Dark Age Year 871
Seventh day of the First month
As Tharos stood ready for the impending exchange of arms, his hair and tattered cloak fluttered in the night breeze. Assuming the traditional stance, he planted his legs firmly in the ground, sword raised and aimed at his opponent, anticipating the first strike. He didn’t have to wait long. In the split second that Tharos assumed his stance, his opponent, despite his great size and stature, moved with surprising speed. Closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye, the axe blade hovered just inches from Tharos’s head, poised to crash down upon him with the force of a thousand crashing waves and threatening to cleave him in two. Tharos didn’t have much time to react, he was facing an opponent who wouldn’t give him an opportunity. This opponent was no amateur, confirming his initial assessments. This opponent wasted no time utilizing his advantages – his great height and the length of his weapon provided him with a significant reach advantage, which he fully exploited.
In a situation like this, Tharos would normally use his shield to block or deflect such a blow and seize the opportunity to counterattack. This tactic had proven effective many times. However, the sheer size of the weapon he was up against, the strength required to wield it effectively, and its magical properties made using his shield impractical. The weapon could easily cleave through him and his shield in a single swing. Additionally, his opponent’s speed seemed to match or even surpass his own, leaving him little chance to land a good strike without exposing himself to a counterattack. A counterattack he wasn’t sure he would survive or recover from quickly enough to keep up this battle. Normally, he wouldn’t worry about such things, as most injuries or wounds he suffered would heal in a mere few seconds or minutes, depending on the severity. However, Tharos had discovered something during the battle with that creature in Zarbar when he lost his left arm from a blast of energy. His left arm, which was almost disintegrated up to his shoulder, took hours, if not a day, to regrow back. While Tharos didn’t fear death or pain at this point, that blast of energy proved to him one thing: his healing ability had its limits. It was possible that damage inflicted upon him from magical sources, such as magic weapons or spells, could have adverse effects on his regeneration. If he lost this battle and was slain here, it would have been a rather anticlimactic end to his journey. However, it was an ending he would have welcomed, for the burden of ages was a weight he wished he no longer had to carry. However, he couldn’t afford to lose this battle, not just for the sake of his own ego and pride as a swordsman and warrior, but also for the safety of his new travelling companion. The companion who would surely be killed by this man or left to fend for himself. Without Tharos around, the chances of him surviving in this wasteland were slim at best. Tharos knew that in order to stand a chance and win this fight, he would have to remain mobile and use the terrain to his advantage. Standing his ground would not work against an opponent with such great strength and speed, as they would overwhelm any defence he could muster. In the split second it took for him to formulate a plan of attack, the axe blade mere millimetres away from his head, Tharos ducked and tucked forward, narrowly avoiding the blow aimed at him. The axe blade only hit his after-image and a few stray bits of his messy black hair, which dropped and fluttered to the ground like loose leaves in autumn. Tharos felt the impact and pressure pass over the top of his head, along with bone-chilling frost that covered his head, dusting his black hair with snow.
“That was lucky.” Tharos though to himself If he had taken that blow, it would have been trouble for him.
Seizing the opportunity before his opponent could retaliate with a backward swing, Tharos lunged forward with his sword aimed at hitting his opponent squarely in the chest, intending to pierce through to his heart or at least puncture one of his lungs—a potentially fatal blow. However, instead of executing a backward strike as Tharos had anticipated, his opponent pulled back his axe and struck Tharos directly in the chest with the end of it. The force of the blow pushed him back several feet, breaking through his breastplate and causing several of his ribs to crack. Blood gushed violently from his mouth.
“He’s strong; his blows feel like being struck by a battering ram.”
The blow sent shock waves throughout his body, and he felt a hot, stinging sensation welling up in his chest as the bones in his rib cage started to mend themselves back together. The loose and small bone fragments that had pierced his heart and lungs were slowly being pushed out through his skin. As Tharos was starting to recover from this blow and gather his bearings, his opponent, however, had a different idea and wouldn’t give him such luxury as breathing room. Charging at him with the speed of a whirlwind, he descended upon Tharos with another strike from his axe, one that was sure to hit. Reacting quickly, Tharos used his sword to strike at the sandy ground below, scooping up sand with the flat side of the blade and flicking it straight at the face of his opponent. The attack stopped him in his tracks as he tried to wipe the sand out of his eyes, his wolfish face contorting into a look of annoyance. He snorted and snarled, baring his teeth and revealing his elongated canines. Seizing his opportunity, Tharos slashed at him, managing to hit his left arm deeply, causing blood to gush forth like a geyser, with the rest of it dripping down his arm and hitting the ground like heavy rainfall. The yellow sands beneath their feet were being coloured a bright red.
“Looks like I hit a major artery. Not the way I would have preferred to win this fight, but a victory is a victory nonetheless.”
While Tharos was not a doctor, he knew enough and had witnessed enough people die in a similar fashion, some of them comrades and others enemies, both of whom he had sent to an early grave. An injury like this would prove fatal if not immediately treated. Within a few minutes, his opponent was going to pass out and bleed to death, with the sands being dyed deeply with his blood. Tharos wouldn’t have to do a thing, as the outcome of his fight was already decided. All he had to do for now was play on the defensive and wait for his opponent to die from a death of a thousand cuts. However, that didn’t sit right with Tharos. If this person was to die by his hands, then a quick and clean death would be better. Plus, Tharos couldn’t help but have some growing respect for this adversary who, unlike many others he had encountered so far, tested the limits of abilities.
“it’s time to finish this.”
Before Tharos could go in for a killing blow, he was pushed back again, this time with the shaft of the axe hitting him in the chest. He was sent flying thirty feet through the air, landing roughly in the same location where the fight began. Dusting himself off, he prepared for the counterattack. However, he noticed that his opponent was taking this brief opportunity to recover from the wound Tharos had inflicted upon him. Tharos saw him quickly clutching and nursing his arm, with blood still dripping down it. It was at this point that Tharos noticed something that wasn’t apparent at first. The blood that was once pouring down his opponent’s arm like a raging river was slowing down, like the flow of a river being slowed down by a dam. Tharos was confused at first until it clicked. Once he saw his opponent stop nursing their arm and ready to make another charge, he noticed that the wound was closing up. It wasn’t healing at the same speed as his injuries would heal, but it was healing nonetheless, leaving only a small scar.
“It is likely that the axe, in addition to freezing things on contact, also provides some level of physical enhancement to its wielder. That would explain a lot.”
Tharos let out an audible sigh, then placed both hands on the hilt of his sword, tightening his grip, and charged. His foe responded with a wide, wolfish smile and also charged. The two of them clashed in a whirlwind of sparks, with droplets of blood and grains of sand swirling around them like a raging storm, without end. Tharos felt that he had his work cut out for him.
Several hours had passed since the start of their fight to the death, and now both he and his opponent lay collapsed on the sandy ground below, breathing heavily with the sun slowly peeking above the horizon. Blood and beads of sweat were dripping down their forms, staining the sand around them. The only sounds that could be heard were their laboured breathing. Tharos felt as though his lungs and heart were on fire.
“This man has pushed me more to my limits than those treasure hunters or creatures back in Zarbar ever did.”
As Tharos slowly stood up and regained his bearings, his arms and legs felt like jelly as he limped towards his foe, who was sprawled out on the ground, unable to move his limbs or even lift his axe. Tharos dragged his sword behind him in the sand, leaving a straight line behind him as he continued limping towards his opponent.
The fight had ended in a draw; they were evenly matched. Every time Tharos attempted to strike his foe, the opponent would counter or recover from the injury. Tharos lacked the strength and opportunity to deliver the finishing blow. While his opponent possessed the strength to overpower him, Tharos’s speed and agility prevented him from landing any direct hits. Even when Tharos was struck, he would heal and recover from injuries quickly.
The battle quickly turned into a paradox of the unstoppable force against the immovable object. Neither fighter could gain a clear advantage or gain any ground, prolonging the fight beyond Tharos’s preference. It turned into a test of endurance and willpower rather than a swift victory decided by the initial strike. After hours of continuous thrusts, parries, and counterattacks, Tharos emerged as the winner. It marked the longest fight he had ever engaged in with a single opponent. Truthfully, he found himself impressed by his adversary and couldn’t help but develop a growing respect for him, despite knowing little about him beyond their interaction. Growing respect aside, Tharos was not one to play with his food. It was time to finish this. He walked up beside his opponent with his sword raised high, ready to plunge his blade deep into his foe’s chest. His opponent, who had just noticed Tharos standing next to him, did not even try to fight back or beg for mercy. The only action he took was to move his weary head and look up at Tharos with his striking blue eyes, saying with tired and weighted breath,
“Go on, finish it.”
Although Tharos couldn’t fully understand what he was saying, he could sense the intent behind it. This person was a warrior who lived by the ideals of a warrior. To live by the sword is to die by the sword, and this was a person who accepted this fate wholeheartedly. Tharos would be the one to grant him the warrior’s death he sought. As Tharos was about to plunge his blade deeply into his foe’s heart, he was overcome by a strong feeling and stopped just when his blade was an inch away from piercing through his opponent’s chest.
“However,” Tharos thought to himself.
Tharos sheathed his blade and extended his hand to his opponent. The defeated foe looked at him with a look of confusion on his wolfish face, slowly dawning resignation at the bizarre change of circumstances. He raised his arm slowly to grasp Tharos’ hand. Tharos felt the strong, vice-like grip around his hand as they shook firmly before both of them fully collapsed on the blood-drenched sands, watching the sun slowly rise beyond the horizon before both of them fell unconscious. That night, a hawk and a wolf became unlikely friends.
