The Shattered Axe

A surge of hope exploded in Grog’s chest. The Prime Archon, with his kind eyes


and milky moustache was actually going to help. This was going to work.

Grog’s mission was going to be a success.


‘Ruenthor can keep his material rewards,’ Malinjor continued. ‘What I would ask


in return for my aid will cost the thirteen realms nothing, in fact it will benefit them


greatly.’

Grog held his breath and leaned forwards in his chair.


‘What I would ask in return for our aid, is that I am instated as the supreme head of


the church throughout the thirteen realms. That I and my Archons and disciples be

allowed to purge away all the evils that beset the world of dwarves and kvinna. That


we become what we were born to be, what we’ve been training for these last fifty


years – the mortal representatives of the Ancient Ones; the shepherds that guide their


flock.’

The warm smile returned to Malinjor’s face, but it was now accompanied by a blue


fire which burned in his eyes.


‘How long has it been since the lowland kingdoms were beloved by the gods?’


Malinjor asked. ‘A hundred years? More than a hundred years?’

‘Well there was the golden reign of High King Oahn?’ Grog said, unable to stop


himself. ‘We had forty years of peace and prosperity.’


‘Really?’ Malinjor arched a bushy eyebrow. ‘Peace? Even though mercenary bands


and assassin’s guilds grew almost as powerful as kings and realms? Even though

every night in every tavern in every town there was fighting and brawling to go along


with the drinking and gambling?’

‘Well –’


‘Prosperity?’ Malinjor said, rolling over Grog’s interjection. ‘Even though

thousands upon thousands remained impoverished and downtrodden? Even though the


gap between rich and poor grew wider than ever before?’


Grog sat silently and waited for Malinjor to finish.


‘The corruption that permeates the thirteen realms will not be gone even if we

slaughter every last one of these accursed dwarves,’ Malinjor said, his eyes now


blazing. ‘I’m not going to risk the lives of my followers just to allow the lowlands to


return to their sinful, greedy and godless ways. We will come, not just to save you all

from the accursed, we will come to save you from yourselves!’


‘I…’ Grog shook his head, trying to process what Malinjor was asking for. ‘I’d


need to see some kind of document stating very clearly what this … arrangement


would look like.’

‘Of course you do,’ Malinjor said, ‘which is why I wrote one before I came down


to meet you.’ He pulled a small scroll from beneath the golden bracer on his left


forearm and handed it to Grog.


Grog began reading the document. Tarian leaned into his shoulder and began

reading as well.


About half-way through the document, Grog looked up. ‘It seems…’ Grog tapped


the table with his knuckles, struggling to find diplomatic words, ‘it seems like you’d


pretty-much be taking over the whole church.’

‘We would,’ Malinjor said, ‘and it would be for the betterment of all dwarvenkind.’

‘It says,’ Grog looked back down at the parchment, ‘it says you would require any


and all temples, chapels and holy places to be turned over to the Faithbound. That’s …

that’s a lot of property.’


‘If you want our help, Mowgrog Ironheart, you will sign this and swear an oath in


the king’s name that these requests will be honoured.’


Grog ran his hands through his mass of tangled black hair. This should not be my

decision to make, he thought. What would Brotun have said? He would have


negotiated; he would have put his foot down and compromised. ‘Could we maybe


alter a couple of things?’ Grog asked. ‘I’m not sure that Ruenth –’

‘As you said before,’ Malinjor interrupted, ‘you’re in no position to negotiate.


There will be no changes made to that contract. You will take it, or leave it.’


‘I just don’t know if I can do it, Your Holiness.’ Grog glanced at Tarian who was


looking at Malinjor with undisguised suspicion. ‘It says that forty percent of taxes will

need to go to the church … I thought you said you didn’t want any material reward.’


‘Not as a payment,’ Malinjor said. ‘Not as some tribute to be paid to us once we are


back on our mountaintops, no. But this is very different, this money would remain in


the thirteen realms and be used to make them better, stronger and purer than ever

before.’


‘Purer?’ Tarian asked. ‘What do you mean? How will they be purer?’


‘Continue reading.’


Grog and Tarian went back to the lengthy document.

After a few more sentences, Grog found what he was sure Malinjor had meant by


“purer” and a spear of panic shattered the small pocket of hope that had remained in

his chest.


‘It … ah, it says,’ Grog looked up at Malinjor, then back down at the parchment.


He read the sentence again … and again, but the words obstinately refused to change.


‘It says that one of your conditions is that “the production, distribution and

consumption of all alcoholic beverages is to cease”. What does that mean, exactly?’


‘What it says.’


‘But … why?’

‘Because alcohol does nothing but inspire wickedness, foolishness and avarice. It is


a weighted chain hanging around the neck of all dwarvenkind that prevents progress,


purity and enlightenment.’


Grog looked around the room, his panic rising. ‘But … you can’t expect me to sign

this! I can’t make that sort of decision on behalf of the thirteen realms!’


‘If you want our help,’ Malinjor said calmly, ‘you will sign.’


Grog sat in stunned wretched silence, his jaw working like a fish out of water.


‘We can’t sign it,’ Tarian said. ‘It’s too much. You ask too much. Ruenthor would

never agree.’


Malinjor seemed completely unphased by Tarian’s words. ‘I believe we established


that General Ironheart was to act as the High King’s official emissary?’


Grog was sweating again, sweating and squirming and clutching his beard with

both hands. He’d never imagined a situation like this. He’d been a guide, or at most, a


messenger; now he was being asked to decide the fate of the entire thirteen realms. ‘I

can’t,’ he said, looking back and forth between Tarian and Malinjor. ‘I need some


time to…’ He looked back down at the document. He was so stressed that he could

barely make sense of the final paragraph, but the words “purge” and “inquisition”


jumped out at him.


‘We can’t sign it, Grog,’ Tarian said, also reading the rest of the letter. ‘We’re just


going to have to win this war without their help.’

Grog looked into Tarian’s eyes and found strength in her certainty.


‘I’m sorry, Your Holiness, but Tarian’s right. I’m imagining what Ruenthor or


Brotun would say to this, and I’m pretty sure they’d say no.’

‘You would rather doom your people to genocide, than be saved and then embrace


the good and loving embrace of the Ancient Ones?’ Malinjor asked.


‘I’d rather do neither!’ Grog stood up, knocking his wooden chair onto the floor.


‘Can’t you just fucking come and help without all this…’ he tapped the parchment

with a finger. ‘If you’re so good and loving, you should just come and help because


it’s the right thing to do!’


Malinjor remained completely calm. ‘What about this,’ he said, stroking his beard.


‘I heard that one of my disciples, Sine Bloodsmith, has challenged Tarian to Brol-

Alagash, is that correct?’


‘It is,’ said Tarian.


‘And do you intend to honour this challenge?’ Malinjor asked.


‘I do.’

‘Here is my proposal,’ Malinjor said, leaning forward and steepling his fingers, ‘if


my Thunderstruck kvinna wins, you will sign this document, Grog, and the

Faithbound will come to the aid of the thirteen realms. If Tarian wins, we shall come


to your aid with no conditions or expectations of reward or remuneration whatsoever.

Do we have a deal?’


Tarian turned in her chair to look back at Grog. Her hair was a mess, her face was a


jumble of smeared and smudged paint. She looked exhausted … but she was smiling.


‘Are you sure?’ Grog asked.

Tarian nodded.


Grog paced the room, tearing at his beard.


‘Grog,’ Tarian said, ‘take the deal.’

‘Alright, Your Holiness,’ Grog said with an almighty sigh, ‘we agree.’


‘Wonderful,’ Malinjor got to his feet and strode across the room with his hand


extended. Grog and Tarian both shook it. ‘Now, I have a great many preparations to


see to. No matter the result of this evening’s combat, the Faithbound will travelling

down the mountain tomorrow, and I think the two of you would appreciate a chance to


bathe, rest and recover for a while, yes?’


Malinjor opened the door to the abbey. As they stepped out into the cavernous hall,


a pair of red-robed monks came scurrying over. ‘These monks will attend to you,’

Malinjor said. ‘I will see you at dusk in the great courtyard.’ He turned, walked back


into the small room and closed the door.


As they followed the monks towards the exit from the abbey, Grog turned to


Tarian. ‘Are you sure you can beat her?’

‘Grog,’ Tarian gave him a scathing look, ‘I can beat anyone.’


‘But … you’ve never seen her fight.’

‘Have you seen me fight?’ Tarian asked.


Grog nodded.

‘Well then you can relax, can’t you?’ Tarian said. ‘We’re going to bring the


Faithbound back to help fight this war, and we’re going to do it without having to pay


a single coin.’


Grog nodded again, but even though Tarian was one of the finest warriors Grog had

ever seen, a chilling doubt still gnawed at his insides. As they reached the grand doors


to the abbey, he cast a look back at the room where they’d sat with Malinjor. The


Prime Archon didn’t seem like the kind of dwarf who would gamble on the outcome

of a fight when the stakes were this high. He didn’t seem like the kind of dwarf who


would gamble ever…


But the deal was done, and with another helpless sigh, Grog followed Tarian and


the two monks out into the sunbathed courtyard.

***


Inside the small room, Malinjor was wiping the milk from his moustache and looking


down at the document which Grog had left on the table.


The door at the back of the chamber opened. A golden light preceded the dwarf that

entered and Malinjor looked up as Sunweaver Yidlar – the Golden Oracle – entered


the room.


The oracle was surrounded by a glowing aura and the third eye in the centre of his


forehead was open; it burned – just as his other eyes did – with white-yellow fire.

‘You heard all?’ Malinjor asked casually as he picked up the chair that Grog had


knocked over.’

‘I heard,’ the oracle said in a breathy whisper.

‘Even easier than we’d hoped,’ Malinjor said. ‘And you’re sure about Brol-


Alagash? You’re sure the kvinna of war will fall?’


‘Of course.’


‘Good.’ Malinjor grabbed the parchment and rolled it up. ‘Then I very much look

forward to this evening’s combat.’

- CHAPTER 21 -



Brol-Alagash






The hospitality of the Faithbound was not as lavish or restorative as that which Grog


and his companions had received from Ogrem in Wolfgaärd. There was no herbed

pork and potatoes, or steaming hot baths filled with scented oils, and there were


certainly no tankards of cold frothy ale. Instead, Grog was given a bucket of cold


water to splash on his face, a hunk of bread, and another mugful of goat’s milk. He

was then left alone for a couple of hours in a tiny room with a low bed covered in a


white mohair blanket.


Grog lay on the bed and felt sorry for himself. He was shaking, sweating and


horribly nauseous. His ribs still hurt, his hands hadn’t fully healed from crawling

across the frozen pond and even the cut on his arse still throbbed a little.


But Grog’s physical discomfort was nothing compared to the utter tumult in his


mind. He was used to the talons of guilt, regret and self-loathing raking over his brain,


but he’d never in all his life suffered such crushing feelings of stress and anxiety.

The fate of the thirteen realms had somehow come down to him and the decision


he’d just made to let Tarian fight Brol-Alagash against an unknown opponent. If she


lost…


Grog hauled himself out of the low bed with a grunt and began pacing the room.

Through the one small window, he saw that the sky was darkening. It wouldn’t be


long now.

After another fruitless attempt to sleep and a whole lot more pacing, Keagan


arrived to escort Grog to the grand courtyard.

‘So it seems we’ll be spending a lot more time together,’ Keagan said, as they made


their way down a staircase.


‘What? We will?’ Grog said stupidly, his mind still almost completely on the


upcoming fight and its potential consequences.

‘Well, no matter what happens tonight, we’re all heading down the mountain


tomorrow, aren’t we?’


‘I suppose we are … sorry about that.’ Grog hadn’t really thought much about the

fact that recruiting the Faithbound would mean uprooting thousands of dwarves and


kvinna from their homes to go and risk their lives in a war. On top of everything else,


he now added that guilt to his growing burden of mental baggage.


‘If that is the decision of the Prime Archon, then it is also the will of the Ancient

Ones,’ Keagan said, seemingly at peace with the news.

They reached the bottom of the staircase and stepped out into the courtyard. Scores


of dwarves and kvinna, paladin and monks alike, were gathering. They streamed into

the courtyard from the large buildings and the tiered farms beyond. They sat on long


wooden benches that had been placed around the centre of the courtyard in a


rectangular shape. They spoke in calm, quiet voices … but the excitement and tension


in the air was palpable.

‘Keagan,’ Grog said as the monk led him towards the front of the abbey where


some chairs had been placed on top of a small wooden dais, ‘what’s the story with


Sine? What does it mean to be Thunderstruck exactly?’

‘Sine is one of the few who’ve survived the Godfire ritual,’ Keagan said over his


shoulder. ‘Do you see the spire up there?’


Grog looked up at the slender copper spire that reached for the sky at the top of the


abbey.

‘We get wild thunderstorms up here,’ Keagan continued, ‘and the spire is very


often struck by lightning. Some brave souls choose to face the judgement of the


Ancient Ones by clinging naked to the spire during such a storm. Those that survive a


lightning strike have proven that they are beloved of the gods and are named

Thunderstruck.’


‘That’s completely…’ Grog stopped himself before uttering the words fucking


crazy. ‘That’s, quite … amazing. Do many survive?’


‘Oh no,’ Keagan stopped at the raised dais and turned to face Grog. ‘No most are

killed instantly. But those who survive – like Sine – are blessed with extraordinary


speed and agility.’ He looked around the courtyard. Rows of Faithbound were now

taking-up standing positions behind the packed benches. ‘It should be quite the fight


tonight; I’ll be sorry to miss it.’

‘You’re not going to watch?’


‘I’m a Sun Prophet, my friend,’ Keagan said. ‘Once the sun has set, I must remain


in my monastic cell until dawn. In fact,’ Keagan glanced westward, where the sun was


dipping behind the barracks, ‘I must be going now. Your seat is here.’ He gestured to

a chair on the dais. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’


As Keagan hurried away, Grog climbed onto the dais, sat down on the hard wooden


seat and wrapped his fox fur cloak around himself. He was acutely conscious of how

many monks and paladin were staring at him. He hoped that his trembling would be


attributed to the bitingly cold air, and not to his withdrawals from ale and whisky.


The flow of Faithbound into the courtyard continued until the entire space was


nearly filled. As the sun set fully below the lesser mountain peaks, dozens of fires

were lit in large iron braziers placed around the rectangular space that was soon to


become a combat arena.


‘Look at you sitting up there like a mountain king,’ came a deep and wonderfully


familiar voice to Grog’s right.

Grog looked over to see Krordous being escorted towards the dais by a pair of


monks in white robes. ‘Krordous, you old dog!’ Grog cried, standing up and walking


across the platform. ‘Good to see you, pal. How you doing?’


‘I’m feeling much better,’ Krordous said as they clasped forearms. ‘These miracle-

workers here,’ he indicated the two monks, ‘have taken, well … I thought I was a


dead dwarf, Grog, as you know.’ A flash of something like shame passed across

Krordous’ amber eyes, and Grog recalled the harrowing story Krordous had told him


and Tarian after the snow storm.

‘Thank you so much,’ Grog said, extending a hand towards one of the monks.


The monk looked at Grog’s hand as though it might recently have been dipped in a


latrine. ‘As soon as the fight ends, you’re back in the infirmary,’ he said to Krordous,


then both of the physicians turned and took their places in the crowd.

‘I had to put up quite the fight for them to allow me out,’ Krordous whispered.


‘Come, let’s sit down and you can tell me what’s been going on, and all about this


mess that Tarian’s got herself into.’

They sat together on the dais, and Grog had almost finished telling Krordous about


everything that had happened, when a sudden hush fell over the assembled crowd.


Grog looked over his shoulder, following the reverent gazes of the hundreds of


Faithbound. The prime archon was emerging from the abbey, accompanied by Archon

Oathenforge and his blood moon bodyguards. Despite the supremely impressive


bearing, armour and weapons of the two archons, Grog’s eyes were drawn to the


orange-robed monk who was following slightly behind them. He was surrounded by a


pale-yellow glow and – even at a distance – Grog could see that his eyes were the

same yellow hue. They didn’t simmer like Krordous’ eyes, but burned with an


intensity that made Grog feel deeply uncomfortable.


The crowd of Faithbound parted to allow their leaders to approach the dais.


Grog and Krordous both stood respectfully as Malinjor approached, although

Grog’s gaze kept flicking to the strangely-glowing monk behind him.


‘I trust you got some rest, Mowgrog?’ Malinjor asked in his breathy voice.

‘Yes, thank you, Your Holiness,’ Grog lied.


‘And you must be Krordous?’ Malinjor asked. ‘I hope my physicians have taken

good care of you?’


‘Indeed they have,’ Krordous bowed his head. ‘Thank you, Your Holiness.’


‘Good,’ Malinjor swept his ice-blue eyes over the flame-lit arena, ‘and are you both


looking forward to witnessing this Brol-Alagash?’

‘To be honest, I’m looking forward to it being over,’ Grog said. ‘I don’t think I can


take much more of this waiting.’


‘Do you doubt your champion?’ Malinjor asked, with the merest hint of a smirk

tugging at the corner of his mouth.


‘Well, not really … I mean, Tarian’s one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen, it’s


just, there’s a lot at stake, isn’t there.’


‘Only the future of the thirteen realms, Grog,’ Malinjor’s smile widened. ‘For the

sake of your people, you should hope that Tarian does not win.’


‘She will,’ Krordous said, the intensity of his words surprising Grog. ‘She’s not one


of the best fighters I’ve seen, she is the best … and I’ve seen a lot.’


‘Well,’ Malinjor reached out and placed a golden gauntlet on Krordous’ shoulder,

‘we’re about to find out. Let’s take our seats, shall we?’


Malinjor sat in the centre, with Archon Oathenforge and the glowing monk on his


right, and Grog and Krordous on his left.


For a moment there was no sound except for the crackling of the fires in the

braziers, then Archon Oathenforge stood and addressed the gathered crowd in a


booming voice. ‘Brethren! We are gathered here tonight to witness Brol-Alagash. Our

thunderstruck sister, Sine Bloodsmith, has invoked this ancient tradition and


challenged the kvinna of war, Tarian Slatechisel, to single combat.’

Grog shifted in his seat and flashed a nervous look at Krordous, but his stoic friend


seemed perfectly relaxed.


‘As you all know,’ the archon continued, ‘tomorrow, for the first time in nearly


fifty years, we will be leaving our mountaintop paradise, and descending into the

lowlands. As you also know; the outcome of the fight you are about to witness will


have a momentous impact on the future of the Faithbound, and indeed on all the


dwarvkin of this world. Such is the will of his holiness, Prime Archon Malinjor

Drakestone!’


‘Praise!’ the hundreds of monks and paladins shouted, frightening Grog so much


that he nearly fell off his chair. ‘Praise! Praise to the Prime Archon!’


‘Bring out the combatants!’ the archon roared as the echoes of the crowd died

away.


The dwarves in front of the barracks to Grog’s right, drew back, and Sine emerged.


Despite the freezing night, she was still dressed in only a scant blue and grey cowl.


The light of the many fires bathed her tanned and tattooed skin in a reddish glow and

glinted off the lapis gem on her chest and the silver ring through her nose.


Oh shit, Grog thought, as Sine strode into the makeshift arena. She was whirling


the bo staff in her hands at incredible speed. It was a blur as it went above her head


and behind her back. She leapt and spun and looked altogether lethal.

While the crowd cheered their champion, Grog looked sideways at Malinjor. The


prime archon had a serene, self-satisfied look on his face. Next to him, the golden

monk was leaning forwards, his blazing eyes narrowed to slits.


‘Come on, Tarian.’ Grog turned at the sound of Krordous’ low voice and saw


Tarian stepping out through a gap in the crowd to his left. Something like pride


swelled in his chest as she walked calmly towards the centre of the rectangular space.

She’d obviously found someone willing to give her some face paint, since the right


side of her face was now perfectly white, the left side was grey, and the red mark of


war encircled her left eye once more. Her hair had been restored to a tidy braid and

her green cloth tunic and garnet-coloured cape were almost clean. She too held a bow


staff, however, there was no showy spinning or display of skill from Tarian; she


simply walked to the centre of the arena with the staff resting on her shoulder, then


stood completely still opposite Sine.

‘Let it be clear,’ Archon Oathenforge shouted, ‘that this is Brol-Alagash, not Brol-


Darek. This is not a fight to the death. Victory is claimed by rendering your opponent


unconscious, forcing them to cry “yield”, or by pushing them outside of the


boundaries formed by fire.’

The two kvinna took-up fighting positions.


Grog’s throat had gone so dry that he could barely swallow and almost every


muscle in his body seemed to be trembling or twitching. ‘Come on Tarian,’ he


whispered under his breath.

‘Let Brol-Alagash…’ the archon raised a hand and allowed for a long, dramatic


pause before dropping it, ‘begin!’

Sine leapt at Tarian, her staff a dizzying flurry of powerful swings and sudden


thrusts. The crowd broke into a frenzy of shouts, cheers and boos as Tarian was forced

backwards, ducking, dodging and parrying.


The crack of the solid timber staffs connecting rang out above the crowd. Blood


pounded in Grog’s ears as he clenched his fists and added his shouts of support for


Tarian to the general clamour.

Sine was relentless. Tarian wasn’t granted a split second of respite from the


thunderstruck kvinna’s ferocious attacks as they flew at her from left and right, high


and low and every conceivable angle. A less-skilled warrior than Tarian would

already have been a bruised and bleeding collection of broken bones lying on the cold


granite paving, but as far as Grog could tell, not a single blow had landed.


Tarian was, however, being driven back towards the perimeter of the area marked


by the flaming braziers and the assembled crowd.

The Faithbound cheered their champion as she lunged at Tarian, striking like


lightning with a series of thrusts at her face and abdomen and forcing her to within ten


strides of the arena’s edge.


‘Stop backing up, Tarian!’ Grog roared. ‘Counter her! Get in there!’

‘She’s measuring her,’ Krordous said, although his voice was not as confident as it


had been before the fight. ‘Tiring her out.’


Sine spun, whipping her staff overhead and then bringing it down with colossal


force. Tarian blocked the blow, but staggered back another couple of paces.

‘I don’t think this one gets fucking tired,’ Grog hissed through gritted teeth.

Indeed, Sine was pressing her advantage. She surged after the stumbling Tarian,


thrusting her staff out with one hand, its tip flying towards Tarian’s face.

In one movement, Tarian batted it away and spun to her right so that her back was


no longer towards the frenzied crowd. She skipped away towards the centre of the


courtyard.


Grog and Krordous both forgot all their manners and got to their feet yelling

themselves hoarse.


Sine turned; her scarred face twisted in an animalistic snarl. She came at Tarian


again, shrieking as she did so.

The tattooed monk’s attacks were even more brutal than before, but also more wild.


Grog could see that Sine was pulling back her staff just a little further before every


swing, in order to generate the extra weight and savagery.


Tarian was once again moving slowly away from her opponent; her face a grim

mask of concentration, her bo staff moving almost rhythmically as she parried each


attack. Then she faltered – her left leg seeming to wobble and give way, her arms and


staff swinging left as she struggled to regain balance.


Sine instantly changed the angle of her attack and swung at Tarian’s exposed right

side.


Grog had time to scream the word ‘no,’ before Tarian’s staff lashed out like a


striking snake.


Her stumble had been a ruse. Her leg was fine. Her timing was perfect, and tip of

her bo staff was squashed deep into Sine’s belly.

Sine reeled away, one hand clutching her stomach, the other holding her staff


loosely and ineffectively in front of her. She was gasping for air, gagging, choking.

Tarian pursued her.


Sine managed to duck Tarian’s first swing and even block her second, but the third


caught the winded monk on her left elbow. Sine fell sideways as the crunch of solid


timber against bone and flesh sang out across the courtyard.

‘That’s going to leave a mark!’ Grog said, giving Krordous a vigorous nudge in the


ribs.


Krordous grunted with pain and Grog mumbled an apology, but he was too excited

to pay much attention to his injured friend.


Tarian was going to win.


His gamble was going to pay off.


Sine was in full retreat now; her left arm hung limply by her side, her right flailed

desperately – gripping her staff around its middle and spinning it in front of herself as


she attempted to ward off Tarian’s precise and powerful attacks.


The crowd let out a collective groan as Tarian feinted a swing at Sine’s head, then


came in low with the reverse end of her staff and swept Sine’s feet out from under her.

The thunderstruck kvinna hit the granite hard, unable to slow her fall with her


damaged left arm, or with her right hand – which still held her staff.


But then Tarian did something which made no sense. She stood directly over her


opponent and raised her staff above her head with both hands, as though ready to

deliver a final crushing blow.

It was a novice move – a slow and hesitant move. Grog even saw Tarian’s arms


trembling as though she was reluctant to strike.

This was not like Tarian. The kvinna of war had always been so utterly decisive in


combat.


Sine didn’t waste her opportunity; she rolled to her right, came to her knees and


whipped a backhand swing at Tarian’s legs.

Tarian’s staff descended too slowly to block the blow. She stifled a scream of pain


as Sine’s staff smacked into her shins.


Sine got to her feet. Her left arm still dangled uselessly, but as she swung her staff

at Tarian with her right, it was clear that she was far from beaten … especially since


Tarian was once again too slow to parry or dodge.


Sine’s bo staff smashed into Tarian’s lower back.


‘What’s she doing?’ Grog cried, his hands wrenching at his hair as Tarian stumbled

forwards. ‘Tarian! Come on!’


But Tarian was injured. Her face had crumpled into a toothy grimace and her


movements were strained and sluggish.


Sine whirled her staff over her head – building speed and momentum – and aimed a

vicious strike at Tarian’s face.


With a scream of effort, Tarian jerked her weapon up in front of her face. She


blocked the blow, but the impact sent her own staff back into her forehead.


Hot nausea surged up Grog’s throat as the crowd jeered and laughed. What was

happening?

Sine kicked the off-balance Tarian behind her knee and Tarian crumpled like a


kvinna dropped through the trapdoor of a gallows. Her staff clattered from her hands

as she hit the ground. As she reached for it, Sine kicked her again, this time full in the


face.


Blood poured from Tarian’s nose onto her green tunic.


‘No!’ Krordous shouted from beside Grog. ‘Enough!’

Sine’s staff hit Tarian across the back of her shoulders – knocking her flat onto the


unforgiving granite.


Tarian began crawling towards her weapon, reaching for it with a quivering hand.

Sine raised her staff.


‘She yields!’ Grog yelled, stepping towards the edge of the raised dais. ‘She


yields!’


The sound of a sword sliding from its scabbard reached Grog’s ears only a second

before Malinjor’s blade appeared in front of his chest.


‘Brol-Alagash must be honoured,’ Malinjor’s voice was a husky whisper. ‘Your


champion must be the one to yield.’


Grog looked down the length of the mighty sword. Malinjor was smiling smugly.

Beyond him, Archon Oathenforge and his bodyguards all had their hands on the


handles of their weapons. The strange golden monk was still leaning forward, still


watching the fight, and for one moment Grog thought he saw–


The crack of Sine’s bo staff slamming into the back of Tarian’s skull echoed

through the cold night air.


‘Tarian!’

Malinjor pulled back his sword. Grog leapt off the dais and began sprinting towards


the inert form of the indominable kvinna of war. ‘Tarian!’

Krordous was behind him, grunting and groaning with pain.


Sine was strutting around Tarian’s body like a preening peacock – a victorious


sneer on her scarred face.


Grog dropped down beside his friend. Blood was oozing from her nose and pulsing

from an ugly gash on the back of her head.


Grog grabbed a handful of Tarian’s garnet cape. As he pressed it against her


bleeding head, with the question how did this happen repeating again and again in his

mind, an image of the golden monk flashed before him … an image of what had


looked like a third blazing light-filled eye – set in the monk’s forehead, closing, fading


… and disappearing completely.