Author's note: Alright, Tony versus Njal – time to place your bets, people!
The onlookers are murmuring among themselves, but no one is protesting this sudden turn of events, which makes Tony wonder if having people fight duels after dinner is a common occurrence around here. Only Hallgrim looks outright displeased, arms crossed over his barrel-like chest and bushy eyebrows drawn together in obvious ire at having his party crashed like this.
Tony winces inwardly; from the looks of it, his host would probably have been more positively inclined towards him right now if he'd refused the invitation with the excuse that Hallgrim smells and looks like a dog, and had never shown up at all.
And not only has he managed to piss off Hallgrim – even if everything was that fucker Njal's fault to start with – to make matters worse, now he also has a goddamn duel he has somehow agreed to fight. Maybe he should have just grabbed hold of Loki and walked out of here the moment things turned sour, but there was that thing Njal had said about how refusing to fight would mean that he didn't take his claim on Loki seriously… And if that should somehow cause some people to consider Loki free for the taking, there's no way he's going to acquiesce and let others infer that they're free to help themselves to the god in his charge.
He glares at Njal who looks infinitely pleased with himself, confident in his impending victory despite his drunkenness. Well, perhaps this will turn out to be his most stupid, ill-considered decision ever, but since when was he ever one to withstand his impulses and play it safe? At least Njal is inebriated, swaying slightly where he's standing, and while the man is still perfectly able to form complete sentences, the alcohol has muddled his speech. His reflexes and coordination are bound to have been considerably affected as well, and even though Tony surely wouldn't last three seconds against the guy were he sober, his current intoxication level should significantly even the playing fields.
Besides, Tony has quick reflexes and is pretty agile all around, and he's used to engaging opponents from his Iron Man hero stint. He only needs to get a scratch in on this guy, put a gash into his skin, and victory will be his. So what if Njal has spent centuries perfecting his sword skills, in his state most of that should have gone right out the window. Tony will still be the fastest moving of the two; it shouldn't be too hard to stay out of his opponent's reach and get behind him in an unguarded moment to give him a slash. Or two. Or ram his sword through his ribcage, but that might not be prudent considering how the stipulation was until blood is drawn, not until someone looses a head.
He pushes down the flutter of unease in his stomach as Njal smiles crookedly, like a wolf regarding its pretty.
"Very well," the voice of the old geezer rings out, who is for some reason now running the show. "Njal and Man of Iron have both agreed to the terms, and this duel will be fought until blood has been shed, but no further than that. Whatever the outcome, the dispute between them shall with this be considered to have been dealt with. Each opponent will use his sword, but no other weapon is allowed." He holds up a hand, gazing over the assembly. "And neither is anyone allowed to interfere until the duel is over."
As if on cue, the other guests start to slowly retreat, spreading out to leave the expanse of the floor to the main act. Hallgrim lingers, but eventually draws back with a huff to join the others lining the walls. Tony swallows; somehow the whole thing doesn't seem like such a terribly good idea anymore.
But it's too late to back out now, and heck if he's going to just stand back and more or less tell everyone that they're free to molest Loki at will.
"You may draw your swords, but do not use them until the signal has been given," the geezer says, giving each of them a brief nod.
Clenching his teeth, Tony reaches out for the hilt of the sword to his side, feeling vaguely moronic as he pulls the weapon out of its scabbard. He's never held a pointy stick like this in his entire life, and he's suddenly acutely aware of that fact. The grip feels off in his hand, like it's somehow crooked, and he has no idea how to properly brandish the sword without looking like an idiot. No doubt he's doing it all wrong and already showcasing to both the audience and his opponent that he hasn't got the slightest idea of what he's doing.
But he holds the sword out anyway, trying to recall how people in those swashbuckling movies would pose in similar situations. At least it's lighter than he had expected, despite how it's been tugging at his side all evening.
The old man leans over to him, speaking in a soft voice. "Worry not, Man of Iron, I have one of Asgard's most skilled healers in my employment and I will be happy to lend you her services after the duel, in case you should need them."
Wow, if that's not the opposite of a vote of confidence, he doesn't know what fucking is.
Tony grumbles a 'much appreciated' without taking his eyes off Njal who slowly draws his own sword with an annoyingly elegant arc of his arm, the move calculated and deliberate. Suddenly, the man doesn't seem so drunk anymore, as if the familiar weight of the weapon in his hand has made the last five or so beers he's been drinking magically evaporate. The blade looks disturbingly sharp, as does Njal's teeth as he bares them in a vicious grin.
"Are you ready?" comes the voice from the old man, ringing hollowly in his ears.
He merely gives a rough grunt in reply, and so does Njal. At that, their self-appointed referee takes a few steps back. "Very well. You may begin."
And with that, there's only Tony, a weak mortal without his suit, his only defence a weapon he's never used before, facing off with a being with superpowers who has no doubt spent centuries practicing his skills with the very same kind of weapon. Why is it that he always manages to get himself into situations like this?
His sudden moment of clarity is interrupted as Njal advances on him, sword poised for attack. Tony sees the blow coming and sidesteps it, and the blade rushes past him without taking off even a hair, but with less margin that he had been expecting.
Njal quickly turns and sweeps at Tony again, aiming for his stomach, and Tony stumbles backwards, almost tripping over his cape. Damn the thing, why didn't he think to take it off before agreeing to participate in this madness? Fat good its billowing powers are going to do him now. But somehow, he has the feeling that it's too late to call for a time-out to divest himself of it.
Not caring about Tony's predicament in the slightest, Njal swings again, driving Tony further backwards, and he's starting to realize that his own planned tactics aren't going to work here. Even if Njal's movements are slow and sluggish, allowing Tony to see them coming early enough to dodge, they are not nearly as slow as to allow him to simply dart behind his opponent and attack from behind.
Fuck.
And there's of course no way he'll be able to meet an attack full-on from Njal either. If they had been fighting without weapons, he should have been able to utilize speed and agility to win, quickly diving below the guy's guard to clock him in the face, Njal too slow to react in a timely fashion. But the reach of his sword effectively cancels out any advantage in speed that Tony might have; he can't get in and then out again with three feet of deadly steel added onto normal fistfight reach.
Njal, sensing Tony's predicament, laughs. "Are you not going to attack? As amusing as it is to watch your efforts , you should realize that this is a battle and you are no longer on the dance floor."
"Just waiting for the right moment," Tony hisses out between gritted teeth, trying not to let the mockery get to him. An experienced swordsman like Njal has no doubt long ago noticed that Tony has no idea what he's doing, and finds the playing around amusing, like a cat toying with a rat before it bites.
He realizes that he quickly needs to change his tactics as Njal's sword swings past him once more, his own dodges appearing to be narrower for each time. The other man is in no hurry, though, and he's expending far less energy for his blows and slashes than what Tony is doing in his efforts to avoid them. Even if Njal is too drunk and slow to hit him at this point, if they keep this up, Njal will eventually win when Tony is too tired to move as fast as he needs to. Or Tony will misjudge his opponent, jumping into the slash instead of away from it. He sure hopes that healer is as good as promised.
Another round of hacks and jabs, and Tony can hear a couple of people in the audience snicker, obviously at the daft display he's putting up. However, right now he couldn't care less about how he looks; the only thing on his mind is trying to figure out a way to get to Njal who is taking his sweet time, probably trying to draw this out as much as possible for the sheer amusement value.
Then, he sees it – Njal stumbles in his inebriety, one of his feet catching on the other, and he inelegantly struggles to regain his balance. Not even stopping to think, Tony lunges forwards, sword out and ready. Just a nick, a tiny scratch is all he needs, just one droop of blood, and victory will be his.
But, he underestimates his opponent. Still swaying, Njal's hand darts out, perhaps on pure instinct, but the blow is brutal nevertheless; Tony only barely manages to raise his sword up to block the brunt of it. There is a harsh, dissonant clang of metal biting into metal, and then he finds himself flying through the air from the force of the impact, coming to a halt as his left shoulder smashes into a pillar standing right in the path of his ungraceful trajectory. Groaning, he slides to the floor with stars dancing before his eyes, and scrambles to scrape himself up from the marble tiles before the blade comes at him again, missing him with what can't have been more than an inch.
He stumbles backwards, panting, shoulder throbbing and heart beating in his ears like claps of thunder. Fuck, if he only had his suit right now. He'd pay a fortune for it right now.
"Your efforts are as futile as they are amateurish. A child would put forth a better performance," Njal mocks as he smacks his lips in a condescending manner. "You don't stand a chance."
"Fuck you," is all Tony gets out in reply before the sword swings out, forcing him to move. It is as if Njal's attacks are getting more coordinated, less clumsy, or maybe it's just him that's getting more tired. He's still clutching his sword, having somehow managed to hold on to it, but with his non-existent skills, it's about as useful to him as a lollipop.
Panic threatening to well up inside of him, he fumbles in the deepest recesses of his brain for a new strategy. Dodging and evading is not going to cut it, nor are amateurish attacks. He needs to think, find something, anything, to use against Njal…
Then it hits him. It's a long-shot to be sure, and maybe it won't work at all, but it's worth a try, isn't it?
"Getting tired already? We've only barely gotten started," Njal sneers at him, flicking his sword nonchalantly before launching another attack.
Tony withdraws several steps further, daring a quick look over his shoulder. The edge of the dinner table is almost at his back, halting his retreat. Not hesitating for a second, he jumps up onto the tabletop like an awkward mixture between Robin Hood and Zorro, glad the servants have already cleared the dishes away.
Njal looks displeased at Tony having suddenly gained the higher ground, and he advances slowly, but no less certainly. "That's not going to help you," he snorts in disdain, teeth bared in an ugly grimace.
Tony glances around, trying to find his bearings as Njal saunters over, only slightly unsteady on his feet now. Damn, how did the fucker sober up so quickly? He moves a couple of steps to the left, adjusting his position.
Njal slashes, putting a hack into the oaken table in the process, prompting a choked sound from someone in the audience, most likely Hallgrim displeased at the disregardful treatment of his furniture.
Nope, not good enough. Too far off to the right.
"You call that a swing?" Tony calls out. "You couldn't kill a fly with that!"
Annoyed, Njal aims another mighty blow at him, going for his feet, but Tony sees it coming and jumps over the blade. Njal slashes again, more clumsily this time, but only manages to hack the edge off Tony's cloak before putting another jack into the tabletop.
Close, but still not enough. Tony shuffles a little to the side, hoping his position is accurate, but it's hard to tell when he barely dares to let his gaze leave his opponent's sword for even the fraction of a second.
But as Njal lifts his sword over his head to make his most unsubtle attack yet – a two-handed downwards swing no doubt intended to cleave Tony in half from head to groin – he knows he's in exactly the right spot. Rolling to the side to avoid the blade, cursing as his bruised shoulder hits the tabletop, he gets up just in time to be greeted with exactly the sight he'd been hoping for.
Njal's sword comes down on the very spot where Tony had been standing a moment ago with his feet planted to either side of the purple crystal ball Hallgrim had fooled him into touching during dinner. The one that he had claimed harnessed the power of the lightning.
The force of the blow splits the ball in two, the two halves neatly falling to either side. There is a sharp crackle and a bright flash as the little sparkle inside hovers in the air and an instant later expands into what looks like bluish-white barbed wire shooting up the length of Njal's sword, coiling around the steel. And Njal howls in agony as the released force of nature envelopes him as well, his entire body spasming for several seconds before it limply falls to the floor with a dull thud where it continues to shudder sporadically.
Njal barely appears to be conscious, his face pale, and clothes and hair singed. His sword has fallen onto the floor and skidded off several yards, and he just lies there, eyes staring in mute shock at the ceiling. His chest is heaving, so apparently, he's still alive. Not that Tony really cares.
There is utter silence in the room, only interspersed by the faint tapping of boots against marble as the occasional spasm goes through Njal's body. Tony leisurely picks up the sword that he let go off as he executed his daring roll and jumps down from the table and casually saunters over to the prone body. The room is still enveloped in silence.
Regarding the sight for a few seconds, he extends his sword towards his fallen opponent, placing the tip of it against Njal's cheek and slashing a line of red right across it. Blood wells forth from the wound, staining the edge of his blade.
First blood.
He raises the red-tipped sword into view of the still silent onlookers, brandishing the proof of his victory for everyone to see. No one utters a word, not even a whisper; and the mere drop of a pin would have been ear-deafening in the all-consuming stillness. It is as if time has come to a halt; there is neither movement nor sound for several long heartbeats.
Then, the silence is broken by the roaring laughter of Hallgrim, his howls of amusement rolling like thunder across the hall.
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