Haakon had never learned the other man’s name, or even where he hailed from. Now, he might not need to. While the crudely carved shape in his hand implied this fight was not intended to be deadly, his opponent’s expression suggested otherwise. The man stood still, solid as a boulder, both feet firmly planted, unmoving save for the steady rise and fall of his hairy chest. He held his stick directly in front of him instead of keeping it to his shoulder or some place where it could not be knocked aside.
Haakon figured him to be untrained in the finer arts of wielding a sword, but the man held his sword-stick firmly and resolutely, as if he had some knowledge of what a hilt felt like in his hand.
He will come quickly, when he does, Haakon thought as he slowly circled his opponent, prowling just out of easy reach. He will seek to capitalize on his strength. Haakon tried to calm his brain, but now that he was out of the cage, his brain was a whirling confusion of thoughts. Part of him focused on the fight, but other parts of his mind were reflecting on his situation. Was this not unlike the arena in Legnica? From violence to captivity to violence again, here he was, forced to be a fighting dog for the amusement of these barbarians. And when he ceased to be amusing? What then?
It’s what they want you to think. It is the fear that will make you fight. It is the fear that will make you do something stupid.
Impatient, the big man lunged at Haakon’s chest. The thrust was quick and dangerous, but it lacked any real strength. Haakon-anticipating this very attack-sidestepped easily, and whipped his own stick out to knock the big man’s weapon aside. The first defense every student learned, drilled into them until it was an instinctive reaction. When Haakon tried to snap his stick back for a quick blow to his opponent’s face, the man simply raised his arm and ducked his head. Haakon felt a momentary flare of anger at having made such a foolish mistake: these pieces of wood did not have sharp edges like real swords, and a blow on the upper arm and shoulder would sting, but it wouldn’t do any real damage.
Growling, his opponent rushed him, using his own bent arm and sword as a makeshift battering ram. Haakon couldn’t get his own sword back into play quickly enough, and all he had time to do was brace himself before the burly man smashed into him.
He tumbled back, letting the momentum of the push take him into a roll, and he heard the other man’s sword slam down into the ground. Dirt pelted his legs. He came out of the roll into a crouch, looking up to see the big man standing with his legs spread, the sword rising up for another two-handed swing. Without rising, Haakon snapped his sword up, striking the big man’s knee with a violent crack.
His opponent howled. He wobbled as he tried to complete his downward swing, but the stroke was slow and clumsy. Haakon scurried aside, and as he regained his feet, he slammed his sword down on the other man’s extended hands, feeling the satisfying thwack of wood against bone, and then he followed through with a backhanded swipe. The tip slammed into the man’s face, crunching cartilage, and a crimson torrent of blood gushed out of the man’s nose.
Unlike the strike to the knee, the blow to his wrist and the broken nose appeared to only enrage the man, and with a roar, he retaliated with a jab of his thick fist. Haakon had closed after the strike to the wrist, and he pulled his head back to avoid the punch. The man’s hard knuckles scraped across the side of his face, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the big man’s other hand. He had dropped his sword! The second punch caught him squarely on the cheek. His vision blurred and doubled as pain lanced through his jaw.
The big man pawed at him, trying to get a grappling hold; blinking through a film of tears, Haakon fought to extricate himself. His wooden sword was heavy, stuck on something, and the more he pulled on it, the more resistance he felt. The big man clouted him on the side of the head once more, and Haakon’s vision split even further. His sword was moving of its own volition now, and he dimly realized that his opponent had seized his weapon.
His arms were yanked upward, and he felt a blast of heavy breath on his neck. The wooden sword slammed against his chest, and he struggled against the big man’s sudden leverage. He had gotten behind Haakon, and with a firm grip on the stick, was trying to choke him.
His field of vision was filled with yellow starbursts and streaks of shining light. He had managed to get his hand between the stick and his throat, but even still, he could barely pull any breath. The big man grunted and heaved, his sweaty frame braced against Haakon’s back.
He was not going to last much longer. He needed air. His opponent was too strong.
Desperately, Haakon kicked backward. His first attempt missed, but he felt the big man shift his weight. The knee! His vision starting to darken, Haakon tried again, and this time he connected, the heel of his foot smashing against the knee he had hit previously. There wasn’t much strength in his blow-the angle was all wrong-but it was enough to make the other man stumble.
Haakon dropped down to his knees, leaning forward a tiny bit as he did so. The pressure against his throat increased as-for a second or two-he was straining against all of the other man’s weight, but then he felt the balance tip in his favor. From his kneeling position he then bent forward, and the big man tumbled over his shoulder.
The other man landed heavily, the air forced from his lungs with a sickly gasp. He still had Haakon’s sword, though his grip on it was loose.
His vision clearing as he greedily sucked in air, Haakon threw himself toward the supine man, reaching for the sword. Sensing Haakon’s approach, the big man struggled to sit up, but Haakon punched his broken and bloody nose. Wrenching the sword out of the man’s slack fingers, Haakon jabbed the short hilt into his opponent’s throat, and then clumsily scuttled away before the big man could grab him.
There was no need. The combination of being hit again on the nose and the blow to the windpipe had taken all of his opponent’s will to fight. The big man was curled into a ball, his body shaking as he tried to draw breath.
Still somewhat unsteady himself, Haakon used the wooden sword as a crutch and got to his feet. Suddenly aware of the crowd around him, he started to raise his hands-and the sword-into the air, but when he spied the warriors with spears approaching, he dropped the sword.
But he still raised his arms in victory, a signal the crowd responded to with an enthusiastic roar of approval. The men with spears indicated he should return to his cage, and with a final glance at his downed opponent, he staggered across the sandy field to his tiny cell. His vision still suffered, but he could see well enough, and he threw a salute to the tall Mongolian standing on the raised platform.
The tall man wasn’t quite as imposing as General Subutai, but his clothing was much finer and more ostentatious than anyone else’s. And he had a way of looking down on everyone around him that reminded Haakon of the liege lord who controlled the land on which Haakon’s village had been located.
Khagan, he thought, recalling the name he had heard from the guards during the long trip to Karakorum. The Khan of Khans.
Waiting at his cage was a man holding a wooden bowl filled with an eggshell-white fluid. Before he ducked back into his prison, Haakon took the offered bowl and quaffed it in three gulps. It was sour and vile, but he knew it would numb the pain that was going to visit him soon.
He glanced at the man he suspected was the supreme ruler of the Mongols, and raised the empty bowl.
A humorless smile playing across his lips, the Khagan lifted his own cup in return.