The Bronze Man

The Challenge

The Chelosian’s answering smile was friendly.  “Still alive Awn, and it will remain so this day.  Your young man was polite in his translation.”

Awn laughed as the two men shook hands.  “I am still training him.  What brings you to my lands?”

Kiriastas seemed apologetic.  “Not my doing, Awn,” he replied, then nodded back over his shoulder with his head.  “It is Alastros.  He is ambitious.  Seeks new lands for himself.  I am afraid he has chosen yours.  You can not stop us,” he added regretfully.

“Eight hundred of you and one of me?  Think of the glory though.”

Kiriastas shook his head, slowly, his features those of bewilderment.  “You Maedari are mad.  Do you accept my challenge, Maedari?”

“I do, Chelosian.”

The two men faced off against each other on the beach, tall, bare-chested Awn and the stocky Kiriastas.  They circled, slowly, slowly, watching the other warily, studying their challenger's moves intently.  Shields were raised and bronze spears at hand, poised, ready to strike.

Awn was the first to move, letting out a monstrous yell as he darted forward, spear stabbing through the air.  Kiriastas' shield came up, turning aside Awn's blow, before he jabbed forward with his own.

Awn jumped aside, the bright spear tip narrowly avoiding his bare flesh. 

Kiriastas grinned at him.  “Slow, Maedari.”  Awn simply laughed, returning to the slow circling.

The two men feinted back and forth, trading blows, blocking and stabbing.  Minor cuts soon marked their bodies, sweat flowing freely, seeping into their eyes and stinging as it entered wounds.

The duel dragged on, neither man able to get the upper hand, the pair wearying from the constant exchange of strikes.  Fate in the end was not with Kiriastas.  Moving to avoid a low stabbing blow from Awn, he stumbled in the sand, losing balance, partially from weariness, partially from the unevenness of the field.  The spear drove into his leg, striking deep.  Blood flowed freely down his leg, dripping to the sand.

As the spear slid free, Kiriastas sunk down to a knee.  The spear came up to rest lightly at his neck.

“Do you yield?”

Kiriastas set his shield down at Awn's feet.  “I yield.”

Awn dropped his spear, offering Kiriastas his hand, helping the injured Chelosian up when he took it.  “Fate did not smile upon you this day, old friend.  Can you walk?”

“Yes.  It is not as bad as it appears.”

Awn smiled with relief.  “Good.  Take up your shield and return to your own people.”

“On my honour and that of my ancestors I swear that until this conflict is ended I shall take no further part in this fight,” Kiriastas replied.  Awn handed him back his shield, helping him limp back towards the Chelosian lines, where men pounded spears to shield in honour of the men.

“There is one man amongst you,” Awn challenged them.  “One man worthy of my admiration.  The rest of you, you are but sand beneath my feet, to be crushed as I please.  Do any more of you dare challenge me, Awn the Red, who has defeated your mightiest champion?

Another Chelosian stepped forward, speaking in his native language, pointing his spear at Awn.

“He says that he takes up your challenge,” Kiriastas translated, “And that he only lowers himself to meet you to give you the honour of having been defeated by the great Lastrasios.”

Awn grinned at the man, nodding his head.  “Tell him I accept his challenge.”

“I feel sorry for poor Kiriastas,’ Awn told Palidas when he had returned to him.

Palidas handed him a clay mug of water, which Awn grateful took.  “Why is that uncle?”

“It was not I that defeated him, but fate.  There will be no more honour for him this conflict.”

“Is there not honour enough having crossed spears with you, uncle?  He can take comfort from that.” Palidas replied.

Awn laughed easily before draining the mug.  “There is, yes, but I still feel sorry for him.”  He rubbed at his left shoulder, where a dull bruise was beginning to form.  “Rim of the shield took me here.  It is going to cause some problems.”

“You are going to fight again?” Palidas sounded incredulous.

“I have no choice.  If I withdraw then there is nothing to stop them advancing on the village.  It is only honour that can compel them to stay here, and honour which keeps me here.”

Three more times that day Awn strode out to face the Chelosians in challenges and three times he emerged victorious.  Twice men yielded, amongst them Lastrasios after a long and wearying duel.  The third, a sneering, sullen faced man refused to yield and in the end Awn was forced to lay him out upon the sands, dead from a thrust to the throat.

Awn could see the frustration in the Chelosians faces as they dragged the dead man away by his heels, leaving a trail of blood across the sand.  They wished to press on, but were honour-bound to face Awn and to respond to each challenge, until such time as he yielded or was slain.

Awn sunk tiredly to the ground after the fourth fight.  More blood marked him; his body ached from the strain of the fights and many cuts, while his hair and trousers were drenched with sweat.  Palidas poured water over him, washing away dried blood and sweat.  Awn was breathing heavily.

“Not sure if I can last much longer,” he admitted.  “That last one thought he could outlast me, which is why he would not yield.  Stubborn.  Too stubborn.”

Another Chelosian was striding forward, unusual in that he wore a shirt of bronze scales as worn by the Maedari and not the bronzed breastplate of the Chelosians.  Awn pushed himself to his feet, taking up spear and shield again.

“Once more, nephew, once more and this day is done.”