Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

The sand beneath Caelvir's feet was thick with sweat and iron, and his breath stuttered as it dragged itself through clenched teeth. The sword of Seren weighed heavier now, not in metal but in muscle. His shoulders ached, his left thigh was numb, and blood ran in thin streams down his side as if his skin had forgotten how to hold itself together.

Across from him, Garrik looked fresh.

No, it was worse; Garrik looked amused.

The brute paced forward in slow, deliberate steps, not with caution but with cruelty. His claymore rested on one shoulder, the hilt kissed by fingers thick as bricks while the gold engravings caught the light like a god's grin. That blade, too wide, too long, and too grand, should have been clumsy, but instead, it danced in Garrik's grasp like a toy.

Caelvir moved first. He lunged forward with his sword close to the body, its tip aimed for the ribs. Garrik deflected the strike not with his blade but with the side of his knee, lifting it like a wall of bone. Caelvir's sword glanced off with a clang, pain shot through his wrist, and he stumbled back.

Then came the retaliation.

Garrik stepped forward with his entire body. He did not slash; instead, he threw the flat of the claymore like a battering door, smashing it sideways into Caelvir's shoulder. Caelvir's body spun midair before crashing into the sand, and blood frothed between his lips.

He forced himself up. There was no time to count injuries.

Garrik gave no room. His foot drove forward with a speed unnatural for a man that size. Caelvir twisted his torso just in time as the claymore came down, carving a deep trench into the dirt. A heartbeat later, and it would have cut him in half.

From the ground, Caelvir kicked up, driving his foot toward Garrik's shin.

Garrik caught the leg midair with one hand.

And with the other, he punched.

A raw, hammer-like fist to Caelvir's jaw that cracked against bone and dragged his vision into whiteness. His head snapped to the side, Seren's blade fell from his hand, and again he found himself in the sand.

"Bleed," Garrik growled, not through words but through the motion of his body, his grin, and his posture. "Bleed and bow."

Caelvir did not bow.

He rolled.

The next downward strike of the claymore shattered sand just inches from his back. He kept rolling, gathered his blade, and rose to one knee. He swung upward, and the tip of his sword scraped Garrik's ribs, metal touching skin but not cutting. It had been too slow.

Garrik retaliated, not with a blade but with an elbow, ramming it down into Caelvir's spine.

Caelvir collapsed again.

Fists, feet, elbows. The fight had become more than a contest of swords. It had become body against body, man against storm.

Garrik pressed the advantage, stomping forward. Caelvir rose again, barely. Breathing hurt, and every movement burned.

This time, he changed the dance.

Caelvir feinted left with the sword, prompting Garrik to lift his blade in defense, but Caelvir did not commit. Instead, he dropped low and swept a leg toward Garrik's knee.

The brute stumbled slightly, but he did not fall. Instead, he brought his pommel down like a war club toward Caelvir's temple. Caelvir caught it with both hands. Metal crashed into bone, but his arms absorbed the brunt. He used that grip to drag himself up, body against body.

Then his forehead slammed into Garrik's nose.

Blood followed.

Not Caelvir's.

Garrik roared.

It was the first time the brute had bled.

But the cost was steep. Garrik grabbed Caelvir by the ribs and threw and hurled him across the sand like a sack of meat. Caelvir bounced once, rolled, and came to a halt.

The crowd above the arena had grown quiet.

Garrik now stood breathing heavily. His nose trickled crimson, but his smile remained.

"I will break you," that smile said, "and the sword too."

Caelvir pushed himself up. Every limb screamed. Blood soaked his chest, thighs, and forearms. His hair clung to his face like strings of black rope, and he could feel his pulse throbbing in his wounds.

Garrik walked again, his claymore lifted high.

Caelvir ducked low—too low.

The blade missed.

That had been the plan.

With a sudden burst of instinct and desperation, Caelvir launched upward, not at Garrik's center but over the incoming blade. As the claymore swept beneath him, he stepped on it mid-swing, using the wide flat of the steel as a fleeting foothold. His left foot then drove off Garrik's thigh, giving him just enough lift. In midair, the Seren Sword flashed downward, gripped in both hands.

He came down like an arrow and stabbed.

Right into Garrik's side, just under the arm. The blade sank deep, biting past muscle. A sound erupted—part growl, part howl, part wounded animal's scream.

Garrik staggered back. The claymore fell from his hands and clanged against the ground like thunder turned solid.

Caelvir landed in a crouch.

He did not rise.

His lungs were fire. His body was cut, bruised, and ragged. A line of blood ran from the corner of his mouth to his neck, but the sword of Seren still sat in his hand, dripping.

A dozen feet away, Garrik clutched his side, half-laughing and half-snarling.

Neither had won.

Neither could continue fighting.

Caelvir, limping, bloodied and battered, held his blade as it whispered songs of defiance. Garrik dragged his claymore behind him like a child sulking with a broken toy.

The space between them widened. Garrik stumbled back, clutching his bleeding chest and staggering a few paces before planting his feet firmly into the earth.

Then he screamed.

A sound that tore from somewhere deeper than lungs. A roar, beastlike, with blood and rage bellowing from his throat as his chest heaved. The golden engraving on his claymore caught the sun's eye.

His arms opened wide.

And his eyes glowed. Gold. Bright and terrible.

Still gripping the claymore, he stood tall and defiant. The crowd stirred, confused at first, then hushed.

Then came the trembling.

The ground beneath their feet shivered. It was not a quake. There was no cracking stone. Only a stirring.

Sands began to move, trembling across the ground like leaves in wind. Then they moved faster, spiraling and curling.

A small storm at first.

Caelvir's eyes narrowed as his chest rose and fell, wounded and wary. Sweat and blood mixed on his skin. He braced, sword trembling in his hand.

The crowd leaned forward, then back again.

"What is that?" someone muttered aloud.

A woman near the rails held her child. "A sandstorm?"

"But just in the arena?"

A man with scarred arms pointed down. "I've seen it once, in a high-tier colosseum years ago. This isn't normal."

"It's the gods! The gods' wrath!" another man shouted.

No answers came.

The sands lifted. They rose, whirling with growing violence around the two fighters. Not the whole arena, but a circle wide and precise, as if drawn by an unseen hand. The sun dimmed within that space, light fractured by the haze.

Then the shrapnel came.

Blades.

Shattered edges of old weapons buried beneath the ground, bits of iron and steel long rusted and forgotten, now caught in the spiral of fury. They danced in the storm like knives in a cook's hand.

A sliver zipped past Caelvir's cheek, drawing blood.

He lifted his arms and tried to guard his eyes. The wind screamed around him now, cutting deep. A jagged knife slammed against his shoulder, and another spun across his thigh.

He moved low and hunched trying to find rhythm, trying to understand. But there was no pattern. Only a storm of steel and sand.

Laughter.

From within the center, Garrik stood unmoved, his golden eyes ablaze. His mouth was wide in a maniac's grin, his hair whipped back by the rising storm, and the claymore remained anchored like a monument in his fist.

"He's not even flinching," someone gasped from the stands.

"Is that magic?"

"No," another replied, voice quiet with awe, "it's not quite that. Elemental mastery, maybe. A gift..."

Caelvir turned in the whirlwind, every inch of skin kissed by sand or steel. Small cuts—dozens—stung like memory. His sword now felt heavier, dragging in his grip.

He looked up, eyes bloodshot and breath shallow.

There, in the heart of the storm, Garrik still laughed.