In the dim light of the canvas tent, Valda finished the last of his prayers. He rose from kneeling beside his cot, tucking a small metal talisman of a hammer into his breastplate. He clenched his gauntleted fist as the talisman left his hands to settle on his chest, the cool metal biting into his bare skin. The leather of his gauntlets creaked.

He checked and rechecked the straps of his armour, fingers feeling across the seams in the steel plate. He clenched, opened and clenched his fist again.  He tested the joints of the armour, and nodded, satisfied. Outside, through the thin fabric of the tent, the clamour of the crowd made for a cacophonous chorus of jeers, shouts and curses. Distantly, he could hear the ringing of steel on steel, and the pained screams of the defeated.

He pulled a black fur cloak over his shoulders, the final touch in this costume he put on for himself. A black wolf snarled on his breastplate, the stylised image taking up the whole of the front of the breastplate. He wrapped a leather cord around his forehead and tied his hair back. The hilt of his great two-hander, a sword large enough to seem unwieldy to most men, jutted out over his shoulder. Another snarling wolf capped the top of his hilt.

It was a costume. It was all for show, this image he had crafted for himself. He did not want to be be seen for who he used to be. The weight of the shame, the dishonour, would break his back.

He could hear the announcer, a fat and greasy bastard with a voice as slick as a weasel, cry out the names of the next contenders, “Our newest contender hails from the Blistered South, a blasted land of death and heat. Captured as a boy and taken into the Royal Guard of Brevalin, he is a ruthless killer!” That garnered a sizeable reaction from the crowd, “Without mercy, without pity! Introducing Tjorn of Tarda, the Razor!”

Valda wanted to laugh. He remembered the last time someone had been named Razor. 

He pondered. Tarda. He thought he had seen someone with the looks of those people in the training yard, but he hadn’t thought much of it. He tried to recall what he had seen but found his memory to be a hazy blank. He strained to bring up the memory–any information on his opponent could mean the difference between life and death.

“But, you may be asking yourself, ‘who could possibly be facing such a formidable opponent?'” The announcer paused theatrically, even though he had as much presence as a rat, “Born in the Frozen North, raised by the beasts of the Endless Plains, our contender goes by many names. The Fallen Knight! The Northern Bear! The Black Wolf!” 

The crowd erupted in cheer. Valda had no trouble hearing the cries of bettors looking to change their bets, or of new bettors ready to make fresh wagers.

That was his cue.

He stepped through the flaps of the tent into the blinding sunlight and entered into a swirling maelstrom of people, a mass of shoving and shouting. The crowd grew silent in a strange act of reverence. They cleared a path wide enough for five men abreast. Valda half-sauntered, half-stalked towards the arena. He walked so that all could see the black wolf on his breastplate.

It was all part of the image, all part of the costume.

He descended the ramp of compacted dirt into the arena, nothing more than a glorified pit. Several paces deep and large enough to fit a hundred men, the arena had seen more blood than any man would ever be able see in a lifetime, or even three. The walls of the arena were made of stone as slick as ice, and the top of the arena was covered in heavy rope. A heavy gate of steel would be lowered across the ramps leading into the arena as soon the battle began. There was no escaping. Two men entered and they would leave either a victor, or a corpse.

A man waited at the bottom of the ramp. He was a skinny, rat-looking fellow, but Valda knew him well. The fellow took Valda’s cloak, and would place it safely back in Valda’s tent until he returned–if he returned. The fellow nodded and stepped aside, leaving the path ahead clear.

Valda paused before the open gates for a long moment. His hands twitched and almost reached to feel the talisman in his breastplate. This was no time for that. 

Valda stepped into the arena, and the heavy steel gate slammed shut behind him.

Tjorn of Tarda, or the Razor, as the announcer had called him stood twenty paces away, on the other side of the arena. He looked as arrogant as the announcer had made him out to be. ‘Without mercy, without pity, a ruthless killer’ he had said. He was a lean, hard man, the type of man Valda had seen a hundred times before. He had an angry, puckered scar across his face, one that made him look even uglier, if that were possible. His skin was pale and wind-blasted, and his hair was black as pitch, typical of his region.

Tjorn wore armour but Valda could tell that it was cheap, and poorly made. It would not be able to withstand as much abuse as Valda’s own armour. That would make things easier. There were rules that both combatants had to wear armour, but there was nothing in the rules that said they had to wear the same type.

The Razor drew his sword and settled into the ready stance, the tip of his sword level with Valda’s throat. Valda did nothing, and instead stood passively. He watched the Razor from across the arena with eyes that could put a hawk to shame. The crowd watched on with baited breath, waiting for the battle to begin.

In stories, duels were an elegant, and graceful affair.

A storied duel had two men facing off, armed with but their swords and their wits. They would bow and exchange quips. They would flow from one form to another, moving with all the poise and finesse of ballroom dancers.

But this was not like the stories.

The Razor surged forward, cutting the distance between the two of them in half before anyone could blink. He attacked once, a downward slash strong enough to punch through steel and split a skull in two.

Steel met thin air.

The distance between the blade and its intended target was well over a full pace. The Black Wolf stood passively, examining its prey with eyes to put a hawk to shame.

Infuriated, Tjorn launched into another attack. A ferocious, blindingly fast barrage of slashes. His blade sang as it sliced through the air.

Valda retreated, eyes examining his opponent’s movements, simply stepping away as Tjorn continued to futilely swing at nothing. He was looking for something, his eyes studying every movement intensely. The crowd began to cheer, for who, Valda did not notice. Their shouts became a monotonous ringing in his ears.

Tjorn, enraged, ceased his attack and roared at Valda, baring his teeth as if he were an animal himself, “Stand and fight!” He glared pure murder at him–a fire burned in his eyes.

Valda said nothing. Instead, he settled into ready stance, no sword in hand. His legs tensed, ready to surge forward.

Tjorn circled him, eyes fixed on his opponent. Valda seemed to scrutinise Tjorn’s movements with cool, impassiveness. His eyes were cold enough to freeze over the sea. 

The crowd held their breath, rows of men and women leaning forward to watch, eyes transfixed on the two duellists. The silence in the air was prime, for breaking.

Roaring, Tjorn surged forward. Valda saw that he was on the offensive, and he attacked with all his might and fury. Steel sang against steel. Valda gave up ground easily, letting himself be driven back. There was space in the arena yet. He could see his opponent’s eyes light up with the false hope of victory. He could sense tiredness sinking into Tjorn’s bones, and he knew that Tjorn would have to try to end this soon.

Valda sensed the closing proximity with the walls of the arena behind him. He would not be able to retreat for much longer. But still his eyes examined Tjorn with all the intensity of a predator watching its prey. He watched, waited. 

Sensing his triumph close at hand as he continued to drive Valda back, Tjorn aimed a devastating downward slash across Valda’s skull. This would be it, there was no space for Valda to retreat any more.


In one moment, Valda had stood pressed nearly to the wall of the arena, the sword of Tjorn whistling towards his head–poised to split his skull. 

And in the next, Valda stood a pace away from Tjorn, two-hander slick with blood. Tjorn staggered, sword clattering to the ground. He clutched at his stomach and convulsed when he saw he pulled his fingers away crimson. He dropped to his knees and collapsed in the dirt.

The crowd erupted in cheer. Their cries became a chorus of noise and in that noise, there was one name they bellowed, “Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!”

This was not like the stories.

In stories, duels were an elegant, and graceful affair.

A storied duel had two men facing off, armed with but their swords and their wits. They would bow and exchange quips. They would flow from one form to another, moving with all the poise and finesse of ballroom dancers.

Valda had not danced.


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