“Now wait just a minute,” Ferez said. “Fists aren’t weapons!”

“Actually, they’re the only weapons a man is never without. And it was obvious you lacked any equipment, so I thought I would make this concession, for honour’s sake,” Reichblut replied.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t have a full suit of armour either.”

Reichblut scoffed. “Hardly my problem,” he said, then raised his voice to be heard over the general din of the crowd. “The Jarlessa goes to the winner. Now, let us begin!”

“Hold on, that was never part of the terms. I don’t think Ingrid will be alright with this,” Ferez squeaked, suddenly more worried about her than the imminent fight before him.

He spun, searching for her in the crowd, but she was nowhere to be seen. With a frown on his face, he turned back to Reichblut to demand a pause, but instead found a gauntleted fist rushing towards his face. It crunched against his left eye and his world rocked, his vision blanking out into a mess of bright lights and dark patches before an armoured knee caught him in the stomach, folding him in two and lifting his feet off the ground. The bile rose in his throat and was halfway out his mouth when an elbow smashed into his back, driving him into the snowy ground. He groaned and rolled, ignoring the different parts of his body screaming for immediate medical attention. There would be time for that later, but for now, lying still would invite death.

He heard the snow crunch as Reichblut’s boot came down beside his head, missing by a fraction of an inch. With a final, desperately energetic tumble, he flung himself away and rolled to his feet, dropping back with his guard up. The Skjar didn’t give him time to collect his wits. Blow after blow crashed against his defences, forcing him back, until a hook to his ribs nearly dropped him. His hands drooped away from his chin, just for a moment, and another hook to the jaw sent him spinning. He went down into the snow again, the disparate pains in his body coalescing into a single bloody shriek while his brain tried to figure out what the fuck was happening. For a few interminably long seconds, he lay in a daze as his mind re-engaged with his body, sights and sounds gradually coming in to focus. He filtered out the pain and sought something to anchor himself.

Wet snow on the side of his face, melting from the heat of his body, the cold water soaking into the collar of his robes. It was unpleasant, but galvanising. Latching onto it, he rebuilt his consciousness around the sensation, snapping the rest of the world back into view. He was on his belly, head turned to the side. Reichblut was a few meters away, speaking to the crowd as he paced, his back turned to Ferez. Grandstanding, from the sounds of it, crapping on about how the mage was a weak southling and how the Skjar brat was going to kill him for the honour of his clan and nation and other such nonsense.

Well, fuck that. Ferez couldn’t quite stifle a groan as he planted his hands on the cold ground and pushed himself up, dragging his knees under his chest to stand. Clumps of dirty snow fell away as he rose, hands balled into fists at his side. He grit his teeth, partly from anger and partly to stop their chattering, and lurched into a run. He charged, a heroic shout on his lips as he cocked his arm back for the strike and Reichblut turned. The Skjar didn’t have time to react before Ferez swung, the full force of all his strength and momentum and rage concentrated into the tip of his fist as it crashed against the side of the warrior’s helm.

“Val’s fucking tit!” Ferez swore as he stumbled back, cradling his hand. Reichblut staggered, shaking his head, but quickly regained his composure. He laughed at the swearing Emrinthian and stalked forward.

“What’s the matter, southling? Break your hand on my face?”

Cocky little shit.

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Ferez ignored the jibe and charged again, delivering a devastating flying kick to his opponent’s chest. He bounced off and plopped into the snow again, feeling the rough aggregate beneath the frozen water ripping at his clothes and the exposed skin on his hands. Reflexively coughing from the impact, he rolled onto his hands and knees, sucking air into his protesting lungs, but they had barely begun to inflate when a massive hand clamped around his throat and hoisted him into the air. He scrabbled at Reichblut’s wrist, trying to pull it away while his feet dangled uselessly a good foot off the ground and his eyes rolled back in his head.

“I have to say, I’m disappointed,” the Skjar said, pulling Ferez close. His breath wafted from inside his helmet in a white plume, carrying the smell of stale mead. “I expected more fight from you. No matter, or should I say, you don’t matter. Thank you, though. This is exactly the opportunity I needed to finally claim the Jarlessa as my own.”

Deep inside his chest, something in Ferez snapped. His eyes flew open, and his hands latched onto Reichblut’s arm. He planted a leg against the Skjar’s chest and pushed, straining with every ounce of strength in his body. Reichblut resisted, but even his arm couldn’t outmatch a leg in a contest of strength. As the Skjar’s arm hit full extension, Ferez swung his other leg up and into the noble’s chin, the man’s head snapping back at a painful angle as he dropped the mage. Ferez thudded into the ground a fraction of a second before the giant, gasping for breath as his opponent flailed weakly in the snow.

Not wasting time, he leapt onto the northerner and ripped off his helmet. Reichblut’s eyes were rolling, his senses completely scrambled as Ferez raised the glorified bucket high over his head, and then brought it down again. Hard.

He smashed it into the side of Reichblut’s head, splitting the Skjar’s temple open and spraying bright red blood onto the snow. Ferez let his arm swing through the full range of motion, then came back again with a devastating backhand, cracking the other side of the noble’s face. He kept swinging, again and again, his teeth bared in anger as he painted the ground red. Reichblut tried to defend himself at first, but his hands quickly fell limp by his sides as the mage’s onslaught continued.

When the man’s face was a ruined mess, Ferez finally stopped, climbing wearily to his feet, dropping the dripping helmet into the snow beside his defeated foe. Chest heaving, he spun in a circle, staring down the crowd.

“He said his piece. Now I’ll say mine,” he bellowed. “I am Ferez Abdul Ahud, High Mage of Pyris, scourge of battlefields from here to southern Emrinth. And I am no weakling.” He paused, locking eyes with a few of the bigger warriors until they averted their gaze. “If anyone here has failed to learn from his example,” he said, gesturing at Reichblut’s still form, “I’ll be happy to instruct you personally.”

There was a long silence until someone stepped forward out of the crowd. It was Feueranzunder, one of the Jarls from before.

“Reichblut was a welp,” he said, head held high and hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “I’ll show you what a real Skjar warrior can do. I challenge you for the hand of the Jarlessa! The weapon will be-”

A sudden storm silenced the Jarl, pelting the assembly with biting cold air and tiny shards of ice. Ferez raised his hand and squinted against the gale. Through it, he could just make out Ingrid at the epicentre of the storm, striding into the circle with a face that was both terrifying and beautiful.

“Alright! Listen up, you cock-addled cum stains,” she shouted as she let the winds die. “It seems you have all forgotten the one, inalienable truth of Skjar. I am Ingrid Luftfaust, Jarlessa of Jarls. I broke your clans, and I broke you. I slaughtered challengers in droves until even you simpletons learned to fear my power. My authority is the only authority in this frozen shit hole. I am the beginning, and if you piss me off, I will be your end. The next walking penis who mistakenly believes I am a commodity to be traded or wagered on dick sizing contests will lose his head. Am. I. Clear?”

Damn. That was way better than my speech.

Ferez couldn’t help the smile that leapt to his face as the love of his life, crimson faced and with veins throbbing in her forehead, dressed down an army of the most savage warriors in the world. His grin turned to a wince when Feueranzunder decided to metaphorically whip his dick out to compare, anyway.

“That’s enough, Luftfaust. We have tolerated your arrogance and disrespect long enough. If you will not accept your place in the world, I will be forced to-”

He never finished his threat. Ingrid made a quick chopping motion with her hand, barely sparing the fool a glance as his head sailed away from his body. The giant, headless torso crumpled into the snow as blood gushed from the wound.

“Anyone else?”

Everyone wisely held their silence.