Path of the Blade

Chapter 6

A meaty left hook collided into the combatant's faceguard, sending him flying backwards.

The crowd of onlookers cheered as Ferronus Iram raised his fists in triumph, proceeding to shadowbox the air in front of him before dancing around his staggered foe, staying light on his feet. Iram, adorned only in leather spaulders strapped across his robust chest and a rusted provocateur helmet, brought his arms up and dropped into a defensive stance as his opponent shrugged off the blow and charged forward with a claymore in tow; his hands and wrists were wrapped in leather bindings fastened together with straps and buckles, embedded with round, metal knuckles that added weight and lethality to Iram's punches. The lower body was only clad in a short battle kilt that complimented the muscular definition of his tanned thighs and calves.

Iram pivoted his body to the side as the opponent's claymore arced overhead and missed, then countered with a hefty kick to the groin with the steel-studded portion of his caligae sandals. As the man keeled over from the blow, Ferronus decided to add an uppercut for good measure, launching the poor wretch back and knocked off his visored helmet, revealing a battered, swollen face contorted in agony.

"Good gods, man, you've definitely seen better days. Here, lemme fix that for ya!"

Iram pirouetted into a spin kick and forcefully planted his heel into the man's cheek, making a sickening crunch as his head jerked sideways and his body crumpled onto the dirt.

The crowd burst into thunderous applause as Ferronus danced around the arena. He wiped the grime off his nose with his thumb and grinned, stretching his neck back and forth. The gates to the arena opened and more prisoners were goaded inside by spearhands; in the balcony above, a battlemaster tossed various weapons and armor into the ring for them to use.

"Oi, my good battlemaster...you might want to throw in a few more saps to make this an even fight - that last fellow was all brawn, no brains!" Iram scoffed as the crowd bellowed into laughter; in the aisles surrounding the makeshift coliseum, bookmakers went around collecting bets and distributing winnings from the previous match.

"Ye'll meet ye'r match one of these days, warforged. All you fuckin' Westlanders are good for is fightin'" the battlemaster spat as he heaved a flail over the edge.

"...and fuckin'...don't you forget fuckin'! Though one can debate which shafts we're better at using, either our own or..." Iram shrugged as one of the prisoners tossed a spear towards him. He ducked and caught the spear mid-flight, then flung it back towards its original wielder, skewering through his chest and staking him into the ground; the men around him balked as Iram winced in surprise.

"Oof...sorry 'bout that...was aiming for his leg. Didn't mean to stick 'im all the way through...tell me he's a rapist or something..."

"He was a bloody pickpocket, you lunatic! Oh, Saints forgive me..." one of the men cried out and scrambled away towards the closed gate, desperately trying to climb up the metal bars towards the audience; a polearm emerged from the depths of the cages, piercing his chest and killing him instantly.

"Oh, now I feel absolutely terrible. I really do. Tell you all what - no more using weapons from me. Why don't we all band together and break out of this shitehole? We can grab a pint afterwards. The first round's on m-" Iram saw two burly men sprinting towards him in a pincer formation - the left one was only armed with a sword and shield while the man on his right wore a breastplate and brandished a two-handed axe. Judging from their appearances, the two assailants were likely related - either brothers or in the same crew- as they bore the same vertical tattoos on their lips and coordinated their attacks; the one on the left was missing a finger.

Finally, something interesting.

The man on the left reached him first, bringing his sword down towards Iram's exposed neck. He sidestepped the blow then sprang into the air, anticipating the horizontal axe cleave, which narrowly brushed the bottom of his caligaes and missed his legs. Iram immediately brought both his hands in front of his face to cushion a shield bash from Four-Fingers, who followed up with a sword thrust. He leaned his head sideways as the sword grazed his helmet, creating sparks; his attacker sailing past him, Iram delivered an elbow into Four-Fingers' kidney, stunning him briefly. He followed up with a light one-two punch to his face before disengaging, leaning forward and stepping away; another axe swing sailed harmlessly over him, decapitating nothing but thin air. After dodging the swing, Iram wheeled around and planted his foot on the man's breastplate, then pushed off; he flew over Four-Fingers and somersaulted behind him, then kicked his hamstrings out; Four-Fingers knees bent forward and he fell backwards as Iram's fist came crashing into his face and slamming his head into the ground.