Heir of Cinders [FADING EMBERS #1] - ON HOLD

20.1 - Hall of the Mountain King

"Come at me, Filthiness!"

The hyrrean king's voice boomed across the chamber with the intensity of an earthquake, sending a ripple of vibrations through the columns that held up the lofty ceiling above them. His bare chest - a jungle of wiry ginger hair - visibly rose and fell, his breath leaving his lungs in heavy puffs and snorts. Light scintillated against the beads of perspiration that trickled down his exposed arms, following its path down the grooves and bulges of his defined muscles.

Fealtanis's left eye twitched underneath his horned mask. Not even a quarter of an hour had passed since Tychon acquainted the two of them, and the man with the ridiculous bronze helm shaped like a boar's head had already challenged the Head of the Masks into a duel.

Thanks to their significant difference in height, Feal felt as if he was a giant rhinoceros beetle about to spar with a midget boar.

"My name is Fealtanis," he corrected the king. The sound of a drink being spurted out of someone's lips could be vaguely heard behind him, followed by the choked laughter of the half-aerhyan woman that accompanied him.

He sighed in annoyance as he pulled out the training sword that the king had so kindly lent him from its scabbard. The satisfying sound of finely-forged metal leaving its case sliced through the air, almost like music to the yildean's ears.

The moment the Boar King saw the flash of the training blade, he charged at the yildean with the ferocity of a feral hog, hollering at the top of his lungs, raising his blunted claymore to attack.

Without much bravado, Feal dodged to his right, evading the king's opening attack.

The Boar King came at him with a decisive thrust, which Feal parried. The shrill screeching of metal sliding against each other rang out across the chamber. The yildean took a step back, light on his toes, and circled the king warily. His sword was pointed low, at an angle he found inconvenient.

Perceiving an opening, he lunged at the king with the intent of quickly ending the fight.

Unfortunately for him, his blade met that of the hyrrean's and was knocked off its intended course. He recovered his poise quickly and launched a direct attack at the king, hoping to pressure him. The blunt side of his blade brushed against the hyrrean's face.

With a grunt, the hyrrean king jumped away. A purplish mark formed on his cheek, marking the place his blade had found his skin. Instead of deterring him, his lips peeled back in a grotesque grin, the flames of enthusiasm alighting inside his eyes. He heaved his claymore into position and closed the distance between them, a boar-like noise escaping his throat.

Feal locked his blade with the man's. His rather tall stature made it easier for him to push his sword down upon the smaller hyrrean. His wrists artfully twisted the hilt, turning his sword into a lever, attempting to wrench the claymore out of the hyrrean's sturdy grip. Satisfaction swelled within his chest.

Time to end this nonsense.

Feal had expected the king to put up a futile resistance, to hold onto his claymore with all his might. His victory was secured.

The king did not.

Right at the last second, he allowed his claymore to be knocked out of his hands. Before Feal could switch his blade to corner him, the king unleashed a guttural roar and rammed into the yildean's stomach with his bronze-shielded skull, sending him flying backward in a flurry of silver hair.

It felt as if a cannonball had landed square on his abdomen, knocking the air right out of his lungs. His fingers wrapped against the ears of his boar-shaped helm, struggling to push the wild boar king away. The heels of his boots scraped against the stone floor. His eyes searched for an opening in the back of the king's neck, though much to his dismay, he found that it was protected by his helm.