The Unfortunate, стр. 47

“And his challenger, a man who has again and again proven his worth, the current champion, Awiergan!”

The crowd again responded, this time with cheers, but there was no chanting of the fighter’s name. A similar atmosphere comparable to the Dorstor Arena could still be detected nevertheless.

Both men walked to the center of the pit, halted, and averted their attention to the private balcony.

Awiergan briefly glanced at his opponent. The Giant of Drunacht. The champion had first spoken the words in a joking manner, but the name was more than appropriate. Not even Yrre was as tall, and the former guard was a respectable challenger. Gruagh’s choice of weapon, a poleaxe, was also new to him. He had seen men use the weapon before, but he had never been involved in any of those matches. Awiergan concluded his thoughts and mumbled a prayer. He had no sooner finished when Gildas’ voice again boomed.

“BEGIN!”

Gruagh did not hesitate to charge, and Awiergan quickly had to dodge the axe’s head. Despite the attempt it was the champion who initiated first contact by striking his sword against the pole’s midsection.

The Giant of Drunacht sneered as if he were unimpressed, mustered his strength, and pushed the pole forward, causing Awiergan to stumble.

The Drunishman’s strength was more remarkable than Awiergan had anticipated. Perhaps that is why Gildas had assigned the men to be combatants. No matter the reason of the match, skill, sometimes paired with a hint of luck for good measure, could overwhelm strength.

Before his opponent could regain his stance, Gruagh roared as if he were leading a battle onslaught, and he swung his weapon downward with the same fierceness.

Awiergan did his best to block the attack, but the axe deflected off his shield’s top rim, slid behind, and grazed the champion’s side. The result was only a minor cut, but he grunted and did his best to ignore the surges of pain as he retaliated with a downward swipe only to have it easily deflected.

Gruagh unexpectedly darted sideways, twirled his weapon, and used the butt of the handle to strike the veteran fighter’s face.

It had been such a forceful hit that Awiergan was knocked to the ground, and he lost his shield. Skill … strength … luck. Skill … strength … luck. Awiergan knew he possessed the qualities needed to win. He was a champion after all, but it had occurred to him that he would need more of each. Skill … strength … luck. The words continued to echo in his mind as he felt an intense throbbing, and as the swelling discomfort persisted, he lay still and listened to the odd yet seemingly-appropriate mixture of the crowd’s boos and the Drunishman’s cheers. More than anything he was stunned. He had never not been the one to draw first blood, but he did not have time to ponder his combat record. The champion was quick to regain complete awareness when he heard the giant man’s growls.

Gruagh effortlessly heaved the axe over his shoulder and forced it downward.

The condition of semi-awareness returned, and time slowed for Awiergan as he watched the fatal blade hasten toward him. For a moment he was distracted by thoughts only the presence of death could summon. The Life After waited for no one. That he knew. And it was not for the lighthearted to challenge Fate.

The ax plummeted closer.

But he had defied Fate on more occasions than he could recall.

Closer.

Here he was once again within death’s grasp. Skill … strength … luck. The words returned and consumed Awiergan’s thoughts, and he realized he would need one more than the others. He would once again need to defy Fate.

When Awiergan was able to roll away, missing the blade by inches, the Giant of Drunacht again roared, heaved his weapon, and attempted another strike. When it was also blocked, Gruagh twirled the pole as he had before. Fate be merciful! Will he ever tire? Although he was attempting to stand, Awiergan was still able to single-handedly deflect the attempt, but in doing so his sword was torn from his grip, and the champion’s heart rate increased as he quickly dodged another attack. Having lost his weapon, Awiergan knew his only chance of success was to get closer. If he did it would make the axe’s reach useless. He waited for his opponent to make another attempt, and while Gruagh was recovering from the follow through, Awiergan charged and crashed against his opponent.

Even though his weapon’s reach was no longer effective, Gruagh did not discard the poleaxe. He instead smiled as if Awiergan had fallen for a trick. He brought the weapon around to his front and used it to press into the champion’s back. Even with one arm, he was able to pull his opponent into a crushing embrace. Obviously knowing he had initiated a futile standoff, the Drunishman used his other hand to grip Awiergan’s neck, and the intensity mounted as the men prolonged the stalemate, but it was clear to all that it would not linger.

Strength … skill … luck. As the struggle continued, Awiergan gasped, and he felt lightheaded, but he knew he could not succumb to the Drunishman’s hold. He somehow freed an arm and quickly reached to his back and searched for the pole’s end. The champion could feel weakness crawling through him, but he grabbed the elongated handle and pulled.

Gruagh growled in his native tongue, a phrase that could have been nothing more than an insult.

Awiergan could not understand the words, but he still smiled. He had felt the pole break, and even with his strength continuing to fade, he did not hesitate to strike. On the first attempt, the splintered wood pierced the man’s side, but Gruagh did not seem to notice. Awiergan pulled the makeshift dagger out and struck again, and again, and again. Fate be merciful.

And again. Escape! Escape! There must be a way!

And again, and he did not stop until he felt his combatant’s grip loosen.

Gruagh at last dropped his weapon and