Phanar matched him, step for step, until they were just twenty feet apart. When you’d been almost doubled in height, twenty feet started to look like ten.

Abathorn eyed his opponent’s warhammer. It was no common weapon, as far as weapons went in general, but, from a man with such an illustrious (and short) adventuring career, the elf had expected something more. It was clearly taken off the racks in the arena armoury, an old, plain thing with a heavy block-end for battering, a pick-tooth on the other face for piercing. Neither would be impactful here – the poor newcomer had handicapped himself before he’d even begun. Even the hammer’s icy ensorcellment was of more use against an armoured foe.

“Interesting choice of weapon, Dragonslayer,” he called, circling.

The dark-eyed, dark-haired man reciprocated, circling in like fashion, but in response to his words he received only a slight shrug.

Quiet one, then, Abathorn thought. Good.

Talking was for poseurs. There could be some value in a decent taunt but fighting was what the crowd had come to see, so fighting was what he’d give them.

Spades of it. Enough to bury the human.

His first strike was a whirling trick; he launched himself into the air, barrelling forwards, and in the moment of weightlessness he twisted, using the force of his swing to propel his body about, carrying his axe-blade towards his foe’s neck at stupendous speed while he stayed out of range. It was a move that only fatigued his muscles to a small degree – he could perform the manoeuvre a hundred times in a row, at least – yet it looked flashy, and had been known to catch opponents off-guard.

Not Phanar. The Dragonslayer didn’t back away as did most when confronted with such a sudden assault; Phanar seemed to know exactly what Abathorn was doing. He raised the tip of the icy warhammer in his hands to ward off the blow, jarring the grip in Abathorn’s hands, and stepped in instead, driving the butt of the hammer-shaft up at the elf’s sternum.

Abathorn landed early, leaning away to avoid getting his breastbone shattered and to recover his balance. He skipped back, circling again, reassessing.

The next three times axe met hammer, it was Phanar slapping away Abathorn’s testing swipes, Phanar defending against Abathorn’s slowest slashes. They weren’t even attacks that deserved to be parried – the adventurer needn’t have wasted his energy, could’ve just slipped aside – but the Dragonslayer appeared to be overly-cautious. He didn’t have the mannerisms of a warrior used to fighting man-on-man like this; his reflexes were those of someone conditioned to fight monsters, to stay back, avoid being struck at all costs.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Not a bad line of thinking, exactly, but not something that would preserve his life in the gladiatorial arena. This space required decisiveness. The only way out was through – through a shower of your enemy’s blood.

Circling. Circling.

Abathorn let that need, that desire for decisiveness grow in Phanar’s mind. The elf stayed on the offensive, continually offering trivial attacks, seeking to lull his opponent into a false sense of security, trap Phanar in a passive state until his first action could be drawn out of him.

Five. Six. Seven more times, metal rang out against metal. More and more, now, it swept through empty space that until moments earlier had contained an arm, torso, head.

The Dragonslayer made his move, an amateurish swing at Abathorn’s neck with the blunt side of the hammer-head.

As the elf easily darted inside the swing, he realised the human’s move wasn’t so amateurish as he’d first gathered. Phanar was stepping around too, as if he’d expected Abathorn to move in, and he’d arrested the over-swing, bringing the pick-end back down at Abathorn’s temple. The weapon trailed a cloud of blue-white frost, arcing down at the elf.

Not quite so amateurish, but still amateurish. The elf easily slipped aside. Phanar hadn’t left himself open to a mortal strike but Abathorn’s axe-head sank deep into the man’s spell-reinforced ribs.

The thunder rang out with the axe-head’s fall, a hollow boom and a rush of cold wind – and the Dragonslayer was tossed across the sand. Phanar somehow twisted in the air, landing on his feet – an impressive trick, to be sure – but he was still skidding, still off-balance.

Still wounded.

A vast ‘oooh’ went up from the crowd.

Phanar was instinctively pressing his elbow against the blood seeping out of his gambeson, giving up the utility of his shield-arm just to put pressure on his injury.

Does he not even comprehend the magical protections under which we have been placed?

Abathorn cocked his head.

“You do not need to do this,” he said plainly to Phanar, pointing with the axe to the Dragonslayer’s side. He was speaking too quietly for the crowd to hear; they’d think he was mocking his opponent or something. “The spells, they will stop the bleeding.”

The adventurer’s dark eyes regarded him warily, and the arm pressing against the wound didn’t falter.

He believes I attempt deception.

Humans… Honourless humans.

He raised his voice.

“You send these untried morsels to face me, to face the sting of the Thorn!” Abathorn sighed, then pulled at the straps on his forearm. “Doubtless he is a brave man, but a gladiator?”

He saw Phanar’s disbelieving, worried eyes as he undid the final strap and hurled the invisible buckler aside. The sound of it landing was unmistakeable.

The crowd cried out, half enthusiastically, half in alarm.

Phanar glanced down at his side, and slowly moved his arm, as if testing the truth of Abathorn’s earlier statement.

“You send them to die!” the elf roared.

Uncaring how Phanar reacted, whether he reacted, Abathorn threw caution to the winds and swung meaningfully for the first time, right at the man’s neck.

* * *