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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Haraash Saan" data-source="post: 4645560" data-attributes="member: 46615">A fat little page boy puffed his way through the overcrowded tavern to our table. “Milordth.” he lisped in salutation as he took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his pig like brow, “Milorth, the Black Lordth have eathily defeated Harbringer. You are drawn to fight them on the ‘morrow.”    So we were to face the Black Lords. They had fought Five Kinds of Death in the second round contest and obviously defeated Yorath’s first team. That in itself made facing them a more frightening proposition.    My comrades had quickly fallen silent at the news. The Black Lords were those very same dire individuals that had exterminated many of the assassins that we had discovered at the banquet. They were a very formidable team, much more powerful than the Hydra. They had competed several times in the Games, and even won once before. They were not to be trifled with.    I tossed the pudgy bearer of ill news a brass bit for his trouble and he quickly left the sight of our sour faces.    There was some brave talk after we had summoned the courage to discuss our impending battle, but in the end sense prevailed.    For the third time in as many days we stood on the sands of the arena. This time there was little cheering for us. It had been replaced by hushed and excited whispers that sounded like the apiaries of Montfort on a spring morning.     I waved for silence attracting the crowds’ collective attention.     “We the Hydra, vanquishers of Estrangular and quellers of the Tundra Storm, have provided you, our most beloved audience with much pleasure during the Games.” This brought forth a cheer that confirmed my words.    Once again I signalled for silence. “Yet, this time we can provide you no entertainment. Alas, we recognise that the most esteemed Black Lords are our betters for this fight and we honourably concede this fight to them.” I sighed, my heart full of regret at our chosen path, but understanding the sense of it. If we were to fight the Black Lords, there would be no doubt as to the conclusion of the melee. We would lose, and several of us would most likely die.     I inclined my head, eyes downcast submissively, as formality decrees, to the Black Lords. I stood tall once more, feeling uncomfortable in such a pose, and so one of the Black Lords, the one that stood in the centre of their group, inclined his head to me in acceptance of our withdrawal.    The crowded turned on us as they heard my words. There were catcalls and mocking cries, until one voice sounded more loudly than the others. “Hydra!” it roared. Everyone fell silent.     “Hydra!” it now screamed.    “Hydra!” more joined the chorus.    Soon our name echoed throughout the stadium. My heart lifted from the dark place that it and fallen. It soared through the heavens. Whilst we had not won the tournament, we had won the crowd and we would be remembered. We were the Hydra, and we would compete again in the next Games of Halfast.    The next two days went quickly. The Black Lords fought a hard battle against Tigris to narrowly defeat them and achieve the ultimate success of the team tournament. Then the Games moved into individual contests.    The evening before I was to fight, Zmrat found me sipping a cup of delicious Montfort mead at the Inn at the End of the Road.    He spied me through the throng and with a wave and a wicked smile, approached the table I shared with Morgan and Argonne.     “Hail my pupil.” He said boisterously. “Congratulations to the Hydra and its valiant efforts.”    “Thank you Zmrat.” I replied, appreciating his approval, “Your own Massive Hand fought a brave fight before succumbing to Juggernaut in the first round.” I added with a sly smile.    “Yes, well we were unfortunately dealt a harsh blow by facing such an accomplished adversary.” He said as a frown crept across his face.     “But no matter.” Zmrat said in a cheerful and dismissive tone, “The individual tourney is the more prestigious event. It is what the crowd really wants to see.” He punctuated is words with another knowing smile.    “I sense that perhaps, my mentor, that you have something you wish to share? Perhaps tomorrow’s draw?” I said. I had not seen who was to be matched up against whom in the events of the next day.    “Yes indeed!” chirped Zmrat. “I have. And you my student, face none other than,” he paused before bowing with a flourish, “myself.” He chuckled, obviously delighted at the thought.     I controlled the annoyance welling within. He would do well to respect my abilities. In the months since his initial instruction I felt that my skills had been battle honed. He would not have an easy win, I would make sure of that.    “Excellent!” I said clapping with approval, “What a fine duel it will be!”    “Indeed my friend,” said Zmrat, “it will do you well to learn some of the more complex ripostes that I had not had the chance to teach you.”    “Ah, I am always the willing student Zmrat. It would be a pleasure for me to learn from the master. But perhaps you should also take note of my skills. They are somewhat more advanced than the fundamentals that you taught me.” I responded.    “Another round?” Zmrat offered with a smile.    We bantered in this way for hours, allowing our bravado to take over any conversation that I had been having with Morgan and Argonne. Soon the patrons of the tavern all clustered around us to listen to our repartee.    There was no doubt that the morning saw my bout with Zmrat as the most anticipated of the day.    And they came to the arena in their hordes. They came to see Sir Gerard d’Montfort, the most recent knight of the kingdom to duel his mentor and teacher. We did not disappoint them.    During yet more verbal sparring, the Master of the Games, rudely interrupted us with his ever so boring call of commencement, “Fight!”    My nerves caused my crossbows’ aim to be off. The bolt I loosed speared the sand several feet from Zmrat. He smiled, then mouthed some words, whilst stretching out his arm and twisting his wrist and fingers. I felt a wave if dizziness hit me as I dropped my bow and groped for the hilt of my rapier.    I shook my head to clear it and sprinted forward to my puzzled opponent. Zmrat had obviously thought to end the fight quickly with magical aid. My blade was clear now and even as I approached to deliver a blow he once again mouthed the incantation. However he had not appreciated my speed and did not deliver the accompanying hand movement. Instead he snatched at his own rapier that hung from his belt.    He whipped it out just in time to fend away my opening thrust, and in a blur of swordplay had managed to get me on back foot desperately parrying the whirling blade the struck at me like a serpent.     Just as suddenly he leapt back. His face once again grinning confidently and chanted the words of power. Yet again he threw his arm forward and completed the intricate gesture. I was instantly hit by fatigue and tiredness, just as I had felt when I had charged Estrangular. The recognition helped me steel my mind against attack. And throwing off its shackles I thrust like lightening and struck Zmrat deeply in the chest.     His grinned stopped and his mouth opened wide in shock at the realisation of the pain that I had inflicted. Blood started to soak his vest. I had no mercy for his stupefaction. Again I scored a hit, this time a gash across his arm.    That wound woke him from his stupor, his face contorted to one of rage and je launched a second ferocious assault upon me. One blow was too quick for me to avoid and it struck me in stomach. My left hand clutched the wound as I exhaled sharply, feeling the acute pain he had caused.    Zmrat smiled once more, “Enough of this. Time for you to fall, pupil.”    Momentarily I felt defeated. I had tried yet, he had prevailed. I was not his match. But then a clear voice rang from the crowd, “For Montfort!” it was Absquith, who no doubt saw me dwelling on the occasion.     It was a perfectly timed inspiration. I grinned wolfishly through my pain and laughed loudly, “Nay Zmrat. I wish to play with you some more before claiming my victory!”    Simultaneously I leapt forward and delivered a thrashing assault. His sword could not defend all my blows and I managed to strike him several times. Before I struck his blade near the hilt and it snapped clean in two.     “I could ask you to yield,” I said confidently, “but the crowd wants to see more. Draw a new blade.” I commanded.    Zmrat snarled and his eyes burned with hatred as he threw down his useless hilt and drew the spare blade that most competitors, including me, carried in the Games.     “You will pay for that student!” he spat as he thrust forward.    It was a clumsy attack. With a flick of the wrist I sent his second blade sailing through the air where it landed point first, biting deep into the ground beneath the sand of the arena, swaying with the vibration of the impact.    I had no chance for another witty comment for he ripped out a dagger, his only remaining weapon, and foolishly attacked me. I easily avoided the awkward slashes of the knife and exploited my rapiers length and caused several more cuts and gashes on Zmrat.    My adversary was clearly staggered. He bled from a dozen or more wounds and his face was duly ashen. Zmrat breathed heavily for a moment, taking advantage of a pause in our conflict before raising the dagger above his head and punching it down with all his strength.     His short and my long blades met, and sparks flew as the knife edge ran the entire length of my sword before forcefully meeting my sword guard. The thin knife was not up to the impact. It too shattered at the hilt, leaving Zmrat overbalanced, and conveniently open for another strike. However I showed mercy on my master. I held the thrust that would no doubt have felled him.    Zmrat glared at me, realising that I had deliberately not taken the opportunity. “I yield!” he bellowed, “I cannot defeat you with my bare hands.” he added in exasperation as he stormed from the field.    A deafening roar filled the arena as I, with outward calm that suppressed the ecstasy of my greatest triumph, wiped my blade clean and sheathed it with finality. I then walked to the centre of the arena, determined to drink in every glorious moment, raised my arms to acknowledge the crowd and then swept them down into a great bow, doffing my hat in the same motion.         I Gerard d’Montfort, had defeated my own teacher Zmrat before the assembled masses. Even I had not truly believed that I could have, yet I beat with wit and more importantly with my steel. Perhaps I should offer him lessons in the art of sword play? </blockquote>

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