Balin and Columbine (A Children of the May Novella - Book 1.5b)

Chapter Twenty-One: The Champion of Lower Lists

When Balin managed to blink the torchlight out of his eyes he found himself pinned to the ground by Damas. The brother-killer knelt on his hands, crushing them into the broken mud. Instead of finishing him off quickly with a blow to the neck, Damas had raised his sword, and was trying to whip up the crowd.

‘Come on!’ bellowed the fratricide. ‘Who’s the greatest? Who. Is. The. Greatest? Damas. Damas! That’s who.’

Although the bones in his hands were at cracking-point, Balin felt a little sorry for the huge, bare-chested man. He was too eager to win the crowd’s love. With every word Damas uttered, Balin could hear the audience becoming quieter and quieter, shrinking away from the brother-killer’ neediness.

‘Dam-as. Dam-as,’ said Damas, trying to start a chant for himself.

‘Get on with it Dam-as, you dumb arse,’ heckled someone in the crowd, prompting much laughter.

Balin kicked out, but couldn’t shift Damas’ weight.

‘Perhaps you want blood, eh?’ shouted Damas, turning the sword in his hands, levelling the point at Balin’s neck. ‘Well I’ll give you blo –’

Damas was knocked to one side. The brother-killer had forgotten about Urre. The Magyar had been stunned by Balin’s blow, but got back to his feet as Damas tried to ingratiate himself with the audience. The Magyar’s face dripped blood from the boils Balin’s sword had burst.

‘I av beeen fighting Damaz in tourneementz for yeers,’ Urre announced to the crowd. ‘An ee as nevur wun.’

Balin scrambled to his feet and found his sword.

‘An wyy? Beecorse ee dooz not no wen to prezz is advantee –’

The crowd burst out into riotous laughter as Balin brought the pommel of his sword down hard on the very top of Urre’s head. The Magyar’s eyes rolled back until they were all whites, and he dropped to the dirt, unconscious but alive.

‘You said it, mate,’ said Balin to himself as the guards ran into the ring to drag away the Magyar’s jerking body. ‘Got to take your chances when you’ve got them.’

‘That doesn’t seem in the spirit of the thing to me,’ Balin heard the elderly pedant say to his friend.

‘Shut up you boring old fool,’ cried Petal the curly-haired servant. ‘That’s the best move we’ve seen all day. Go on, Two Swords, get the brother-killer!’

Damas was back up. He raged as the crowd started to chant:

‘Two-swords! Two-swords! Two-swords!’

Damas charged. Balin adopted a defensive stance.

The boy from the north felt a calm descend upon him. He could no longer hear the crowd chant his name. Every detail within the ring was clear to him; nothing without existed.

He saw each of Damas’ muscles as his opponent shaped himself, indicating exactly how the brother-killer was going to attack.

Balin lowered his sword, side-stepped, and sliced low and smooth, hitting Damas just below the right knee.

The brother-killer staggered past, crying out his pain. Balin spun on the balls of feet and settled back into defensive stance. Damas limped his own turn and lashed out, swinging his broadsword at Balin’s face.

Balin dodged the swing easily, moving his head back just enough for Damas’ point to miss his nose by a hair’s breadth. He waited for the return swing, which would be on his opponent’s weaker side.