The knight swaggered forward and let his visor fall over his eyes. He ran a black gauntlet, decorated in streaks of yellow with the rays of the blazing sun, down to his longsword and drew it from its holster. He looked down at the remains of the last challenger; a stump-like mound sat by an arm and a leg and cringed in disgust at the sight; not of the remains themselves, but of the fact that the one who once owned these limbs, dressed in crude wool as they were, was a peasant.
"Come, then!" He cried into the crowd. "Who will face I, Leon of Altdorf?" He spread both arms and gently spun around, looking each challenger in the eye. He stopped when he was facing one of them, a Sister of Sigmar with plate and a mace. She looked off; her eyes glared back like deep red ink blots and her skin was sapped of the colour of life. "You! Face me, Witch!"
The girl shuffled back, trying to escape deep into the horseshoe crowd, but two figures behind her willed her forwards. She stood, uncertain but scared, like a deer in front of headlights. Then a voice came from somewhere on the concave of the curve, where the crowd grew thickest. It was an old voice, tender but stern. A man adorned with robes walked forwards. The crowd let out a collective gasp, and here and there a few giggles escaped.
"Leave the girl be, boy!" The voice spoke again. Leon of Altdorf turned and glared. He held up his sword, but the sudden jolt of head towards whatever response the people of the crowd dare give revealed his embarrassment.
"Old man! I will crush you for this insolence! Take up your weapon and face me now!"
The old man peeled his hood clear of his head. He looked vaguely like an egg; his head was clear of hair and his face, where scruffy silver-grey strands of beard and moustache did not hide it, was laced generously with wrinkles and moles. He let his staff drop to the floor with a clatter and pulled from his waist a large, lavishly-embellished war hammer with the head fashioned into the shape of a comet and the pommel into a sharp point. He readied himself, holding the hammer in front of him with both hands.
The crowd fell silent in expectation. The knight suddenly advanced and brought his sword down towards the missionary's left thigh. He beat the blow aside with his hammer. The crowd howled in surprise and the knight growled in anger.
The old man responded with a feint to the left and then a strike down at Leon of Altdorf's head. He was surprisingly nimble, more perhaps to do with the flow of his movements; he certainly had experience. The knight hadn't readied himself – 'twas just an old man, after all – and when the hammer came down he sidestepped messily. The hammer scraped his pauldrons and left a deep gash through it. "You are fast for an elder, servant of Sigmar." He commented.
"Or perhaps you are just slow." The missionary spat back. The insult drove the knight from his kind façade and he yelled out, delivering strike after strike with an unnatural speed. He knocked the hammer from the missionary's grip with a downward slice that tore the man's index and ring fingers with it. The crowd howled in anticipation.
For Sofie, who was stood at the inside of the group, it was an intolerable sight. All of her training and conditioning told her to go and help the old man – For Sigmar's sake, he was a priest – but some lust stopped her. Some guilty desire to see the dual played out in full. She had to stop herself from joining the crowd's chorus as they jeered at every swing of the blade and howled in excitement at every parry.
She couldn't stop thinking about it; the peasants in the crowds cried with such sadistic glee, and she heard one man comment beside her; "He's as fast as lightning, that one!" but she hadn't seen it. She watched the fight closely for the first time since it had begun; saw the knight beating down the old man's defense. She saw the flurry of strikes that were so praised by the crowd, but it seemed slow. It seemed telegraphed. She knew it was not true, of course not – he was a knight of the Blazing Sun – but some nagging, selfish thought chipped away at her; she was better than him.
Perhaps it was this smug mockery that willed her into letting the fight play out. She felt superiority she hadn't felt before, what with all the sermons and the appraisal to Sigmar. She saw the missionary land a glancing hit on the knight's knee, sending him staggering. She heard the crowd roar. At last, the dark thought in her head overcame her and she drew forth her mace. She stepped through into the adhoc arena.
The crowd stood in shock. The missionary turned to face her, only to be struck down with a pommel to the temple. He collapsed, clutching his wound. She thought that, in her bloodlust, her senses were playing tricks on her; but she swore she could smell- no, taste the blood from here. That only spurred her on.
"Done letting cadavers fight your battles for you then, woman?" He scolded, laughing, "I had best even the playing field." He tore off his helmet and threw it into the crowd. A guttural chorus of laughing erupted from the men in the crowd. It was quickly shushed down. Sofie stood silently.
Leon of Altdorf was a young knight, perhaps only recently uplifted from some position as a squire. He had a strong angular jaw-line. His eyes always gave the impression that he was squinting in displeasure, and he gave that notable look of cockiness that was seductively tempting to maim. Sofie chuckled a little bit; how convenient, she thought.
The boy glared at her laughter in offense, and charged. A dozen voices gasped from Sofie's left, as if the movement was quick, but it wasn't; by the time he had brought his longsword down from overhead, she was a metre away from it. He looked as confused as she did; she'd managed to dash so far without anyone realising. He tore it free of the dirt and blushed in humiliation. She readied herself as he charged, chopping with anger again and again.
She again shocked herself when she brought her mace to intercept each swipe with contemptuous ease. He was so slow, so predictable. His movements seemed sluggish, sloth-like, and melodramatic. She laughed again. She slammed the head of her mace into his knee, after subduing his sword-arm with her free hand.
Leon howled in pain, and the crowd began to cheer once again. They could sense that the fight would be over shortly. She rose her mace again, and in desperation he pushed down his sword-arm with as much force as he could muster.
Sofie pushed back. There was a loud snap. Leon collapsed, howling. Tears streaked from his eyes. Sofie saw him slumped in the dirty, cradling his forearm. His elbow-bone was exposed through punctured plate and his mutilated hand was twitching.
She grunted and looked up at the Missionary. He had retrieved his staff and donned his hood, and he did not appear harmed.
"Do not kill him, Sister of Sigmar." He ordered. She paused and stared at her victim again. He looked up at her in horror. She sheathed her mace. "You have done admirably, Leon. I am sure the surgeon will tend to your wounds." As if on-cue, a bulge formed in the horseshoe as several men advanced and dragged him out of sight.
He swallowed. "That fight has told me all I needed to know, unfortunately." He smiled maliciously. "You come with me." He pointed a finger up at the tip of a spire which hung above the town. The chapel. He lead, and the Sister of Sigmar followed.
A/N: Well. First attempt at a prolonged fight-scene. Hope it was enjoyable.