The Steel Circle The Steel Circle One strong man, has a plan To preserve his country’s borders All feuds aside, the tribes must strive To force invaders to retreat or die The western leaders had come together at The Field of Truth, under the protection of the White Spear, to ponder the encroachment of the Comor border by Zan-Ka mercenaries from the Zonquian frontier. The pink-hued suns had fallen. Evening frostily enveloped the elite flock of war-hawks under a deep-blue mantle of twinkling, cold-white stars. Three full, frozen-gold moons cast an amber pall across the plain. Roaring red-yellow flames flickered fantastically high from a monstrous bonfire, licking the chill sky and eerily illuming the men against the flat, shadowy landscape. Heated debate burned around the conflagration, threatening to burst into an inferno of violence. Sixty-odd Warriors were almost evenly split over the question of leadership. On one side Brak, son of Konn, a renegade of Clan Kwil-a. Brak, War-Chief of Clan Brak, haven to outcasts and malcontents. His personal power with his great war-club was tempered by the broad tolerance and keen intellect he possessed. He had risen from humble beginnings as the abandoned son of a renegade, to mold a disciplined and powerful tribe from the rejects of the other clans. With Brak was his strapping young son, Tark; his eighteenth birthday was still in the future, but his skill with a captured Zonquian scimitar was fast becoming legend. At his side stood Bronk, Brak’s wizened medicine man; he carried a mystic juju spear, with a not so mystical poisoned tip. Also travelling with Brak was his lone representative to the eastern tribes; Kolek, High-Elder of Clan Kan-ak, whose songs could rend a man’s soul, as surely as his throwing dirk could pierce his heart. Last, but not least, of Brak’s supporters were; Lak-ah, leader of Clan La-Chesh, with his heavy, 4 foot broad-axe, capable of cutting a small man in twain…and his wolfish twin sons, Hork and Dak, inseparable since birth, they fought back to back in battle, weaving a web of death with their short-swords as they danced with uncanny footwork. On the other side stood Kwil, War-Chief of Clan Kwil-a, his 5 foot broadsword looking like a child’s toy in his huge-veined hand. Kwil, whose father Brok had died at the hands of Brak’s father Konn during a dispute over the treatment of Kan-ak Clan prisoners. Kwil, whose hatred for Brak and his clan of outcasts knew no reasonable bounds. To Kwil’s left was his youngest son, Klaw, whose prowess with the small, balanced battle-axe he carried belied his fifteen years. At his right stood his Medicine-Man, Zaka, whose staff carried a flintering end-weight, and who could kill with a touch of his open palm. Behind, and towering over all, was Kwil’s first-born Kwil-a, a veritable giant of a man whose slow mind betrayed his great bulk but whose sword-arm was true. A lone eastern wolf also stood with Kwil; Mart of the Muron Clan, hereditary enemies of the Kan-ak. His blinding speed and custom forged light sword made him a terrible blur when aroused. Next to him was Dal-ad, War-Chief of Clan Del-Clad, whose fetish was his notched broadsword, it’s handle marked eighteen times, one for each man he killed in personal duels, both in Comor and abroad. And there was Dal-ad’s wizened mentor and father, old Cla-id himself, a living legend who was friend to the late, great Brok in the olden-times. There were others behind both men, all of them renowned warriors in their own right. Although mainly silent, the hard expressions showed it would be a mad battle indeed should the two antagonists not settle this matter, and quickly. Much time had passed since Brok’s death, time which saw Brak and his mother migrate west, to a then unnamed tribe, even as his sire Konn fled south, to venture in the civilized kingdoms. Years later Konn would return to his homeland, join the Kan-ak, and sire Kore’s father. Thus it came to pass that it was Kore’s half-uncle, Brak, who sought to weld the tribes into an iron fist. A fist strong enough to smash the Zonquian fort at Kenium and send the bloody pieces back across the border as grim reminder of Comorian sovereignty. All present new Brak’s ideas were sound; the Zonquian lackeys must be repulsed immediately and brutally, before support could be mustered among the rich and powerful in the King’s Court at Tantalia to finance a more concerted effort. There was no real reason WHY Brak should not lead the tribes; his courage was beyond refute, his tactical skills noteworthy, his personal power legendary. The river of time however, cannot quench the fires of hate, which smolder deep and beyond it’s reach. And it was hate, not logic, which drove Kwil to drop all pretense and begin the inevitable. “So Brak! You would use cunning speech to mask the treachery of your bloodline! You lead a band of outcasts and think this makes you worthy of leading Clan Kwil-a into battle? Would there were none but you and I! Then would the question of leadership be settled quickly and with great finality…by the splitting to the teeth of your lying face!” with that Brak, whose capacity for insult was meager at best, could countenance no more! His rage thick reply was succinct, but sincere, “Why then, shall we dispense at last with the formalities of Chieftain-ship my lord? This between us, the blood spilled be ours! Will you foreswear the White Spear and meet me in the Steel Circle as a man?” “So be it.” was Kwil’s only reply. There was no further baiting. ONE insult was all required to initiate the death-duel. Further banter would be construed as weakness and vanity by the others. The gathered began laying their weapons on the ground, forming the traditional, ring battlefield of the Comorian tribes. The circumference of the dueling circle was approximately twenty feet. One edge was kept near the bonfire for illumination. Many a dispute had been settled within the Steel Circle. Once a man stepped inside it was kill or be killed, with no quarter asked and none given. Rules were simple; 1) the duel was fought with the Takar, a long, straight, two-edged poniard with a wickedly pointed tip. 2) the kill had to be within the Circle. 3) the penalty for stepping outside the Circle was loss of weapon. 4) if both men broke the circle it was hand to hand unto death. Kwil was a hard man, tall and rangy. His long, steel-silver hair was sparse in front. He wore it tied behind him like a horse’s tail, accenting his aquiline features. Firelight danced in his flint-gray eyes as he stripped to the waist despite the chill, and stretched and shook like some great, north-born wolf. Multiple scars were evident on his gaunt, hard-muscled chest, wide, cannonball-delts, sinewy arms and rippled waist with large veins showing. Beneath his long, bear-hide loincloth the corded diamonds of his calves were starkly evident. Add to this Kwil’s almost freakish height of nearly 7 feet and you begin to visualize this long, lean, 250 lb. giant whose capacity for carnage was exceeded only by his undying hatred for Brak and his family. Never had Brak faced so deadly an adversary for, although Kwil’s skill with the broadsword was prodigious, it was with the knife his legend had been made. Seven times had he entered the Steel Circle, and incredibly, he still lived! NO other man living had survived the circle more than thrice, and Kwil was commonly regarded the greatest knife fighter in Comor, as well as one of the best on the continent. As Brak stripped to the waist, the disparate physiques of the antagonists was starkly apparent. The outcast leader was a bear of a man; under six feet in height, yet weighing far in excess of three-hundred pounds, with a round, bearded face, bulbous nose, piercing, brilliant-blue eyes and a thick, curly-black mane. He was dense, hairy, slope-shouldered, swag-bellied and almost unbelievably strong. Firelight gleamed redly in his semi-glazed eyes as he focused himself, flexing unpretentiously like some great ape from the Shadow Jungle. Scarred he was, deep and often, as the many healed wounds across his great girth could attest. Although he was a specialist at smashing skulls with his huge, steel and hardwood War-Club, Brak too had experience with the Takar, having killed two men in the Circle himself. Thus was the stage set to decide the leadership of the western tribes. The three golden moons slipped behind deep-emerald clouds, over the field where Chiefs had gathered for time beyond memory, then… Brak stepped into the Circle first, always the aggressor in any battle. He held the pommel of his Takar almost delicately, palm-up in his left hand. His great muscles were relaxed, loose, his toes firmly gripping the ground. He knew the edge in power was his and he concentrated on his speed, hoping to close on his much taller opponent before he could strike a killing blow from the outside. Seconds later the pride of Clan Kwil-a entered the field of honor, confident smirk frozen on his arrogant face. Long had he waited for this meeting; the moment when, he was sure, he would avenge himself upon the hated bloodline of his father’s killer. Kwil held his blade firmly outstretched before him in his right hand, determined to use his obvious reach advantage without losing his weapon. As the eldest, it was Cla-ids responsibility to initiate the duel with the ceremonial blood-letting. Imperiously, the ancient Warrior stepped into the Circle between the two men and, after gesturing toward sacred Ban-Mort Mountain, he spoke in a raspy, yet powerful voice, “By the blood in my veins I seal this pact.” Using his own Takar, he sliced deep into the palm of his left hand. Then he squeezed until claret dripped thickly from his fist, staining the ground. After a moment he touched each combatant on the forehead with the bloody wound, smearing them both. “The law has been handed down from Ban-Mort by our God, Korum. Untold generations have lived by it’s creed. Two men enter the Circle. Lies, steel, truth. The just be strong, the false be dead. Two men enter the Circle, ONE leaves. Let no man dispute Korum’s will.” So saying, the Old Man stepped back, out of the antagonists circle and… The battle was joined! Brak shot forward explosively to his right, like a charging bull. He slashed at his Foeman’s neck and was granted a gash on his left forearm by the lightning-quick riposte of the back-pedaling Kwil. Kore’s uncle bellowed like an ox as the blade bit bone and blood spurted from slit meat. Amazingly, no tendons or major veins were damaged by the flashing steel. Kwil slid agilely to his right, catching his wounded opponent off-guard and pressing forward with his sudden advantage, blade weaving a deadly web of slashes and thrusts before him. Miraculously, Brak parried the blur of blows while taking, perhaps, the first backward steps of his life. Steel sparked and shimmered beautifully in the dream-like firelight and the dazzled onlookers held their collective breaths as the Outlaw Leader was forced back, back, back, until…Brak was driven from the circle! Old Clai-id screamed a halt to the proceedings and both combatants stopped dead in their tracks! Both knew to violate the rules of the Circle was disgrace and death. The Elder returned to the epicenter and called the combatants to each side of him. Brak yielded his weapon with a sneer, saying, “I need no pig-sticker to break the neck of this swine.” He seemed truly unaffected by his severe wound, paying it no heed whatsoever. Kwil, for his part, said nothing, but paced dangerously back and forth, snarling low like a rampant tiger, pure death in his glittering eyes. Again the deadly rivals faced each other in the middle of the honor field, and again the Old Man stepped from between them. For a few scant milliseconds the pair eyed each other, already gulping air. Kore’s Uncle was bleeding heavily from his wounded arm, but a murderous, berserk rage was growing in his eyes, glazing his usually intelligent stare. Then Brak screamed his death scream and, disdainful of Kwil’s knife, he attacked! Lunging forward with the speed of a hunting leopard he caught Kwil’s left wrist with his own right hand. The Kwil-a Leader attempted to circle to his own right and jerk his arm free but Brak’s grip was like iron! Unable to escape Kwil planted his feet and buried half his Takar’s 12 inch blade deep in Brak’s broad belly. Brak, plain berserk by now, grabbed Kwil’s knife hand with his blood-soaked left hand, locking the blade in his gut with the aid of his enormous abdominal muscles. Simultaneously, he head-butted his taller foe flush in the mouth, cracking bone and shattering teeth. Adrenalized, Kwil tore his right hand free and managed to again stab Brak, this time in the left shoulder. Wrenching the blade free before Brak could catch him, he tried violently to stick him in the eye. Brak caught Kwil’s knife wrist again, this time with the Takar’s needle point scant inches from his brain. After a titanic struggle, during which both men turned nearly purple from exertion, Brak managed to avert the glittering steel and draw the taller man inexorably to him. Then he butted Kwil again, this time square in the nose, the sound like a mallet splintering wood. The Kwil-a Leader groaned as blood spurted and sprayed from his ruined features. Kwil was severely dazed at this point, yet still managed to break Brak’s crushing grip with one tremendous heave of his entire body. From across the few feet now separating them the panting pair glared at each other and saw hate and madness therein. Brak was bleeding heavily from his forearm and shoulder and a portion of his intestines protruded from the wound in his stomach. Amazingly, his eyes were clear and murderously bright, though a tinge of froth flecked his lips. Kwil’s eyes were clouded, bloodshot hate the only light shining within. Both men glistened sweat/blood in the roaring firelight as massive chests heaved and thick limbs quivered from strain. The battle was less than five minutes old yet both were nearly spent. The gargantuan strength and terrible wounds of the pair were quickly taking their toll and they knew the end was at hand. Kwil, needing time, began sliding to his left, around the perimeter of the Circle, trying to clear his head. Brak would have none of it. He charged Kwil and, after slipping a desperate knife-thrust aimed at his throat, exploded from a crouch with a devastating left-hand blow. The punch caught Kwil flush on the side of his already damaged jaw. Such was it’s force that his feet were lifted a full two inches off the ground and he landed with a thud several feet away…out of the Steel Circle! Again old Cla-id called a halt and stepped within the Circle. Kwil climbed unsteadily to his feet, face a misshapen, broken red-mask. He stumbled to the Elder, who slipped the Takar from his blood-caked hand and glided ghostlike from the Circle. Again the rivals paused for a moment, to stare deep into the other’s soul across the killing floor. Kwil was dazed, sensed was about to die, yet the old hate still burned him like splashing, molten-steel. His gray eyes were clearing, flashing cold daggers as he spoke, words barely discernible through pulped lips and jaw, “So, today is my DEATH. He is the Hunter. YOU are the weapon. I am the prey. SO BE IT!” With that the lean giant threw himself upon his bearish opponent, determined to inflict more damage before expiring. His savage attempt to dig his right thumb into Brak’s left eye and through to the brain fell barely short. Kore’s Uncle slipped the killing blow with a deft turn of his head, but was still raked across the orb, which swelled immediately. It’s vision would never be the same again. Further incensed, Brak bulled his way in and caught Kwil by the throat with both hands. The taller man clawed desperately at Brak’s features but his strength was ebbing fast. Ignoring the gouges, Brak reached up and forced Kwil to turn sideways with relentless, twisting pressure on his injured face. Then he reached his hairy left arm across the front of Kwil’s neck, trapping it in the pit while bringing the wrist behind, creating leverage by bending the taller man backwards and pulling up on that wrist with his right hand. Completely off-balance Kwil was still able to reach behind him with his right hand and squeeze the soft entrails sticking from Brak’s stomach. Brak screamed in agony and, leaning back, pulled sharply upward with his right hand still on his left wrist and Kwil’s head behind him. Kwil’s neck stretched unnaturally and snapped, cracking like a rotting branch in high wind. Brak released his deadly grasp, and he fell, a hateful moan his last gasp. He was dead. Dead. DEAD! Brak stumbled back, ashen and shaken. He trembled uncontrollably from adrenaline and loss of blood. He was verging shock. Still, the sight of his vanquished enemy filled him; he shot fists overhead and snarled a victory scream, primal as a tiger in the moment of survival. Then, a black-mist passed before his vision which no wind could disperse, and he fell back with a thud, unconscious. For the final time Cla-id entered the Circle and eyed the Warriors still standing. His proud, old voice quivered with passion as images of the greatest duel he ever witnessed still danced like devils in his head. “Truly we have seen. Remember forever this day. We will never know the like of it again.” He gestured to Kwil’s broken and lifeless body, “His father would have been proud, for he died A MAN. Surely he will walk with Korum, feasting, loving and slaying.” Then, turning his gleaming eyes to gaze upon Brak he stated flatly, “HE leads the Western Tribes…if he lives.” Brak was conscious now, sitting upright in the roaring-red firelight as his Medicine Man tended his awful wounds. He looked to Cla-id, who was staring morosely at the fallen son of his fallen comrade, “I’ll live.” was all he said.
Copyright © 1990 Steven K. Mitchell |