*clang*
They'd been fighting for a full minute, but it seemed like a full hour. Forgehammer was tiring slightly in the furious, steady battle, but so was his foe - a fellow dwarf. How his face pained at staring into the blank eyes of his formerly sane companion. There was no sound to interrupt them, no allies, no passerby - just two dwarves, locked in combat. The only thing that broke the silence was the steady sound of Forgehammer's axe meeting his foe's sword.
His foe was Stoutstone. He'd never known the mason-turned-weaponsmith well, but he had spoken to him once or twice. He had a wife. Two children. The thought of having to tell them what happened to Stoutstone - and what he'd have to do to him should he win - almost made him shudder, falter and turn pale. He slammed those thoughts out of his mind. There was time for mourning of a loss of a dwarf's sanity later. Now it was time to put him to rest or die trying.
A fist flying for his face. He ducked and slashed, but growled in frustration as the agile weaponsmith brought his blade down to knock Forgehammer's weapon away. He wasn't this skilled with a sword before. Perhaps he'd been practicing with the weapons he turned away from his masonry to create? It only made sense, he'd been alone in that forge for hours muttering to himself, the doors shut, closed and locking him away from the world outside. Those that went in were met only with total darkness - the torch on the wall had long since burned out from neglect. While they brought him bar after bar of metal that he thumbed his nose at and declared unsuitable for his "construction", whatever that was, he must have been practicing.
He wasn't the same Stoutstone Forgehammer had known, even if only briefly. Now there was nothing but disconnection and the faint flicker of rage in his eyes. When Forgehammer had met him he seemed incapable of hurting a fly - and now he attacked, driving Forgehammer back with agile and stout blow after blow.
He twisted his axe around to wrench Stoutstone's wrist somewhat and gain some elbow room, delivering a shove to the mad-dwarf's shoulder with his buckler. He stumbled backwards and he brought his axe up, leaving a long gash upon his cheek. Blood spattered somewhere onto the dark floor and Forgehammer prayed he wouldn't slip on it as he moved forward for the follow-through, only to find it blocked - not by a blade, but by the weaponsmith's free hand grabbing his hilt. He twisted the axe again but found him more insistent this time, and saw the blade raise...
They struggled in one of the lower vaults that the insane dwarf had been baited to. A malfunction in the mechanisms - or such he could only assume - caused the rest of the fortress guard to be locked out. Even now they must be trying to pry it open and get a way in, but for now, Forgehammer was the first in - and he was alone in the darkness with the insane dwarf, the only light the occasional spark thrown off by steel meeting steel. If he was wounded here, there would be nobody to come to his aid. He was dead if he got hit.
He struggled valiantly to get away, but the warning was too late - and the blasted insane dwarf too fast. He felt the kiss of metal dig into his shoulder and felt warm blood gush over his arm. His buckler arm was rendered useless, but it took more than pain to bring him down, even though it hurt like a hammerblow from a demon.
Growling in pain and anger, Forgehammer used his own weapon to shove the dwarf back and gain more distance. They settled into a wary combat pose - the dwarf's madness would not allow him to restrain himself from attacking for long, but Forgehammer used the opportunity to circle, watching carefully for an opening. There was none.
Instead he was met with a boot flying for his legs. He stood his ground and knocked it off, but a sudden charge from the dwarf knocked him backwards despite his dwarvenly stability - even a dwarf can't stay on his feet all the time against another dwarf. He used the opportunity and rolled, litterally moving under his attacker's feet, so that the sword-wielding dwarf slammed into the ground instead of him and his blade met nothing but the very edge of his gauntlet.
He stood and brought his axe crashing down. The swordsdwarf's leg flew off at an angle, splatting into some obstacle, the ground or a wall - gods damn it, it didn't _matter_ - and yet somehow Stoutstone was completely unaffected. The madness and rage sprung to dominance and light in the dwarf's eyes as he slashed for Forgehammer's legs. It bounced off his chainmail, and he used the opportunity to kick him in the weapon arm.
His steel shortsword bounced away into the darkness. Still he came, fists flailing against Forgehammer's chest as he bore down on the insane one. He tried to lock Forgehammer's wounded arm, but got a boot to his arm again for the trouble.
Seeking to make his passing quick and painless, he raised his axe and brought it crashing down, only to meet stone instead of flesh. The damned mad-dwarf was too fast. He saw a boot flying for his face and even as the insane weaponsmith must have been staggering to his feet he was knocked backwards onto the floor. Fast and strong, too.
He heard the scraping of metal against something and felt searing pain dip into his chest. Recovering from the kick, he opened his eyes and found his own axe buried in his chest - how was he alive? His armor must have stopped it. No matter. He bodily pried the axe out of his own chest, screaming in pain, and brought it smashing upwards into the insane dwarf who stood above him ready to deliver the second blow.
It was hard to remember what happened next, but in the end they found him strangling Stoutstone with his axe, passed out from blood loss on top of his assailant. Stoutstone had bled to death shortly after Forgehammer had started strangling him, from a slit throat. Forgehammer was hauled off to the apocethary, where he recovered over the next two weeks.
The sherriff sighed as he recorded the events upon the tablet, then shoved it and the chisel aside, standing up. Most of what had happened had been gleaned from what Forgehammer had said, but the sheriff was wondering honestly if Forgehammer would ever be fit for duty again - emotionally or physically. Sighing again, he began the slow and long walk to the deceased Stoutstone's hovel, not looking forward to having to tell his wife.
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Topic: Dwarves locked in combat [Story] (Read 1555 times)