Broken Earth

My Story 2

Once the kicking abated I thought myself free at last to leave this dastardly place, and forge out west, possibly, to start my own life. Alas and alack, it was not so: the assembled beaters dragged me to my feet and pulled me, my feet dangling behind, to face the warlord, who's name was Duke, I think (all these warlords gave themselves grand names in the hope of seeming esteemed and dignified: often the opposite was true).

He sat on what I assumed he though a throne was: my intensive childhood reading on history had left me with the knowledge that it was in fact a bathtub, cut in half widthways, propped up on bricks. He spoke with a Southern drawl (the south, if anyone doesn't know, of the "USA"). "My man here tells me that you've been causing trouble in my land, kicking up a fuss." As I began to answer a guard standing behind me kicked me, hard, in the kidneys, driving the breath from my lungs. As I gasped, Duke continued "He tells me you have quite the tongue on you. I think maybe we'll have to take it out." This drew a chorus of chuckles from his lackeys, despite being distinctly unfunny. At least, to me it wasn't: it could've been tip-top repartee for all I cared. "As punishment for the crime of disturbin' my people, threatenin' my property, and talkin' back to my man," (he seemed to have some difficulty pronouncing the letter g) "I'm going to duel you. To the death. All the laws still apply, of course." "Of course" I muttered, before another not-quite-swift-enough kick sank me to my knees. It seemed I was in trouble: normal rules meant that attacking the warlord was a crime punishable by death, and he would be trying to kill me, meaning that even if I somehow won, my life would be forfeit. I took deep breaths, trying to draw some oxygen around my body, both to recover from my injuries, and to ready myself for the coming fight. As soon as I struck back Duke's men would descend on me to arrest me and execute me, so I knew I had to act quickly, and decisively.

As his assembled lackey strapped the warlord into his armour (made from what looked like old road signs), a scrawny man handed me a small knife. "That's not very fair," I said clearly, giving the impression (not entirely untruthfully) that I was doomed and without a hope in hell, "He gets armour, " I looked across at his preparations "An enormous club, and all the supporters he needs, and I get a knife? How am I supposed to win?" "You aren't!" boomed Duke's voice, from across the square to me. "I'm going to kill you!" he cackled. No beating about the bush there then. "He's big, heavy and stupid. Be the David to his Goliath" whispered the scrawny man into my ear, slipping something into my hand. As he hurried away furtively, I checked what it was: a small vial filled with some black liquid. Unsure as to whether it was for me or for the warlord, I quickly smeared it on my knife, hoping I wasn't about to give him incredible strength by cutting him. Even with what I hoped was poison, my chances for survival still seemed slim.

As his men formed a ring around me and the warlord, ready to rush in at the slightest signal of my fighting back, I flexed my muscles, loosening up my neck by rolling it across my shoulders. I was no stranger to fights, even at this point: as food and other resources were scarce, I had been in more desperate struggles than I can remember, rolling around on the dusty ground as I wrestled for some morsel. Even with this "training" in the school of hard knocks, this fight looked in no way easy. Somewhere behind me, a man blew a horn long and hard. Slightly melodramatic, I though, for what would essentially be a messy murder. Duke stepped forwards heavily and meaningfully, swinging his huge club back and forth, readying himself for the kill.

I strode immediately towards him, trying to give myself some ground to retreat to. "Don't do this" I urged, still trying to talk my way out of the situation. "You can let me go, call it banishing, and your men will still respect you. There is no need for any killing.
"Shut up."
"You can even tell them you took me outside and killed me. You don't need to do it!"
"I said shut up!"
At least I had succeeded in making Duke angry. On second thoughts, that may not have been so wise.
He lumbered forth again, swinging his makeshift club at my head. I ducked and stepped back smartly, avoiding any kind of harm. His assembled men howled at the mere prospect of blood being spilt, making it clear that they weren't going to hesitate in pulling me to pieces at the first sign of my resistance. I decided to finish this fight before it had even started, and try to slip off quietly.
As it turned out, the former goal was to be incredibly easy. His first swing frustrated, he took a backswing at me, trying to hit my midriff. Rather than jump back into the walls of the arena, I stepped forward and ducked under his arm, resulting in me being incredibly close to him, and his right arm being flung out far by the momentum of the club, leaving his body wide open. I shortly sank my short dagger as deeply as possible into one of the many chinks in his armour (clearly designed to stop slashes rather than stabs), and stepped back, hands on hips, to admire my handiwork: the hilt of the dagger protruding from his chest.
I was momentarily unsure to the effect of the black liquid, until the green foam collecting in the mouth of the soon-to-be-ex warlord made me quite happy that I hadn't drunk the poison. Seeing the scrawny looking man at the back of the crowd, I pushed through the crowd who were suddenly too concerned with the welfare of their chief, who still stood frozen in the centre of the square. I decided to leave before they remembered who had got him in such a state.