orrian has no option but to battle through the pain and continue facing his opponent.
For the first time I see panic in his face as he desperately brings the blade forcefully in a high trajectory down towards Faelyn’s sternum. A careless attack that was unlikely to ever reach its target, it is caught in the defensive cross formed by Faelyn’s two swords before Faelyn pushes him free. Orrian’s last attack has me worrying, hoping that the wounds he has received so far have not resulted in him panicking and becoming uncalculated for the remainder of the fight. He needs to somehow keep a clear mind if he’s going to triumph.
After his sword is freed from Faelyn’s cross, the older man drives a hard shoulder into him, not giving him a chance to regain his balance. My champion steps back gasping, dizzily trying to regain his senses.
With visibly increased confidence at his opponent’s state, Faelyn advances slashing, pushing Orrian back further towards his own people as he struggles to defend against the incoming onslaught. He stabs at the prince, no longer aiming tentative pokes he fully leans into the strike.
Which is his mistake.
Orrian drags his sword across to intercept, hooking the threat in its slight curve. In one fluid movement, he twists the hilt and Faelyn weapon is freed from his grip. The sword goes scattering into the crowd. As Faelyn cries out in shock, Orrian has stumbled past him back into a more central position, readied himself, and faces his opponent.
Faelyn’s lost weapon has been kicked to the edge of the circle near us but no one tries to return it to him, I assume such interference would taint the fairness of the match. Unfortunately for Faelyn, he can therefore not retrieve it without leaving himself open to Orrian. He swivels furious and now only single handed.
Jaq grunts in approval next to me, not only was it a brilliant disarming but they also now stand toe-to-toe with Orrian having the longer blade.
Faelyn launches a fresh onslaught, attacking Orrian with the ferocity of a cornered bear, pushing him back against the side of the ring as he desperately tries to dodge or block each incoming strike. A couple slip through, drawing long red lines against his skin and earning winces of pain. Without his other blade the rushed attack isn’t as effective as it was before, an opponent wildly lashing out with a single blade is much easier to keep an eye on and handle than an opponent with two.
With one almighty effort to put the fight to rest, Faelyn drives his remaining steel straight towards Orrian’s throat. Orrian’s back leg is already shifting as he moves to block, he turns on his front leg with his back swinging around as he brings his blade in a steep curve downwards. Orrian has already rotated and has his back to Faelyn before the taller man crumples to the floor, a deep gash partitioning his calf.
Seeing his chance, Orrian plants a foot between the wounded man’s shoulder blades, pinning him to the floor. He readies his point at the base of Faelyn’s neck.
Elation courses through me, I won’t be abandoned to die alone outside in the harsh terrain. Around the ring many eyes glimmer with admiration. The king has won his people back.
“Surrender,” Orrian struggles for breath, sweat dripping from his forehead onto the cold stone below. A long trail of red etches its way down his back to join the puddle from his defeated adversary below him. The calf is pumping furiously, requiring serious attention.
Faelyn slowly moves onto his back to look the victor in the eye. I expect his face to be a painting of hurt, anger, or embarrassment, but instead I can only see acceptance.
“It doesn’t have to end here,” Orrian states, “If you really care about our people then join us, do your duty-”
“You’re making a mistake,” Faelyn interjects.
“We’re the last of our people, I can’t let our history end in this mountain,” Orrian replies, to which Faelyn sighs in submission, releasing his sword.
Orrian acknowledges the surrender with a slight nod.
“Tend to him,” Orrian speaks to Ryfon, gesturing to Faelyn, before rotating to face his people, “We leave at dawn.” Without another word he makes to
