“This is a duel to the death! The
only rule is that there can be no interference from the crowd!” The orator
shouted. “This is your last chance to bow out. If you accept fate, draw your
weapon and…”
Preston could barely hear the words
after that point. His opponent drew his sword, and the crowd around them burst
out into thunderous approval. His hand tightened on the hilt of his own sword. This
was it. If he drew it now, there would be no turning back.
Almost on its own accord, as if it
knew that he was contemplating submission, his hand pulled his sword from its
sheath, and leveled it towards his opponent. The crowd went wild. There would
be death.
He didn’t hate his opponent. He didn’t
even know the guy. He merely got the luck of the draw in the duel rotation to
be put against each other. He looked as fierce as one could imagine. He was big
and hulking, and well fed. He was
obviously a veteran of the duels, as his sword was steady with no trace of a
tremor, and he had cast his shield off to the ground beside him.
Preston’s own shield was a lot
heavier than he imagined, but he held onto it for dear life. A lot rode on this
duel. He stood still, waiting for his opponent to make the first move. He tried
ignoring the pounding in his chest, the roar of his blood in his ears, mixed
with the noise of the crowd. The tremor
in his sword betrayed him, and his opponent smiled. He’d obviously seen similar
tell-tale signs, and like a cat moving in on its prey, he moved in for the
kill.
The first sword strike might as
well have killed him. He flew backwards, and landed roughly on the dirt. He felt
as if his entire left arm had been cleaved from his torso. Everything that didn’t
hurt was tingly and numb, but a quick look down, showed everything intact. His
shield was dented in, and his forearm was held in place by the dent and the
handle. He tried to shake it off, but it
held tight. His opponent merely stood there, several paces away, a smirk on his
face. He was waiting for Preston to stand up. He was going to toy with Preston before
he killed him.
Shakily, Preston used his shield to
prop himself up on one knee, and then stood. The crowd cheered again. The show
continued.
Not waiting on the guy to end him,
Preston charged, sword overhead, shield in front of his chest. The man laughed,
and with a superfluous twirl, stepped out of Preston’s line of attack, and
merely brought his foot out to trip him.
Preston fell. The pain in his shield
arm exploded. He had never known a pain quite like this. It had to have broken,
but he couldn’t get it free form the shield to see. He swung the shield up, to
prop himself on it, screaming through his pain, he tried to stand again.
Just as he gained his footing, his
feet were kicked out again. He landed on his shield again, and realized in
horror that it was the only thing he was holding. His sword lay several feet
away from him, and his opponent had just put himself in his way.
“Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!” The
crowd cheered.
His opponent, now standing over
him, stretched his arms out in triumph as Preston knelt in front of him. This
had probably played out for him multiple times, and he was obviously relishing
the moment. With one burst of energy, fueled by desperate rage at his impending
death, Preston swung his shield.
Screaming through the pain, he
brought its corner up into the groin of this surprised opponent with enough
force that the man dropped his own sword in pain. The crowd fell silent as the
man fell sideways, screaming as he clutched his groin. Preston did not waste his time trying to grab
the man’s sword. He climbed onto him and brought the edge of his shield down on
the man’s throat. Again and again, ignoring the blood as is sprayed onto him.
The screaming man was silent.
The crowd was silent.
Only for a moment. It roared back
to life with surprised enthusiasm. The orator ran out to Preston and helped him
to his feet.
“The champion is deposed!” The
orator shouted above the noise. “Behold our new winner!”
The man led Preston away from the
dead champion who now had several men over him pulling at his belongings.
Preston was led to a room with a
table, guarded by several men where he would be able to accept his prize for
winning the fight. As a man helped pry the dented shield off of his arm, the distributor
looked at him with some surprise, but began gathering his items.
“Here you are,” the distributor said.
“This is ten pounds of meat, ten pounds of vegetables, and five rolls of toilet
paper.”
“Thank you,” Preston mumbled, as he
felt his now free left arm.
“What were you before, Gladiator?”
the distributor asked, curious.
“Office clerk,” Preston mumbled
again as he moved the bags of food and toilet paper into his cart.
The guard who had taken his pistol
when he walked into the building returned it to him, along with the sword and
shield of his dead opponent.
“These were his, and they are yours
if you want them. Spoils of war,” the man said with a smirk. “Besides, you will
need them when you come back for more provisions, right?”
He had no desire to return, but
with a family to feed, he didn’t know how the next few weeks would go hunting
wise. He had been told many duelers return again and again until they are
killed by someone else. Just as his opponent had done. Preston gave a halfhearted nod, and took them
from the man. He still had an immense amount of pain in his arm, but he could
move it, and he could at least push his cart.
He left the building, pushing the
cart with his prize. He was wondering how he would explain the risk he had just
undertaken to his wife when he heard the cheer of the crowd as a new duel
began.
