Chapter Seventeen: Courage (Part Two).

The Mako charged headlong. He granted Amell no affection as he swung his spiked twohanded mace. He bore it with both hands and swung with his whole body in a strike so powerful it shattered the winds ahead of it. An actual shockwave rippled through the stadium as he lashed out.

All it took was a slight backstep, and the attack was null. It floated lazily past Amell's head and ended up taking the warrior full circle with its momentum. Amell could have ended it there - with the Mako's back turned - but for some reason, he allowed the Mako another strike.

She realised quickly why he hadn't ended it. The bet. If he won after one strike, there would be no way to prove he was right.

The Mako struck out again, this time heaving the massive Morningstar overhead and crashing it down on Amell. The old man simply placed the edge of his blade to the handle of the mace and let it ride down its length.

The cracking of stone rang through the whole stadium as the mace landed and shattered a massive section. Enough dust and debris flooded the stage to completely cover the two men's feet. It might have covered up to anyone else's shins, but this was not so petty a calibre of man.

Amell said something then, but he was too far out to hear. No doubt it was something more cutting than his blade's edge, by the reaction of his foe. A part of Ash hoped he would swing a surprise strike and clip Amell's helm, that she might be the victor in their little bet at the least.

The Mako did strike, but it was neither so sudden nor so subtle as she had quietly hoped for. It flew for Amell's ankle, but the old man just did a strangely little hop. It was the most agile she had ever seen him, though the act clearly stripped him of some tier of pride. She could even see the dust around him unsettle a little too frantically. He must have been panting. So much effort in one little jump.

"Finish him, Colin!" Ash cheered, making sure to use his false identity.

The Mako stood tall as he could, while Amell seemed to slouch a little. He wasn't coiled, but hunched. He was an older man, Ash wondered if his age could have caught him by surprise.

Mako moved forward, heaving his chest as he hefted his mace. Any doubts about Amell's condition were put to rest in the instant between the Mako's swing, and the Mako falling to the ground.

It was almost too fast to see, but Ash just about caught it. Amell had gripped the blade of his sword and shattered the pommel against Mako's forehead. A torrent of blood gushed out in an instant and the warrior collapsed down like a demolished building.

Amell kicked the mace away, but Mako still reached out for it. She realised he couldn't see, that the blood had blinded him exactly as Ash had said. He rolled away, not really even knowing where he was in the ring. Eventually, he managed to rise to his feet while Amell stood and watched on from a few paces away.

She could see Amell whistle a tune, but she couldn't quite hear it over the crowd. It drew Mako's attention and he charged again, hoping to land a tackle against Amell.

"Cease the combat!" The magical voice ordered. "And a shocking victory by disqualification for... The Kovayeshi Commander!"

Mako tried to look around through the sheen of blood. Eventually, Amell offered his fallen foe a cloth with which he wiped away the blood and realised that Amell had stepped out of his way and allowed him to charge directly out of the combat area.

The crowds roared his name. The stadium shook for his victory and trembled beneath his might. It was a day of legend-making. A day of tale-telling. A day all in attendance would remember... at least until the morrow's hangover disabused them of the night's affairs.

The victor took his proud promenade back to his young companion. The smugness in his saunter, the wink that shone through his helm, the cocky wave as he drew near. She knew he was about to be utterly insufferable, yet she couldn't help but grin as he took his exaggerated steps down the stage with his arms flailing at his side with each swaying movement.

"Your armour, let me help you," Ash offered. He seemed confused but she ignored him. She tousled with some strap at his back and made it seem like she was tightening it.

"I believe I counted three strikes," he grinned as he slid his helm into his hands.

"I didn't see him panting," Ash protested.

"I was too excited to try out your tip. I suppose I forgot to give him a chance to show his weary ways. Yet the bet is still mine!"

She had some protest in mind. An undeniable argument, sure to see him off in shame, but alas it was not to be. As her lips parted to offer the remark, the voice that rang out wasn't her own; but that of the magical announcer.

"Ladies and gentlemen," it called out in a much more sombre voice than seemed typical. "Due to an undisclosed violation in the rules, under article twelve – section eight: No enchanted or otherwise magically enhanced equipment may be brought into battle. Including; weapons, armour, accessories, etc. For this violation, the Desert Prince is no longer permitted to take part in our competition. We apologise for this regrettable..."

The Desert Prince. It must have been the warrior that Ash had been matched up against. She had no idea what part of him could have been magically enchanted, and she didn't understand why such a well-made warrior would need to cheat in the first place. Then her eyes drifted to her gauntlet, and a sense of irony overtook her. She stroked a finger along the claw that had won her first round, and the surface scuffs from where she had swatted away the Smile's blade.

"Well," Amell awkwardly laughed. He certainly noticed her fidgeting with steel hand but made no mention of it. Instead, he scratched the back of his head and said, "I guess it's just you and me then."

"Is it?"

"Aye, the finale. Best of luck Spinny. May the best man win... or, you know."

It was not fun. It was not a game. It was her first mountain; it was a chance to prove herself beyond a shadow of a doubt. If she could beat him, she could beat anyone. All she had done, all the scraps and battles won, prepared her for this.

Amell had been right earlier; Ash fought in the mind and only when she had deceived some advantage would she do battle.

The old knight took up an aggressor's stance. He remembered what she had said – that a battle of attrition would be her victory – so he would deny her the opportunity. He would charge, he would expect to catch her off guard, and he would fail.

"Fighters!" The announcer called for the last time. Ash fell to one knee, as though to fasten her boot. "Begin!"

Amell charged while Ash yet knelt. He barrelled closer, his blade shimmered in the dusklight and the whole world fell silent.

She focused on every breath as it unsettled the thick layer of dust beneath her. She listened to every step as it echoed through the lonely hordes. Her left hand brushed against the ground. It was so sensitive. She could feel every vibration, every disturbance. She could feel the chainmail rattle beneath his plate armour. The little chunks of stone scatter and roll across the surface as he kicked them up.

She took some in hand – a pile of dust and stones – and readied to strike. All she needed was for Amell to take one... more... step.

She sprung out; her spear thrust low. So low it hit the ground instead of him. He had to drag his foot back mid-step to avoid the spear plunging into it. It took him off balance, and she took the chance to jump atop of him and smash the dust into the air holes of his great helm.

He spluttered and coughed until he managed to get a grip of Ash. He grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and threw her away with the same effort it would take to toss a baby kitten rather than a grown woman.

He tore off his helmet and spat out the dust and rocks. Ash wasn't so kind as to let him catch his breath. She pounced again while he was still keeled over and gasping for air. She couldn't make any use of her spear in such close quarters, so she drew the dirk from her boot and tried to draw some cuts. Amell managed to get his hand to her wrist and stopped the attack, though she persisted with her free arm and even her boots.

"What happened to attrition?" He laughed through the flurry of punches.

"I lied," Ash grunted. "Your biggest weakness isn't your age. It's that you trusted me."

Ash kicked her boot down hard into a strap at his back. The same strap she had severely loosened after his last fight. It came completely open and with it, came the entire back of his cuirass.

"You sneaky..." He used the hand he had kept a hold of to throw her again, this time with the intent of sending her out of bounds. She managed to drag her spear along the ground and catch herself just short of the line.

"Now... I keep my distance," she smirked.

"You did that right after my fight?" Amell realised. He tried to reach over his shoulder to feel the missing armour piece. Ash didn't reply, but her vicious grin should have been confirmation enough.

"Well, not much use in this then," he groaned gladly as he stripped the rest of his chest plate. It seemed a strange decision. Each fighter had been allowed one personal effect. Ash had her gauntlet, and he had his chest plates. Besides, the front of his armour provided much more protection than the back and was still safely secured. There seemed no reason to shed it.

He stretched out to his full height, having shed what must have been forty kilos of steel by the world-shattering crunch it created as it bricked upon the ground. She hadn't realised how well-built he truly was without his armour or his cloak to hide himself.

Where his breastplate had been round and thick, he was shockingly slim and harsh-edged. For a man undoubtedly as deep into his cups as Amell Fielder, there was no trace of a drinker's gut. Though he wasn't so cut and vascular as his last opponent had been, he was certainly much closer than she had realised.

He rotated his shoulder as if he was trying to find the exact position and combination to unlock it. Then he started stretching his legs out as though preparing for a cross-country run.

"Shall we?" He offered at last.

"If you can keep up," she smirked.

He slashed his blade through the open air, then he brought it to a high guard and started slowly moving towards her.

Once in range, she thrust out at his chest but diverted the strike as his blade came careening through the air in an attempt to shatter the spear. He moved at thrice the speed he had in his armour. He slashed again, and Ash ducked beneath by a matter of inches, but he was far from done. He circled the blade around yet again and slashed from high with a strike so fast it cracked the sound barrier, and so strong it pushed a rush of air out ten meters ahead.

"You tryna kill me?" Ash panted as she just barely sidestepped the slash. His answer came with a decapitating blow which forced her to fall flat on her ass, or risk a little more than a bad haircut.

"I'm trying to win," he grunted as he hefted yet another powerful slash at her.

It wasn't like the other brutish types she had faced. He did not sacrifice speed for power. He struck faster than the Smile had done, and harder than even the bandit giant she had faced all those weeks ago.

He did not lack for grace, nor precision; power, nor ferocity. He would answer each of her petty strikes with a faster, harder counterattack. Every time she dared poke her spear more than arm's length away, he snapped at it like a beast to meat. He would have enjoyed nothing more than to cut her spear in half, and if he managed; the battle would truly be over.

Her range advantage was marginal – a few inches at most – but it was all she had. He allowed her no time to focus, to plan. Everything she did was done through instinct and reflex. Each parry felt more like luck than talent. Each dodge felt more and more pathetic. Each strike he so effortlessly deflected grew more and more grating.

He did not sweat. He did not pant. He did not falter. The man was a beast of war. A king of combat. A killer, a true Champion. That was why her goden had sent him. Something to aspire to. A hollow man without a family or a cause. A vessel of violence, wrapped in a suit of steel skin; designed more so to contain him than protect. This... slashing, torrenting, horror was her destiny and she could not keep up.

He was everything she had to be; everything she didn't want to be; everything her goden planned for her. It was not the attacks that drew her ire. It was not the sustained injuries that garnered her wrath. It was the destiny of it all. The fate that permeated everything and everyone around her.

As she bubbled and stewed, she noticed him slow. He did not look tired, but the battle pace became laxer. His strikes did not land as hard. His blows were not so impossible to parry, nor was he so quick to slash her spear away.

In fact, everything seemed to slow. The crowds danced and sang his name in an unnatural tempo. The sweat dripped from her brow as though it were so thick as honey.

Then she noticed the scorches across the stones. The long crackling burns that stretched so far as the stands and all seemed to follow back to her.

The purple and black lightning that sprung forth like wicked, writhing tentacles. Creatures of abscess will, searching out for some invisible dark conduit. One tendril jolted out and shattered like a wave against Amell's blade. Another seared his cheek as it tore past.

He did not let up. He struck again, though now he did so on his backfoot. She managed to push him further and further back. It felt good to be in control of the battle. To be faster, stronger, than him. She sent her spear at him time and again, but even as quick as she was, he was just a better fighter. His blade always seemed to be in the right place to catch hers, even as he retreated all the way back to his discarded chest plates.

"HARDER!" He ordered and she gladly obliged. She struck, again and again and again. Eventually, she struck so quickly that the force of her push snapped her spear in half before it could even strike his blade. She spat and threw it away, throwing out a left hook after a right hook.

"FASTER!" He ordered again. He returned to the offensive now that she was unarmed. It did not matter. She had gone beyond him. The slash seemed to travel at a snail's pace. She stepped aside and punched clean through the blade. It crumbled like ash. She watched the steel ripple like a wave, her reflection catching at the apex, before it shattered a thousand times like a broken pane of glass.

It was time to finish the fight. One final strike. All of her anger, all of her fear, all of her anxiety, all into her left hand. She saw Evara burning in a forest. She saw her father collapse and seize as the cancer gripped him. She heard the words from her mother, that she didn't love her. She heard the admittance that she hadn't dared tell anyone; that she wasn't the chosen one. That she was just a stupid fucking mistake.

It all gathered in her gauntlet, though the name was no longer fitting. She watched as black ink spread along her arm and wrapped itself along her bicep. She watched the oily black metal spread and consume even more of her. Watched as it took away more of Ashtik and replaced her with the Champion.

She screamed as an amethyst tear fell and the punch froze the world around her. It moved so fast that the raw lightning that dogged its back struggled to keep up. She could do nothing but watch as it sailed through the air and clashed with unmitigated power against... steel?

The chest plate cracked and caved completely. The damage was not so much in the punch, as it was in the blowback. Shards of lightning followed the rush of wind. They circled the ruptured chest plate and whipped out behind it.

"Good," a distant voice whispered. Ash tried to see him, but for some reason, the whole world had started to spin against her. She couldn't tell if Amell was a meter from her, or back in Maester Veil. She pulled her hands high, ready to carry on the bout, but try as you might; gravity is not a foe you can punch through. Down, down, down she went, and dreams of victory were all she held claim to.

"Good work, Spinny."