Jason threw off his wolf cloak to reveal his black spiked mace in his right hand. His seething expression was already blood red before the battle began. He trod further up the hill towards Anton.
Anton gulped. Even with all the time he spent waiting, he was still not prepared for Jason. Even after coming to the hill earlier for the high ground advantage, Anton was still afraid of the overwhelming strength that Jason possessed.
He had to swallow his terror. Jason was approaching. Fast. Deceptively fast for an armored man.
Anton gripped his battle-worn claymore with both hands by the hilt and yanked it out of the ground.
Jason lunged.
With a mighty horizontal swing, he brought his mace towards Anton’s legs. Anton barely parried the blow with his claymore, the force breaking his footing as he sidestepped to his right to reposition himself.
Jason stepped up further on the hill, reaching equal elevation as his opponent.
Anton had lost his advantage already. “Damnit.” He thought, “I need to find an opening.”
Jason swung again. His mace clashing with Anton’s claymore once more. The clanging of steel echoed across the hills as their deadly dance continued.
But with every strike, Anton was losing ground, pushed backwards by Jason’s onslaught.
Compared to his larger opponent, he was wearing much lighter armor. One blow from that mace would send its spikes right through the chainmail and penetrate into his bones.
Jason, in a sudden change of tempo, feigned a low swing.
Anton attempted to parry the false blow as Jason, with sadistic glee, switched his angle to an overhead swing and brought the mace vertically down upon him.
Anton was almost too slow as he dodged to the right. Tumbling down the hill.
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The mace slammed the ground and kicked up dirt upon impact.
Panting, Anton propped himself up with his claymore and regarded at his foe. He was bigger than him, stronger than him, and wearing tougher armor than him. Even though Anton had a weapon with greater reach, he still couldn’t find a safe opening to strike the daunting behemoth that now stood above him, having stolen the advantage Anton had planned seemingly so well for. How could he beat him?
He thought. He pondered. He deliberated.
“Well? Is that all you got?” Jason taunted.
“I suppose it is. How about we call it a draw and go home?” Anton quipped
“No. That’s not an option.”
“I see. A shame.”
Anton turned around and hightailed it down the hill.
Jason’s expression morphed from mocking back to frenzied and deranged.
“COME BACK, YOU COWARD!”
He gave chase.
But Anton wasn’t running away, rather, he was running towards something.
He ran down to the base of the hill, the wind blowing against him while imminent death hounded behind, until he was near the bottom of the incline.
He braked, skidding on the grass and reached down with his left hand to pick up something wide and furry on the ground, before turning around to throw it in the air toward Jason.
It was an ashen grey cloak, Jason’s wolf fur cloak that he’d cast off.
Slipping through the air for a brief moment before enveloping Jason’s upper body on its way down.
His front and his face were now blanketed by the cloak, wrapping around and obscuring his vision.
But he continued to sprint down the hill; he could not stop. His heavy armor and speed gave him too much momentum as he ran downhill.
He could not see that his opponent, who had now turned, braced in a forward-thrusting position with his claymore. He could not see the tip of the blade stab towards his face.
He did not feel the agony of cold steel penetrating his skin, and muscle, and skull, and running through his brain matter.
He died instantly.
But being dead didn’t stop Jason’s corpse carrying momentum; barreled down the hill and crashed onto Anton. The two crestfallen warriors fell to the ground unceremoniously. An inelegant and ignoble end to a pointless duel.
A loud thud, followed by silence. The wind had stopped blowing.
Anton let out an agonized grunt as he pushed the corpse off. He could taste the saltiness of blood that he wasn’t sure was even his and felt a sharp pain in his ribs.
“I thought I was a goner.” he rasped in pain. He was relieved. The battle was over.
Jason’s body twitched and convulsed. The wolf coat still covering his face was now stained in a crimson red that seeped outwards from the entry point of Anton’s claymore, still embedded within him.
The sunset and the chill night began to set in. Darkness swept over the Highlands as yet another warrior fell upon its hills. Not the first, and certainly not the last.
In a serene moment of respite, Anton let out a sigh from the depths of his chest.
“One thing after another.”