“I know you will.”
Then I see my brother. I tower over him, as he still has not begun his major growth spurt, so he looks up at me. “I’ll see you again,” he says. Then we embrace. The horn sounds again.
As we part I look forward towards the Tygnar army and march out onto the battlefield, wearing my captain’s armor. I set my helmet on my head as I continue forward, and feel the weight of my hammer on my back.
I will not lose. I am Dragonhammer.
The Champion
A figure becomes visible, parting from the opposite army a few hundred yards away. The rocks on the ground try their best to trip me up, but I have none of it. There are few boulders in this part of the plain, and the ground is light brown with dull grasses and bushes. I do not get a good look at the figure until we get closer.
He’s big, just about as large as me. He wears a dark breastplate covering only his upper torso, leaving his abdomen uncovered and free to move as he will. Greaves cover his feet and lower legs, and he wears vambraces on his forearms; each is wrought with silver designs on the dark metal. An orange scorpion is engraved in the center of his chest piece. About his waist he only wears a simple hide covering, leaving every part of his thighs uncovered. Orange war paint stands out against his darker skin, striping his legs and curling across his shaven head. He wears no helmet. A belt is strapped across his chest, with an enormous sheathe lying on his back. A hilt almost as long as my forearm sticks out the top.
We stop about fifteen feet from each other and scrutinize each other. His eyes tell me he has seen plenty of battle. They are black, but not in a cold malevolent way. They are black in the way that he appears dead, like some part of him was lost in battle. His glare has no effect on me, and I reply with a slight smile.
There’s another blast of the warhorn, probably to try to get us to start fighting. He only draws his enormous sword, and I draw my hammer and heft it menacingly. He studies it. Then he starts to circle.
We stalk slowly in circles, keeping a careful eye on each other. Then the warhorn blows again.
He swings at me experimentally. His blade goes the opposite direction after my hammer stops it. After a moment, he tries again, but still to no avail. His eyes narrow as he examines me and my heavy weapon.
“Dragonhammer,” he says quietly. “It will be a pleasure to bring your head to my master.”
“Pity then, when you don’t,” I respond. “You are at an advantage. Your name?”
“Barglod,” he responds. “Barglod the Neckcleaver. Would you like to see why?”
I glance to his sword and back to his eyes. “I already see.”
He nods appreciatively. “Then I shall take your head to add to my collection.”
I reply, “We shall see.”
His sword swings almost immediately towards my head, but I block it easily. We trade a few blows, and then our weapons lock.
“With your reputation I expected a better fight,” says Barglod.
“But you have heard of me,” I respond. “I have no recollection of you.”
Our weapons unlock and he swings his sword, but I meet his blade in midair with a heave of the hammer. The blow knocks his sword out of the way for only a moment, but during that moment I punch the head of my hammer into his gut.
He begins to fall over, but tries to retaliate with no success. I bring the hammer up in a swift uppercut, easily breaking his jaw and probably cracking something in his skull or neck. His sword comes around the side, but I block it and slam the butt of my hammer into his gut in one move, forcing him to double over, and then I bring the shaft of my hammer down on his back. He falls to his hands and knees, his sword lying worthless on the ground.
Blood runs from his mouth. He gasps for breath, struggling to keep from falling onto his stomach.
“We have seen,” I mutter. He sags.
Then I bring my hammer down in a mighty arc just below his neck. There’s a nasty crack and his neck bends backwards farther than it ever should. He falls to the ground. Then he lies still, and his black eyes lose whatever light