Lyria lowered herself into the pit. Opposite her, waited her opponent, Storm Lord, the fiercest of the orcs. He was both tall and massive, even for an orc — and unusually for a male orc to have eyes of gold, though they were anything but benevolent when Lyria appraised him.

The circle of gathered onlookers about them shifted like shivering wolves.

The pit suddenly felt -- unnatural.

This is where this savage Storm Lord would settle his quarrel with her, not that he would do so lightly--in this land of raiders and reavers, there was only one real power of command. Only a heavy hand could stop it. Only a show of mettle would strengthen his hold.

This consolidation of power was what all this noise was about: Urganza's challenge, his acceptance, which then resulted in the duel itself. And after he had won and dispatched Lyria and Urganza, he would retire to his multitude of wives -- never to see daylight for the coming weeks.

The crowd snickered softly.

Lyria felt unease twist around her throat as she looked at me. Her face appeared sad. I sensed anger and frustration at being relegated to this remote place. She might be respected, but she was still too much an outsider here. For all her unusual skills and prowess, she was still viewed with suspicion because she was not one of them. She did not quite fit in their hierarchy. She boasted no harem, detested power and most of all, did not dominate.

*****

Sparks flew, accompanied by the clash of metal against metal. The duel began in earnest and the Storm Lord’s golden eyes darted from Lyria to me as he swung his Warhammer at her maul, which she held up to block it. She felt an exhilaration that made her feel almost like dancing; but I knew this could be only momentary because soon the fight would become more difficult for her. Her opponent was not going to give away easily, nor did he have any intention of giving ground. He was fighting defensively till now, waiting for his chance to strike back. And when he struck, he would hit hard.

I watched them both closely. The Warhammer was heavy enough to make him stagger after each swing. But he kept the momentum of its fall to propel himself forward again. He didn’t need to stop moving, very often. Lyria, on the other hand, took time to recover between attacks. When she attacked, she did it with unerring precision. She stalked him; a hunter cornering predatory prey. And he was wary of being cornered. His movements became slow and deliberate, and he waited for his moment before striking out again.

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The battle raged on for a while; neither fighter willing to yield; until suddenly Lyria sprang into motion; swinging her Maul in a wide arc that caught him off balance. He stumbled backwards, then recovered quickly and lunged at her, driving her against the crumbling pit wall. Lyria slammed with a heavy thud. It was too much for her; she fell to one knee. Then he was upon her, Warhammer raised high over his head, ready to bring it down on her skull.

Lyria rolled away from him just as he brought his weapon down. The blow missed her entirely. As he turned towards her, she sprang to her feet, bringing the Maul around in a vicious overhead strike.

A feral grin danced on the Storm Lord’s face. almost as if he manoeuvred her --- where he wanted.

He moved to meet her attack; Lyria retreated --with feline celerity-- missing his thrust by a finger’s breadth; and they fought together, circling each other warily at first, but soon turned into a macabre ritual to gain an advantage. They attacked and blocked, feinted and counter-blocked. Their weapons echoed loudly, reverberating through the pit, making the air vibrate with the sound.

Then something unexpected happened. The Storm lord stepped back.

*****

Lyria stopped mid-attack; her eyes sought me in the crowd; wordlessly beseeching me like a wounded puppy. Her proud backed opponent walked a few paces with drooping shoulders, deliberated for a paltry moment and addressed her.

“Why do you fight?” asked the Storm Lord.

Lyria did not answer. She could not answer.

“There is a storm coming,” he roared, “and Urganza is a fool for thinking that she could wade the orcs through it. What did she promise you?”

The roar of the Storm Lord robbed the crowd of their voice. A still silence -- a feat impossible for the orcs -- permeated the crowd surrounding the pit.

“No,” with furrowed brows the Storm Lord corrected himself, “Urganza could not promise you anything. She has nothing that you desire.”

He cocked an eyebrow and threw his accusatory gaze in my direction.

“Is it her?” Did she promise to spread her legs on velvet sheets for you?” For an orc, that was elegantly phrased.

A rational part of me suggested striking him down for his insolence. But the shameful part of me, made my heart race at the suggestion. I blushed and wished it would come true.

In an act, that would be considered indignation to the Storm Lord, Lyria turned her back on him. She looked up at me. As I gazed down upon her, she wiped the sweat from her brow. Her clear face; without any blemish; untarnished by the wrinkles from time; would have inspired a slumbering poet to compose.

Tears welled in her eyes; uncontrolled they ran down her cheek.

“I have thrown the jewels of my crown to swine,” She said. Her rich mellowy voice reflected across the walls of the pit, till they became sonorous.

Her unwavering sight fixed on me, she said, “I do not covet what is not mine. And what is mine, I have lost it a long time ago,”