All eyes turned toward the west gates, the route which lead to Gludh Kolgard's house. An expectant hush settled over the vast, domed enclosure as the dark dwarves waited for the last challenger. Darkend stared at that portal as intently as any young hotblood. Although, in his case he hoped fervently that the Daergar were waiting in vain. Slickblade was posted somewhere along that route. If it was at all possible, the assassin would act to keep Kolgard from appearing in the Arena of Honor.
Though the great coliseum had been crowded for each of the previous contests, today it seemed as though every dark dwarf from the two clan cities of Daerforge and Daerbardin had tried to find a way into the room. Jammed shoulder to shoulder, they crowded the ranks of the bleachers and stood in a thick mass around the rim of the huge bowl. Even the four aisles leading to the gates had grown packed in the short time since Darkend's entrance. If Gludh Kolgard did in fact appear, he and his entourage would have to force their way through the crowd to reach the stage.
More time passed and the crowd began to simmer uneasily. Fights broke out and several Daergar were killed-though as often as not the bodies remained in place and upright since there was not enough room to move them. Darkend began to allow his hopes to rise; maybe Slickblade had found a way to do the task that he had deemed impossible.
But when the outer gates were flung open with a triumphant clang, Gludh Kolgard was alive and hearty. With his face mask open to reveal the fierce set of his jaw and his mailed fist raised to brandish his huge, double-bladed battle axe, he stood amid the score of dwarves who made up his personal corps of bodyguards. Again the crowd cheered as they took notice that he had entered the south gate-a route that had required a considerable detour from House Kolgard, but which had insured that the challenger avoided any pitfalls or ambushes that had been laid in his predicted path.
Slickblade had failed.
"I challenge you, Darkend Bellowsmoke, for the Throne of Clan Daergar, the mightiest seat in all Thorbardin. I say you are unworthy and the blade of my axe will gladly prove it!"
"Come down here, then, if you are so eager to die!" retorted Darkend. "You have kept this august gathering waiting for too long already!"
Kolgard's response was drowned in the roar of approval, and the very bedrock underfoot seemed to tremble and shudder from the force of thousands of deep, cheering voices. Darkend kept his wide, pale eyes on the face of his adversary. He watched Gludh's bodyguards push a wide path through the crowd so that the challenger could swagger easily, free of any interference.
Abruptly one of Darkend's bodyguards leaped in front of him, then tumbled forward, gagging on a crossbow bolt that pierced his throat. The assailant had been one of the anonymous thousands in the crowd, and Darkend could barely suppress a shudder as he saw how close the missile had come to striking him. Somehow the bodyguard had sensed the danger to his master and had made the ultimate sacrifice in his service.
"An arrow from the crowd? A coward's path!" the patriarch of the Bellowsmoke clan cried as he shook his mace toward the approaching challenger. These words were lost on the Daergar as the excitement built to a crescendo. The dark dwarves, having sipped the first bloodshed, now thirsted madly for the main event.
As Gludh started up the steps leading to the dais, several more silver darts flashed through the crowd. Some were deflected off of bodyguards' raised shields, and a few dwarves of Kolgard's entourage fell writhing, pierced by the lethal weapons. Another of Darkend's men fell before the two main combatants finally came face to face with each other. Each stood in the midst of a semicircle of armored, brawny henchmen.
"Let the matter be decided between us alone," Darkend stated the ritual words.
"And let the will of Reorx be revealed," replied Gludh, clamping shut the smooth steel barrier of his face plate. Even his luminous eyes were lost in the shadows of the narrow vision slits.
With the compact agreed upon, the bodyguards withdrew to just below the ring of the stone dais. There would be no more assassin's arrows for the time being, the time-honored phrases having commenced the formal part of the ritual. The strength and skill of the two combatants alone would decide the fight.
The roaring of the crowd slowly stilled and was replaced by a soft buzz of anticipation. Here and there the bodyguards around the periphery of the dais jockeyed for position, stabbing and chopping at each other until a solid ring of dwarf warriors enclosed the circular platform. Bleeding and moaning, several hapless losers thrashed on the floor behind the henchmen. But these wretches were left to die unnoticed. All eyes focused on the impending duel.
Gludh Kolgard struck first, bringing his long-hafted axe around in a vicious swipe. Darkend didn't even need to step back for this attack was all show and the keen blade passed several inches in front of his tusked faceplate. Gludh followed this move smoothly, skirting sideways around the edge of the platform to keep his weapon between himself and his opponent.
The music of battle, a familiar emotion that mingled rage, hate, and exultation, swept through Darkend. He used the strength of his feelings to toughen his will and focus his power against his enemy-a tactic that was second nature after a lifetime of battle and killing. Even so, his subconscious remained aware of his weakness, the pain of his wounds and the toll taken by the days of previous fighting that had led him up to this moment. His movements seemed slow, like wading through sticky mud. He almost felt drugged, his senses and reactions thick. The deep gouge in his thigh was particularly worrisome. It periodically sent daggers of agony shooting through his leg and hip. He planted his feet with a show of firmness, careful not to reveal any outward sign that would give his opponent a clear suggestion of his vulnerability.
Darkend lowered his mace, clutching the haft in both of his mailed fists as he waved the spiked head of the weapon gently back and forth in the direction of his challenger. He held the center of the dais, pivoting only enough to continue facing the circling Gludh. The crowd rumbled, the noise swelling, expanding to a roaring thunder. The great arena shook and compelled the combatants into action.
Abruptly Gludh charged, the great axe raised high over his head. Darkend backed up for a step, then darted to his left. This forced Darkend's foe to hack the blade down and across his body, an awkward strike that his steel-hafted mace easily parried. Following through, Darkend waded in with his weapon smashing left, right, then back to the left. Now it was Gludh's turn to parry, using his axe to deflect each blow of Darkend's wickedly spiked weapon.
Darkend swept ahead eagerly, hoping to bring the fight to a rapid conclusion. Already he could feel the throbbing in his muscles. Fatigue would soon add weight to his weapon and sluggishness to his every reaction. But Gludh met his onrush with feet planted firmly, the axe held cross-ways in both hands so that ultimately the blows of the mace clattered against an immovable barrier. Defending himself, Gludh seemed to meet the attacks with ease, while Darkend felt his strength draining away with each futile blow.
And then Gludh made a surprising move. Ducking low, he jabbed with the head of his axe almost as if he were stabbing with a spear. In the darkness the moving shadow struck true, and the blunt end of the weapon crashed into Darkend's thigh.
His flesh was protected by a sheath of black steel plate mail, but the wound underneath that plate was still painfully sensitive. With a groan of agony, Darkend staggered backward, striving desperately to hold himself upright. Another attack forced him to pivot and plant his full weight on his injured limb, and the maneuver inevitably sent him rumbling to the floor. Only a frantic roll enabled him to escape the crushing swipe of the axe that smashed the surface where he had fallen. Darkend grasped the steel shaft of his mace with both hands, using the weapon as a bar to deflect the next blow of his enemy's heavy weapon. He managed to knock the wicked blade aside mere inches from the tusked protrusions of his faceplate.