Bruenor threw himself over the shoulder, twisting as he went, gripping the handle down low with one hand, up high with the other, as if his very life depended upon it. For indeed, such seemed to be the case!
The assailant gasped something indecipherable as he fell back with Bruenor tumbling atop him as they went down in a heap.
Bruenor knew that he couldn’t hope to choke the life out of this one, or even to extract himself and get away. For all his skill, he couldn’t outfight an attacker so much heavier and stronger, and certainly not with a practice axe. So he bit the assailant’s ear instead, his jaw clamping down through the thick fabric of a veil or mask of some sort, and with a growl, he stubbornly took hold.
His victim issued a stream of invectives, along with a long, grunt, “Arr!” And he pushed back against the chokehold and Bruenor couldn’t hope to counter the strength of this adult.
Or could he?
His thoughts swirled back to the throne of Gauntlgrym and he felt the power of Clangeddin coursing through his veins, tightening his muscles. He let go of the ear then and focused on the axe handle, bringing it in tight against his victim’s throat, pressing the assailant’s windpipe despite the desperate counter-push.
But then from the memory of the throne came the wisdom of Moradin, reminding him that no dwarfling his age could possibly win out in a contest like this. He was revealing a great secret in holding fast against the stubborn pull of his frantic victim.
Better that, he realized, than being murdered in an empty lane.
The attacker growled again, so Bruenor thought, but then he realized that the “arr” was really “Arr Arr!” and in a voice that the old dwarf in a dwarfling’s body;}span.bigI the olderon surely recognized.
With a squeal, Bruenor gave up the fight and let the assailant, Muttonchops Stonehammer, wrest the wooden practice axe from his grasp. As Muttonchops came forward with the sudden release, Bruenor rolled out to the side, put his feet under him and scrambled away.
“By the gods, ye little rat!” Muttonchops said, gasping and choking through each word. He rolled up to a sitting position and stared back at the young dwarfling, who was on his feet again, set in a defensive posture and ready to throw himself into the fray or to run away in the span of an eye-blink.
“Ye near broke me neck,” the old dwarf said, rubbing his throat, his other hand going to his bleeding ear.
“Why?” Bruenor demanded. “Master, why? Was I angerin’ ye, then?”
Muttonchops began to laugh, though he found himself coughing repeatedly as he did.
Bruenor didn’t know what to make of any of this.
“I knew ye was cheatin’ in the fights!” Muttonchops declared as if in victory. “And cheatin’ against yerself, ye durned fool!” Bruenor shrugged, still not catching on.
Muttonchops stood up and Bruenor inched aside, ready to flee, but the old dwarf tossed him his practice axe and seemed to relax then.
“Ye ain’t for doin’ yer father proud in the fightin’ classes,” Muttonchops explained. “Yer father, ye know? Arr Arr, Captain o’ the Guard. As fierce a fighter as Felbarr’s e’er known.”
Again Bruenor merely shrugged and held his hands up helplessly, at a loss.
“And ye ain’t losing in yer fights because yer fightin’ yer betters, oh no,” Muttonchops accused. “Ye’re losin’ because ye ain’t tryin’ to win! I seen it and I knowed it!” He rubbed his bloody ear again and spat onto the cobblestones-and there was a bit of blood in his spittle, too, from his bruised throat. “And ye just proved it.”
“B-Bryunn’s a tough one, then,” Bruenor stuttered, trying to find some out.
“Bah! Ye could’ve put him down. Ye just put meself down!”
Bruenor stammered over that dilemma. “Fighting for me, uh … life,” he tried to explain. “Ye scared me crazy.”
“Ye’re always fightin’ for yer life, ye little fool!” Muttonchops scolded, coming forward and poking a twisted old finger Bruenor’s way. “Always! Ye win a hunnerd and lose but one, and ye’re dead, like yer Da.”
Bruenor started to respond but thought better of it.
“Ye’re only losin’ in the class because ye don’t care for winning-and what’s Uween to say, then? How’s she to tell Arr Arr to rest easy under the stone o’ his cairn when his only child’s a coward, then?”
Bruenor’s eyes narrowed at that remark, and he had to call upon the wisdom and temperance of Moradin once more to stop from launching himself at the irreverent old warrior yet again. He didn’t know where to go with this. He couldn’t deny Muttonchops’s observations, though surely the old veteran couldn’t have been farther off regarding the motivation behind Bruenor’s half-hearted efforts. He held back not out of boredom, and s;}span.bigI the olderonurely not out of cowardice, but because he was hiding something, something he could not reveal. Not yet.
“I seen ye now, Little Arr Arr,” Muttonchops said. “I seen what ye can do, and I’m not for lettin’ ye spend yer fights running away and pretendin’ with yer trips and yer stumbles. Ye do yer Da proud, I tell ye, or ye’re to feel the broad side o’ that axe o’ yers slapping about yer rump! Ye hear me, then?”
Bruenor stared at him, not sure how to respond.
“Ye hear me, then?” Muttonchops repeated emphatically. “Do ye, Little Arr Arr?”
“Reginald,” Bruenor corrected. Yes, it was time to make a stand.
“Eh?”
“Reginald is me name. Reginald Roundshield.”
“Little Arr Arr …”
“Reginald,” Bruenor insisted.
“Yer Da was Arr Arr …,” Muttonchops started to say, but Bruenor interrupted him.
“Me Da’s dead and cold under the stones.”
That stole Muttonchops’s voice, and the old dwarf stood staring blankly at the impudent whelp.
“But meself’s here, and don’t ye ne’er think again that I ain’t to do him proud. Me name’s Reginald. Reginald Roundshield, o’ the Felbarr Roundshields. Ye wanted me to own it-that’s why ye jumped me in the dark-and so I’ll be ownin’ it, but on me own terms and with me own name!”
“Ye little rat,” Muttonchops replied, but he seemed more surprised-and pleased-than angered.
“So ye send ’em at me next tenday,” Bruenor insisted. “Start with Bryunn Argut and send ’em all, one after another, or two together if that’s yer choice, or three, or all together! And when I put ’em all down, one after another, then know that yer class ain’t teaching the son o’ Arr Arr nothing. Then ye move me along to the next class.”
Muttonchops paused for a long while, staring at him, trying to gain a measure of him. “Young dwarf warriors, next class, and not dwarflings,” he warned.
Bruenor didn’t blink, and matched Muttonchops’s stare with equal intensity and more. He was surprised by his own anger, deep and profound, and his discomfort and anger were about more than the boredom of basic martial training, or the indignity of being attacked in the dark by this old codger. On one level, Bruenor felt foolish for the path he had just taken, and yet he had no thought of turning back. Not in the least.
“Ye got nothin’ to teach me with them dwarflings,” he said.
Muttonchops assumed a less aggressive posture. “So ye think ye can put ’em all down, eh?”
“All o’ them together, if that’s yer choice,” Bruenor replied.
“Might be.”
Bruenor didn’t flinch. Indeed, he merely shrugged, already growing bored with this conversation.
“Ye best put a priest in the room,” he said in all sincerity. “Know that them others’re sure to need a bit of Dumathoin’s dweomers o’ healing.”
Muttonchops started to respond, but instead reached up and touched his bleeding ear once more, and then with a grunt that was half growl and half snort, he turned and walked out of the lane.
Bruenor Battlehammer stood there alone in the dim light for a long, long while, considering the encounter, and the one sure to come. Most who could not,