The Arena

by BluesyTreble

2 Second Bout - Squire Snowball

The magically amplified shouts of the arranger sounded a murmur to Rye, who sat still in the armoury, unsure whether he would see the sunrise tomorrow or lie dead and eviscerated in the corpse-trench. Rye sat for what seemed like eternity til another guard marched in through the door, and tossed a jingling grey mass at Rye's hooves. Rye looked at the guard.

"Mail." The guard simply said, and strode back out.

Rye bent, curling his forehooves around the mail. It was heavy, as he had discovered a couple of years ago when he had trained in Ponyville. It was decent armour, capable of deflecting a full-force slash and withstand sword thrusts to a certain degree. He pulled the mail over his head, struggling as his mane caught in the heavy riveted metal links. He eventually gritted his teeth and slid the hauberk over his body. It sat on his shoulders, them bearing the full weight of the armour. That was the problem with mail. Uneven weight distribution. Some colts back in Ponyville had lengths of belt or rope tied around their waists to help bear the weight, but here in the arena he had no such luxury. On the floor lay too, a steel skullcap. He scooped up the skullcap and stuck it over his head, lacing up the leather straps quickly and expertly.

"Weapons." The armoury guard said flatly, gesturing to the rack of weapons. He leant on the wall with an elbow, looking bored.

The colt looked at the rack. Now that he had decent protection, he could do away with the shield.

The guard interrupted his train of thought, "Oh, and your next contender is Squire Snowball, a trained fighter and son of a Manehattan noblestallion. You're not going to stand a chance, peasant." The guard had spat out the last word in contempt.

Rye now knew his enemy. A rich fighter, most likely armoured in plate. Snowball most likely had no need for a shield as well. Rye looked upwards of the rack, eyes darting back and forth, looking for a weapon to use. His eyes rested on a weapon, held in place by two hooks. It was a pollax. Rye immediately snatched the polearm off its hooks. A pollax, a veteran stallion-at-arms had told him, was a very good weapon. The head, nay, the three heads on the business end balanced the weapon perfectly. An axe head, a hammer head on the other side, and at the top, a spear point. The pollax Rye held even had a second spear point at the bottom, just in case.

The twin doors to the arena magically opened, and out came Rye. Once again the smell of death and decay assaulted Rye. On the other side, stood a gleaming figure in armour shining like the overthrown sun. Snowball was armoured, from head to foot, in shining steel plate, inlaid with brass and ivory. In his right hoof he held, the icon of nobility, a hand-and-a-half sword, which he tried to intimidate Rye with by swinging it in arcs overhead and figure-eights. His armet shone, both helm and visor inlaid as well. Plumage sprouted from the top of the helm, dancing along with his movements. Rye, refusing to be intimidated by this noble, stood tall, trying to make himself look bigger. The audience laughed in scorn at the pathetic effort. Snowball finally stopped posturing and stuck his sword on the ground, turning his muzzle up at the peasant colt.

"PLAY!" The arranger yelled, dropping his flag by accident. He bent to retrieve it.

Rye and Snowball circled one another, looking for an opening. Snowball struck first, gracefully swinging the blade at Rye, who violently knocked it aside by pivoting his left hand and using the bottom. The sword clanged off the bottom langets. Snowball, using the momentum from the parry he had received, swung the sword back, missing only because Rye had danced back a step. He swung the pollax, which Snowball had contemptuously flicked aside with a well-executed parry. Snowball the feinted a stab, causing his opponent to swing the pollax downwards, and quickly retracted the sword and swung at Rye's right shoulder. The mail stopped the blow, but a dull throbbing pain now crept from Rye's shoulder, down the length of his arm and down to his hoof, weakening his hold on the pollax. Snowball now flipped his sword, holding the blade in his armoured hooves. He bent, hooking the pollax shaft in his crossguard and pushed down on the blade, the sword sending Rye's pollax spinning wildly out of his hooves, disarming Rye very shortly for the well-trained peasant colt had lunged forward, snatching the pollax out of the air and with one hoof, swung it at the squire before he could flip his sword back. Neither hammerhead or axe blade stuck the adversary, the flat of the axe blade slapping against Snowball. The young squire flinched.

Rye held the pollaxe with his left forehoof and punched with his right, his bow-given strength slightly denting the breastplate. Snowball, knocked back a few paces, used the length of the sword to swing sideways at Rye, the sword barely nicking the mail. He brought the sword back for another swing, causing Rye to attempt to dodge. He crossed legs by accident, pulling the joint of his right knee out of position. Rye let out a pained shout. Snowvball, sensing an opening, swung the sword again, with Rye barely just meeting it with a weak parry. The tip of the blade glinted dangerously just a hoof's breadth from Rye. He pushed the sword off and kicked with his injured right hoof, the action paining him much. Snowball, thrown slightly off balance by the kick, flailed his forehooves in an attempt to right himself.

Taking advantage of this, Rye righted the pollax and swung again, the hammerhead crashing into the breastplate, dislodging several shattered pieces of carved ivory and causing the brass and steel to bend in, knocking the breath out of the noblestallion's son. Now the squire was on his knees, one forehoof on the ground. Rye swung again, and this time Snowball brought up his sword to block, catching the axe blade upon his sword's own blade. The axe blade screeched, steel on steel, a shrill ugly sound, and hooked on the crossguards. Rye quickly pulled, disarming Snowball and sending the sword sliding through the sand, past Rye's hooves. It stopped a considerable distance a little ways from Rye. Snowball parried another blow from Rye with his own left vambrace, the axe blade cracking through the armour. The squire screamed. Blood now oozed out from the cracked armour piece, which fell apart at the hinges. The vambrace clattered off his forehoof, revealing a cut so deep it had bit into the bone. The squire was crying now, his face which looked even younger than Rye crumpled and tearing. He pulled off the gauntlet from his ruined arm and held it up high with his good one, indicating surrender. Rye tiredly held the pollax up with both hooves, his shoulder and knee throbbing with a renewed sharp pain.

"RYE WINS AGAIN!" The arranger had long retrieved his flag and now waved it about wildly. The audience, once again, irately drew out purses to pay. They had once again betted on the wrong fighter.

Comments

[Erik the Enigma]

The cover art is my cutie mark.

[ClickClackTheBrony]

Good so far, though it's just 'bet' not 'betted.'