[Firefoot]

Grimkul’s furied lunge ended with him landing heavily on top of Kharn. He brought the hand still holding his sword down hard on Kharn’s face. Kharn howled in pain and surprise as the hilt produced a jagged gash. Grimkul smiled coldly at the sound. Revenge, sweet, sweet revenge. Kharn was clearly at the worst of it now – while still scrabbling for his own sword, he still had to ward off Grimkul’s assaults. Twisting, pushing, scratching: these were the devices that Kharn now had to result to. Grimkul held him in place, landing punches to his face and chest.

Abruptly, Kharn ceased going after the fallen sword and snatched a knife out of his belt, causing Grimkul to remember the sword in his own hand. But the advantage in this situation was Kharn’s: the smaller weapon was entirely more maneuverable in the close quarters. He scored a deep gash in Grimkul’s thigh before Grimkul could even bring his blade around. But it was not enough: as Kharn tried to twist away, Grimkul brought his scimitar down, rending a long gash in Kharn’s side. Kharn, clearly in pain, tried a desperate parry, but Grimkul almost carelessly knocked it away. He brought his sword down on Kharn’s shoulder, cutting through the muscle and tendon and effectively disabling his sword arm. Becoming increasingly exultant, Grimkul scored a number of smaller cuts and gashes. Finally, when he deemed that Kharn had suffered as many injuries as might be expected, he rose shakily to his feet, stained in black blood: Kharn’s, and his own. The blood flow from his leg had not staunched much, and the loss of blood had weakened him severely.

Kharn eyed him, obviously near death. There seemed to be a measure of satisfaction to him, though: “You won’t live long, now.” This infuriated Grimkul: that his opponent, clearly defeated, should still mock him! Without waiting another instant, he brought his sword down and plunged it through Kharn’s heart. Then he spat into the dead face, turned about, and limped away, his triumph only slightly dampened with the knowledge that Kharn had not conceded the victory.

Now there was only one thing that he could want. Turning about, he could see the mountains rising in the distance. He was leaving, this time for good. He made his way slowly to the gate of the city, but as he drew nearer he noticed a strange thing: the press of Orcs had thickened, and they were swarming out of the city! They were being attacked! And so, unexpectedly, Grimkul was plunged into the fight, exactly where he, for once, did not want to be. He fought his way through the ranks, cutting down anyone who got in his way, be it Orc, Man, Dwarf, or Elf. He soon found that he could go no farther without engaging in real combat; at the very front of the Orkish lines, now, he was almost wholly surrounded by the ranks of Dwarves. He ruthlessly cut one down, slicing nearly all the way through his head.

But he suddenly found himself feeling light-headed; his reactions felt slow and dulled. The shouts all around him buzzed in his ears. He fought like a mad thing, no longer aware of anything but a burning desire that everything die, so that he might go on his way in peace, to go on to his old mountain haunts, to leave it all behind… But first, they all would die.