“I’m not interested in glory. I’m interested in the perfect fight. I’m tired of wandering this world and not meeting a worthy opponent. Show me that you are one and I’ll join you,” D’rmas paused and looked Hermon in the eyes.
It was rare to meet someone who drew fascination from fighting. But he understood. Challenges like these were normal among the Berserkers. Tournaments would often be held as part of a long-standing tradition. Part ritual, part staging, but still demonstrations of power and a crucial part of the culture, but the goal was not to die in the end. Hermon had to play by his rules if he wanted to take this fighter with him. He would have to be careful not to kill him. He needed him. All the other free warriors had stood by the windows of the tavern and watched with interest. The magical servitor had been right to put Hermon and D’rmas together. All other warriors were weaker. D’rmas, however, had the strength and will of many and seemed to be the leader of the whole.
D’rmas drew his sword. He cast a spell that turned his arm to stone and made his helmet appear. The crest on the helmet began to glow.
“Will you do me the honor, Berserker prince?”
“Yes.” Hermon nodded. “But this is not a fight to the death.” D’rmas head lowered, he was ready to fight. “Every blow counts. Servitor, play the referee!” The creature immediately hovered into the air to their side.
“The winner is the one with the first three hits, both magical and physical.” D’rmas smiled and nodded.
They moved to the back of the Guild house, where there was a courtyard out back, with a circle was drawn on the ground. Neither of the fighters could leave this circle until the fight was over. What Hermon underestimated was the speed with which D’rmas struck. Before Hermon could even make a punch, D’rmas was right before him and struck him with his stone fist in the center of the chest.
Whether it was the unbelievable speed or the stone arm, the punch brought with it a force of incredible strength. Hermon flew across the courtyard and crashed into the stone wall. Slowly, D’rmas pulled himself back into his combat stance.
“One-nil, I’d say.” The free warriors had followed them and were snickered. They liked that, a fight like the old days. Hermon, his head still resting against the stone wall, turned slowly around and glared at D’rmas. This was about demonstrating strength, not killing. He had to keep telling himself that. Hermon’s eyes turned a deep red. His body grew and bled. A deep scream of pain emanated from him, a pain he missed yet hated so much. The magical servitor quickly created a spell that made the courtyard soundproof. Passers-by outside the guild, who had heard a part of the scream looked around curiously, but the sound had been smothered just as quickly as it had arrived and they went on, chalking the noise up to fanciful imaginations.
D’rmas concentrated. He knew it was getting serious. Hermon eyes firing daggers, his transformation was complete. Hermon restrained from attacking. Not yet, he thought. His rage was too great. He needed time to fully be in control. D’rmas shouted a spell of belligerence, much like the Berserkers did when they magically summoned their true nature. D’rmas charged towards him to strike a second time with his stone fist. He commanded the sword to ignite, and it became as hot as lava.
“Two-nil now,” D’rmas boasted as he struck the Berserker across the back. Despite the force and speed he’d used, it lacked the same effect as his first strike. This time, Hermon was prepared. His rage was so extreme he would have ripped D’rmas head off, but he held back. With a kick, he could have sent D’rmas to the ground! Hermon launched himself at D’rmas with a barrage of blows but D’rmas was quick. He dodged every blow effortlessly and vaulted back a safe distance from Hermon to gloat from there.
“I expected more from you, Berserker son,” said D’rmas as he hurled himself at his opponent again. Hermon reared back and protected his body with his mighty arms. None of the blows hurt him, no matter how fast D’rmas was. Even his fire sword barely made a scratch on Hermon. Without any pain or sign of distress from Hermon, these blows could not count in the challenge.
D’rmas reared back, threw the sword in the air, and said two words that turned it into a frighteningly giant axe. Hermon stared at the display of power and chuckled. He had seen better from Siem and Eldana and was unimpressed. D’rmas swung the axe and Hermon feinted to the side. The rock behind him was cut in half. D’rmas decided to try another strategy this time. He stood in front of Hermon and transformed into a miniature version of himself. The momentary shock Hermon experienced was all he needed. D’rmas rolled under Hermon’s legs and stood behind him in an instant. Before Hermon could react, he returned to normal size and struck with a hard punch. D’rmas reared back and rejoiced loudly.
“Three-nil.” He seemed to know exactly what was needed to spice up the fight and he delivered. “You lose, Berserker! I would have thought better of you!”
Hermon panted, and nodded, but Hermon’s eyes red and his rage barely contained as he said, “How about one more? Why don’t you prove, beyond all doubt, that you really are the better fighter?”
“Four-nil would not be bad,” D’rmas gloated, and agreed.
Hermon had seen and heard enough. Now it was time to end this charade. This time Hermon launched the attack. This somewhat daring move unnerved D’rmas. In a flash, D’rmas stone arm had turned into a shield. Hermon struck with the
