Dark Thane

"I should have warned you," Ferro said quickly as Jungor rose to his feet, "he's been talking about challenging you for weeks."

Seeing the Hylar thane rise, the crowd roared its approval. It wasn't every day that the formidable Jungor Stonesinger returned to the arena. A veteran of its bloody floor, he had never been defeated in the five years since its construction. He was its undisputed ruler, judge of all contests of arms under the council's laws. Almost a hundred warriors had tested his skill in the wild early days of the arena, before Tarn Bellowgranite usurped its forms and traditions in an effort to limit the clan battles and blood feuds that had reigned in dwarven society since the first dwarf carved stone.

"Allow me to deal with this rogue, my lord," Astar Trueshield snarled as he drew his sword and pushed toward the stair.

Jungor jerked him back. "In this place, I fight my own battles," he barked.

"But you are our thane," Hextor Ironhaft pleaded and clutched at the hem of Jungor's cloak. "If you should fall to this Daergar's treachery…"

Ferro glowered at the wealthy Hylar merchant, before turning to Jungor in concern.

"He's a dangerous foe," he admitted.

"Not as dangerous as I," Jungor growled obstinately. He pushed past his guard and tore free of the merchant's grasp, then quickly descended the stair to the arena floor, accompanied by the shouts and whistles and thunderous stamping of the gathered dwarves. As news of the challenge raced upward to the inhabited areas of Norbardin, dwarves began to pour into the arena to witness what promised to he a momentous battle. The leadership of the Hylar clan hung in the balance, and as its sworn protector, Astar Trueshield hurried down the stairs after his battle-fey thane, his face a blond-bearded knot of worry.

Jungor slid over the outer wall and dropped to the hardpacked dirt floor. He slipped out of his black, fur-lined cloak of office and stripped off the golden silk shirt, baring a back rippling with well-toned muscles. His frame was longer and narrower than that of most dwarves, which made him look weak by comparison to his stouter compatriots. One look at the whipcord muscles of his arms spoke of hidden energies and deceptive power, however. His movements seemed slow and fluid, almost languid, but when he struck, it was like the strike of an adder. His hands were narrow and long, like a magician's hands, with long expressive fingers. He preferred a lighter sword to the heavy metal weapons favored by most of his opponents- axes, hammers, heavy maces, and broadswords. Yet his great reach gave him a distinct advantage.

Unlike his opponent, Jungor wore no armor. He had not expected to compete in the arena this day, and in his anger, he had rushed to the arena floor without even bothering to grab a shield. Now he glanced quickly around the arena and shouted for someone to lend him a shield. A familiar face at the arena's edge greeted him-the Theiwar thane, Brecha Quickspring. Shouting his name, she tossed a battered steel buckler at his feet Dented and worn, it was still a serviceable piece of armor.

Stooping, Jungor slipped the buckler over his left arm then drew his short sword as Vault Forgesmoke edged toward him, curved broadsword held in a guarded position, round shield pushed forward defensively. Nearly a foot shorter than the tall thane, the Daergar warrior respected Jungor's reach and skill well enough to make full use of his stout iron shield.

"Six months ago, you murdered my brother in the arena after he begged mercy from you," Vault Forgesmoke formally pronounced, following the rules of the arena.

"I offered your brother mercy, but he repaid my chivalry by trying to jab me with a poisoned needle as we clasped hands," Jungor responded.

"That's a beardless lie!" the Daergar warrior shrieked as he leaped. He drove his shield against Jungor's side, trying to force his opponent back while at the same time stabbing under it with his broad blade. The tall Hylar thane spun past this obvious tactic, his lighter blade flickering in a quick succession of lunges that Vault barely blocked with his shield. As the two fighters separated, the crowd screamed in delight. Usually, the arena saw only clumsy brutality-entertaining, to be sure, but nothing compared to the artistry of two skilled sword wielders.

The Daergar shook back his black mane of hair and dared Jungor to attack, taunting him by holding his shield aside and exposing his breast. Jungor circled grimly, his face expressionless, feinting half-heartedly at the proffered opening, while watching his opponent warily. The crowd grew restless and shouted for blood. An empty bottle sailed out of the stands and landed with a chink near the two warriors. For a split second, Vault's attention shifted, and as quickly Jungor launched his attack.