“Under the sword lifted high,
There is hell making you tremble.
But go ahead,
And you have the land of bliss.”
++++++
There is hell making you tremble.
But go ahead,
And you have the land of bliss.”
++++++
Indeed, Razkar did not understand all the words the huge violet-skinned warrior spoke to him in those brief, laden moments, but he grasped the last. As far as he was concerned, they were the only ones that mattered.
I will give you everything.
The suggestion of a smile flickered over the Myrian's face as he heard them, even as he watched the Akalak reach behind his back with his shield arm. They understood each other in that respect, at least. Hold nothing back. Fight to your limits, as you would in battle, as you would in any true contest. Fight as if all may be won or lost.
Because in those dire straits of need, only then are you free.
The throbbing in his shoulder became a dull ache and he willed it out of his mind. No time for introspection now, even as the cold wind and roars of the crowd washed over them. His luck held as a foot the size of his head had whipped by him as he skirted outside the Akalak's range. It could easily have fractured his skull, and Razkar had no plans to die that day.
He frowned minutely, something being pulled from the Akalak's belt-
A weapon? His second sword? What-
-and then that muscled arm came up and snapped down, short stick of metal-cored wood flying towards him fast and lethal as an arrow. Razkar gritted his teeth and swayed to his left as the impromptu missile left his opponent's hand. He'd guessed as much: at that range the short sword could only be thrown, and the Akalak's legs had not tensed or bent as if to charge. But he was still barely fast enough, short sword winging past his head and clattering onto the stone wall of the Arena behind him-
-and then the monster was upon him, towering, vast, implacable and rearmed.
The suggestion became a reality. Razkar smiled.
Right arm tight to his side, Xalet exploded at Razkar with a flurry of stabs from his short sword. Corded muscle put incredible force behind each blow, but Razkar's gladii were already moving up to intercept them. His left hand jerked upwards, gladius held in that hand parrying the stabs away from his torso, each clack of wood-on-wood sending a jar down his arm. Goddess, did he even feel those last blows? Such force, such discipline, it was as if he hadn't even landed them. As if-
Razkar grunted as he parried another strike, satisfied his skill with the gladius was at least greater than Xalet's with the short sword, enforcing the sudden, angry voice that told him he is mortal!
Only a matter of time before he lands one of those stabs, or uses that damned shield, have to move-
His eyes. Violet eyes focused on his chest and shoulders, his arms, where the Myrian would launch his attacks.
-but not below.
Plan formulated from his observation, Razkar knocked away the latest furious jab and thrust towards the Akalak's head with his right-hand gladius. The blow was sweeping, stabbing thrust almost diagonal to reach the block-like skull looming a foot above him, on Xalet's left side, his shield side.
Razkar knew (or, more accurately, hoped) that the Akalak would raise his shield higher to deflect the blow, as he had doubtless been trained. The Myrian shifted his weight onto his left side, bend his left leg a little, right foot raising slightly on its ball-
-ready to unleash a vicious kick to the Akalak's crotch. Something he'd learned from Kevlar, during their sessions under the Blue Bull: kick as if you're trying to kick the middle of the bastard's pelvis. That way, the hit to the balls will feel like a sledgehammer. Between that and the blows he had delivered earlier, that would hopefully hobble the beast a little. Then it would get... simpler. And nastier.
Once again, Razkar was planning ahead, knowing that at this range, retaliation was inevitable. Perhaps "planning" was a strong term: it was more an instinctive reaction to one so vast and seemingly-invulnerable. Whether his foot met wooden shield or ligament and flesh and bone, he would let the force of the impact stagger him backwards and out of range, then sidestep as fast as he could.
He did not want to get caught against that wall. Better to circle around the Akalak, out of his range, towards the center.
Providing, a cynical little voice chimed in just before his right-hand thrust landed, that you make it-
And right on cue, showing the Multiverse does have a sense of dramatic timing, one of those powerful short stabs crashed into Razkar's left pectoral with a wet, sickening thunk.
