Tugga tugga tum. The crowd roared as the thunderous drums rattled the very foundation of the fighter’s deck. “An armed fight to surrender,'' the admission officer said. A rare fight, Shiqe had only fought two fights of that kind.
For whatever reason the officer changed every fight. Shiqe assumed the reasoning was to keep the fighters from getting too close to one person, or more likely to keep the officers from getting attached to one fighter.
The admission officer turned to the chains and began to pull on them. The clattering of the pulley intertwined with the cheers of the crowd to make a cacophony of sound that would be overwhelming to anyone who hadn’t had the proper experience. Shiqe, unfortunately, was far too used to it. Toom toom tugga tugga.
Four steps out into the arena, four steps until Shiqe saw his opponent. His eyes locked to the pale bald man that stood in front of him, a scar down his left breast. He held a greataxe. A graying beard appeared on his face. Shiqe’s mouth fell in slight surprise. He wondered if April had set this up on purpose in response to his talking back.
“Shiqe,” Peter said. His bushy eyebrows contorted as he recognized him.
“Peter,” Shiqe replied, his voice low and gravely.
“You’ve made a name for yourself,” Peter smiled.
Shiqe nodded, then pursed his lips. His hands tightly gripped around his curved sword making them slightly pale. “I thought you died in Orlens,” The last time he’d seen Peter he had fallen from the wall of Orlens and had been impaled through the chest. One of the more horrific memories from The Great War.
“Nearly did,” Peter popped his neck, and locked eyes with Shiqe. “Took off after I came to, and joined up with the rebels,”
“That how you wound up here?” Shiqe’s arms were slack, the last person he wanted to fight was Peter, and neither of them faced each other as enemies.
“Was caught bringing intel, recognized by an officer who charged the city,” Peter shrugged and glanced to the ground.
“Bad luck, then,” Shiqe’s face fell into a slight frown as he broke his gaze from his former comrade.
“Aye, rotten,” He nodded. The midday sun of Atheham watched over the two fighters, heat embedding into the gravel below them making the arena feel like a sauna.
“Welcome one and all,” Amon’s voice rang out. “to the fourth day of this month’s gambit,” His smug face peered down at the fighters carved meticulously with contempt. “Here we have a special fight to end this month’s tournament,” On his balcony sat the king, whose eyes seemed to be darting everywhere like a scared puppy.
“Good luck,” Shiqe said.
“You as well, old friend,” Peter’s jaw clenched tightly as he looked to his right, away from Shiqe.
“The southern deck hosts none other than Shiqe of the Sands!” Amon’s voice could only be described as pebbles scraping on stones. Whenever the man spoke it would simply make Shiqe’s skin crawl. Jeers and cheers echoed in the arena as they reacted to their favorite or most despised dark skinned fighter.
“On the northern deck, Peter the Traitor!” Amon clapped. “One of my personal fighters,” a smug smile crept across his thin lips as he looked at Peter with his beady eyes. Amon’s robes were extravagant and eloquently designed with floral engravings inlaid by either brass or gold. Oueterrian fashion was already ugly as it was, now the fools think they claim themselves the title the kingdom of Forterre and suddenly their gaudiness was beyond that in which the Sikandian way of life could conceive.
It’d been a while since Shiqe had seen Peter fight, and even longer since the two sparred. Peter’s right hand was close to the head of his axe, his other down the handle a little further for maneuvering.
Shiqe figured he would go in for a close, but powerful hit. It wasn’t a fight to the death, so Shiqe knew it was time for them to put on a show. A close blow like that, with a weapon he could reach well with, was a calculated decision to make for a spectacular fight, but not a deadly one.
“Let the gambit commence!” Amon announced to uproarious cheers from the crowd.
Peter took the first step, parsing gravel beneath his sandals. A gust of wind caught the arena bringing reprieve from the heat, and a puff of dust into the air surrounding them.
The dirt caught at Shiqe’s lungs and stung for just a moment. His attention was locked on his opponent. Tum tugga tugga tum. Peter’s right foot set forward to put his weight into a swing.
Shiqe quick-stepped backward and let Peter’s momentum carry the weight of the swing out of balance. Shiqe sliced at his arm, drawing blood out of his shoulder. A few droplets landed onto the hot ground at their feet.
Peter danced around the momentum to turn, growling as he faced Shiqe. Tum tum tugga tugga. The drum beats coordinated with his heartbeat, as if the percussionists knew his distaste for the arena.
Shiqe decided it was only fair to add to the cinematics. He stepped forward and slashed at Peter’s chest. His sword careened off of the great axe as it parried Shiqe forward. Peter’s axe came at Shiqe with a swipe into his shoulder.
Searing pain burned up his bicep as the cut spat blood out down his arm. Shiqe grinned up to Peter as their minds seemed to intertwine. Another gust of wind caught the dirt blowing onto Peter’s pale chest.
A step forward put Peter closer to Shiqe, as he brought his curved sword upward into a clash. Peter pushed Shiqe, the looming man’s weight greatly overpowering Shiqe’s.
Shiqe’s butt hit the ground as the thin trousers he wore did nothing to protect him from the scalding gravel beneath him.
Peter huffed as he loomed over Shiqe and raised his axe. A fight to surrender. He took a deep breath as he looked up at the towering man.
The shin of Shiqe’s leg hit Peter’s groin with all of the force he could muster. Tugga tum tum tugga. Peter’s eyes watered, and his axe fell to the ground in shock. “Damn it Shiqe,” he buckled over grasping at the pain as Shiqe sprang upward, slicing at Peter’s gut, painting his stomach with a shallow scrape.
Shiqe shouldered the man and he fell to the ground unarmed. Shiqe raised his sword to his neck, and Peter’s face contorted into a smile. “You bastard,”
Their eyes interlocked as Shiqe held the sword up for a final blow. The wind blew again, catching the blood on his bicep in a cooling sting.
Shiqe smiled and chuckled down at Peter. With a flick of his wrist, his sword flew across the arena, clattering onto the gravel. Shiqe rolled down onto the ground, face up looking to the sky next to Peter.
“We’re gonna get out of this,” He sighed.
“That so?” Peter replied in an airy huff.
“It is,” The sun cooked down at the two as the crowd quieted down in the anti climax. A draw.
ns216.73.216.55da2
