Dawn of the Nephilim

1. Beginnings part I

*clack* *clack* *thud*. Ow, thought Ronan. Easy now... stay focused. Ymre's quarterstaff spun with a sharp whizz, his heavy shoulders and arms propelling it as if it were a mere twig. Upon contact, that illusion was quickly and painfully broken. The pieces of cloth wrapped around the staff's ends did little to lessen the blows. Ronan found himself pushed hard into the defense, the constant strain on his arms making him feel as if he had just run 20 miles with a fish-laden swamp-skimmer on his back. A fair number of throbbing bruises put the battered cherry on top. He smelled dust, tasted mud with a hint of metallic blood mixed in... To put it mildly, he was recklessly burning through a decreasing supply of bodily functions. With black curls whipping his face, showering sweat around in a large circle, Ronan managed to counter a fresh serving of strokes from Ymre. Being a farmer, Ymre was more heavyset than he was, but that didn't say much as there were doors Ymre had to edge in sideways. Ronan's length evened the odds somewhat, considering only about one or two in every 10 men topped him. As always, reach found itself pitted against rigidity. Ymre winked at him.

Ronan ducked just in time as Ymre's staff whizzed overhead. Backing up, he quickly glanced around. The village square provided no advantages to exploit. No high ground, no rocks. Twenty meters to the nearest house in all directions, but the swamp-side. At least there was plenty of room to maneuver. Or there would have been, were it not for the hooting crowd surrounding the fight, including the boys and girls that had already been defeated. Amar, only 9 years old, bellowed an incoherent set of encouraging suggestions at his older brother. There at least Ronan had found a true believer, assured of his final victory. Amar's hands were unconsciously moving as if he were beating his own shadow to a pulp.

From the corners of his eyes he caught only a flicker of motion before Ymre's staff met his own way too close to his face. The burly man was surprisingly nimble. Warily eyeing him, Ronan tried to ignore the fresh jolts of pain wrecking his frame with every parry. For two years running now, Ymre had been quarterstaff champion. It was all too easy to remember the bruises of last year, when he had come close to being champion, or those of the year before, when, to be honest, he got served. A hungry grin ran across Ymre's face. Out for blood, he seemed to have chanced upon a fat hog in lean times. Let him believe he's won already, thought Ronan, backing up a little when Ymre made a feint.

He wasn't planning on losing today. Not with the upcoming trial in mind. Most were convinced he was ready to join the skars, which was the name by which the elite warriors of the village, the skaran Ti'anra, were colloquially known; it was his own faith that needed to be strengthened. A spark of surprise lit Ymre's eyes as he was suddenly met with renewed vigor, and he too grew wary. Soon it was Ymre that found himself parrying or eating what Ronan was dishing out. But Ronan knew he had gotten the worst of it so far. Especially his thigh had taken a nasty beating, and felt as if an alligator had treated it to a handsome tail lashing. Were he to win, he would have to move fast.

Ran out of steam for the moment, they warily circled each other, trying to rest menacingly, both waiting for the other to leave an opening. Both smiled. There were no hard feelings between them. There were, however, hard staffs. Ronan felt his jaw cramp up again.

Suddenly Ymre lurched out. Ronan met the overhead blow by stretching his staff horizontally above his head. His spine gave a startled jolt of protest from the disabuse, Ymre mercilessly continued with a backhand blow, spinning his staff behind himself, followed by a straight lurch. As Ronan deflected the lurch, he immediately spun around in an effort to crack Ymre's ribs. Ymre jumped backwards with a grunt, and Ronan's staff met only air. The momentum of the blow pulled him off balance and only a quick jump to the side saved him as a whizz cleaved the air where he had just stood. Too flashy, you alligator spit-for-brains, he reprimanded himself. The circle of the crowd moved around the square with the fight.

Ymre exploited Ronan's mishap well, masterly performing the walking heron kata. Ronan was forced back across the square, and had trouble regaining his proper form. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed they were moving faster than the crowd could facilitate, and he would soon be cornered. It was time for his ace in the hole, were he to have any chance to prevent a hole in his face. He made as if he stumbled, leaving a slight opening, and Ymre fell for it. When the farmer's staff started to come down, Ronan dived towards his left. An extremely risky move. If Ymre stayed on his feet while he was on the ground, the fight was definitely lost.

Everything seemed to slow down as the earth gravitously called him home, which was just as well: he was in no hurry to feel mother soil's none too tender caressing. He had secretly practiced this very move enough times to make him wince if Aram just pointed at his shoulder. When he inevitably did hit the ground, something else hit home. With outstretched arms he let the heavy quarterstaff land at the back of Ymre's calves, who yelped as his knees buckled from the force of the blow. How do you like that for a shaft, Ymre dear boy. Ronan winced in sympathy as they bowled over the ground in unison.

Rolling clear of Ymre, he reached open space again. Clenching his quarterstaff, Ronan pushed both fists against the ground and pulled his legs underneath him. In squatting position, he raised his quarterstaff high against a possible attack, just in time to witness his opponent jumping to his feet with a roar. A dangerous gleam flickered in Ymre's eyes. Good, Ymre became reckless when angry. The crowd had fallen silent, with no few mouths agape. Aram made a choking sound as an unsuspecting fly flew into the cavern yawning between his lips, or mayhap his shadow had found the courage to squeeze back. Like an angry hippo, Ymre charged, quarterstaff partly raised above his head. The big man made a motion as if to split Ronan's head in melon-like fashion, but at the last moment changed his aim towards the liver. A powerful liver punch would knock any adversary out of the fight, if not out of life.

It was a transparent move. Even as Ymre's quarterstaff was descending towards his abdomen, Ronan planted his quarterstaff firmly on the ground against his right foot and stepped forward. Blocking an all-out blow like that with one arm came with a price. Ymre's quarterstaff was slowed down, but still slid over his own to land at the small part of his back with considerable force. Almost relishing the pain, Ronan now found himself up close to an overextended Ymre.

Ymre's face took on a shocked expression as Ronan knocked his arms away and burried the clothed end of a quarterstaff in the man's stomach. With an harumph Ymre staggered back, after which Ronan used his staff as a vaulting-pole to plant two feet into his chest. It was as easy as kicking down an oak. Ymre was forced back a few paces, off balance and barely holding on to his staff. Ronan spun around, quarterstaff outstretched, and closed the distance in a heartbeat. Careful not to put too much force behind the blow, he clipped the side of Ymre's head with a hollow thud, flooring the big man like so many pounds of rag doll. The jolt traveling through his arms made him wince in sympathy. As Ymre limply hit the ground, Ronan bent over panting, arching his back to force in at least a modicum of air. This is my day Ymre, he thought. But you still almost made a flounder out of me, you bearded ox.