"Dear lords and ladies!" yelled the court herald. "I present to you the ultimate tool of justice, the slayer of the wicked, the legendary Brass Executioner!"

As the Brass Executioner finally stepped through the large gate, his entrance accompanied by the overwhelming jubilation of the audience, the warrior was surprised. He had pictured the other man to be... taller.

It was not that the Brass Executioner was small; in fact, he was at least a hand taller than the warrior and had a lean, muscular physique. It was just that, after all the legends the warrior had heard about this terrifying fighter, he half expected him to resemble a giant rather than a normal man, standing at least ten feet tall and with more muscles than a warhorse. He should have known that the stories were mostly myth, since nobody could truly know how the Brass Executioner looked but the nobles and other mighty of society.

It was a well-known fact that only this elite group was allowed to see the executioner in action, and the warrior had never mingled with those people, nor had he ever wanted to. Seeing the Brass Executioner doing his bloody handiwork was considered a great honor, and for the common people, it had attained the status of myth. And as with any myth or faerie tale, it had been blown out of proportion.

But the rest of the stories describing the executioner actually fit very well. Resembling a gladiator, he wore a helmet and a tight-fitting face mask that looked like a skull. A richly adorned shoulder guard with spikes like frozen fire protected his right shoulder as well as the adjoining parts of his neck and arm. He wore heavy bracers that covered his lower arms, a white apron, and leather-strapped sandals. Apart from the latter two garments, everything was fashioned from brass and polished so that it gleamed like gold. The Golden Deathsman—that was another name of the Brass Executioner, and it suited him.

And, of course, there was his axe.

In a way, it was even more intimidating than its wielder. It exactly matched the stories the warrior had heard: a gargantuan, single-bladed executioner's axe that looked as if it was made for the hands of an ogre. Its blade was brass as well. It had a wavy, saw-toothed edge, and the ornate surface had been carved to resemble solidified flames. The blade alone was almost as long and wide as the chest of a grown man, and it was attached to an equally massive shaft that seemed to be the bone of a monstrous beast. It was a true feat of strength to lift such a weapon, let alone wield it with any skill. The Brass Executioner displayed both abilities as he stepped into the arena and performed a dazzling series of swings that ended in sheer bravado as he raised the blade in a victorious gesture over his head.

The crowd cheered. It was clear who its favorite was.

While waiting for the swaggering to come to an end, the warrior paced around the blood-soaked ground of the arena and selected his weapons from the dead. Having seen the axe of his enemy, he briefly contemplated picking up a large battle axe, but in the end decided against it. The weapon was of inferior quality and, in a direct clash, would surely break when pitted against the formidable blade of the executioner; the warrior was better off with two swift blades. At least, he hoped so...

He retrieved his short sword from the corpse of the slain Aracnear, not bothering to clean the blade of the black gore and pus that stuck to it. If he was lucky, the executioner would have enough respect for the vile fluids to put a major part of his focus on the weapon. That could give the warrior an opening he might be able to exploit...

To complete his set, he took a similar short sword from the slack hand of one of the fallen. Both blades were plain, and compared to the magnificent axe of his enemy, they were ugly and inferior, but an inferior weapon could kill just as well as a flawless one if the strike was true.

As ready as he ever would be, he waited for the executioner to finish his boasting and join him in the center of the arena, among the corpses. He picked that area so that his enemy would have a harder time maneuvering. If luck was with him, the executioner would eventually trip on one of the bodies while performing a wild swing.

Yet he did not attack the warrior right away; the Brass Executioner began circling him, striding along the spiked walls of the arena while taking his measure from the depths of the mask. The warrior was being judged, and despite his training and many accomplishments in battle, the whole situation was getting to him. The shouting of the crowd, the smell of the gore, the confident swagger of the Brass Executioner—he felt weaker with every moment that passed. The blood loss and his broken ribs didn't help either.

On his way around the arena, the Brass Executioner stopped twice. The first time was to have a look at the cadaver of the tainted Aracnear, where he showed the smallest amount of respect by tilting his head. The second time, he casually decapitated the barber as he tried to crawl away from the towering man.

The decapitation was done in one swift move. One second, the executioner was walking by the little man, who tried to flee from him like a worm; the next moment, the barber's head was flying through the air. This display of skill, strength, and cruelty showed the warrior that his opponent was indeed an enemy to be reckoned with.

The instant the Brass Executioner had completed his circle, he exploded into action. It was as if a trigger had been pulled, and like a raging bull, he charged straight toward the warrior. His axe, gleaming like golden fire, was held high above his head in a two-handed grip. It took him a few heartbeats to reach the ring of bodies where the warrior had chosen to make his last stand. The warrior could see the shining eyes behind the slits of the skull-visor, and made a move to dodge out of harm's way. Yet he had misjudged the attack of the executioner, since it was not the sharp blade that came for him, but the dull end of the shaft. The butt struck him right in the face, breaking his nose.

The battle had begun.

There is one truth about combat between axe and sword fighters: it never lasts long. Fencing duels could go on for hours, but the same could not be said for a confrontation with the savage instrument of the axe. In such a fight, the skills of both warriors, boiled down to their very essences, would quickly decide who the victor was and who would become food for the crows.

The match between the Brass Executioner and the warrior was no exception.

Wielding the butt of his axe shaft again, the Brass Executioner jumped forward, following the backward-stumbling warrior with a maneuver that would have set up a devastating killing blow—if the warrior had not jumped back at the last second. As expected, the executioner followed up with a savage diagonal swipe. Blinking away the tears filling his eyes, the warrior ducked under it, barely avoiding the blade. Now that the Golden Deathsman had presented his unguarded side, the warrior thrust forward, ready to drive his sword into the abdomen of his enemy.

Yet this did not come to pass.

Unlike many axe fighters, who relied only on brute strength, the executioner knew what he was doing. His style wasn't the simple hacking and slashing of a beginner. Every attack was part of a sequence of swings and thrusts, a primal dance of death.

Following the momentum of his blade, the Brass Executioner moved aside, turned around on his axis, and thrust the butt of his axe backward below his left armpit. And with the force of a kicking horse, the weapon handle hit the warrior in the stomach. Yet even though he stumbled and almost fell over one of the corpses, the warrior managed to do some damage of his own. He slashed out, his sword cutting along the shoulder blade of the executioner, and though the wound was hardly deadly, it sure hurt like hell.

Beneath his grisly mask, the Brass Executioner hissed like a snake, but he did not flinch or stop moving. He continued his attack, turning, shifting his weight onto his front leg, and bringing the axe swinging down in a stroke that would have taken the stumbling warrior's head off had he not ducked. The golden blade hissed overhead, slicing the tips of his cropped hair, and once the edge had passed, the warrior exploded toward his enemy and rammed his right-handed blade into the other man's abdomen.

The rusty short sword buried itself deep in the executioner's body, and the warrior's own momentum helped the blade on its cutting path as it tore through flesh and entrails. Hot blood and viscera gushed over his hand.

The warrior roared in triumph.

Standing face to face with the executioner, the warrior could hear a gurgling sound coming from behind the skull-mask. Then the executioner, too dumb or too stubborn to accept that he was dead, rammed his elbow into the warrior's already broken nose.

Yet like a wolverine wrestling a snake, the warrior did not fall, stumble, or let go of his opponent. He blinked away the tears that welled up in his eyes, ignoring the searing pain as well as the blood gushing from his nose. The only thing that counted now was victory.

He screamed and rammed his knee against the hilt of his sword, driving the blade even deeper into his enemy's body. The additional force drove the edge entirely through the executioner's abdomen, and the blade erupted from his lower back like a bloody flower. A shocked outcry rose from the audience, and as the legendary Brass Executioner started to fold over, the warrior caught and held his impaled enemy on his feet. Then, with a growl that would have made a daemon know fear, he brought his second blade down, stabbing through the back of his enemy—all the way through his chest—and piercing his still-beating heart.

The warrior held him for another moment, his breath coming in ragged bursts, letting the life-blood gush over his hands.

He had won!

He let the Brass Executioner's lifeless body slide to the ground, both swords sticking out of his corpse from opposite directions. Breathing heavily and spitting out blood, he picked up the golden axe. The weapon was lighter than he expected, and he turned it tentatively in his hands. It felt good. Then he raised it high overhead and brought it down on the neck of the executioner, cutting his head off with one brutal strike.

Another outcry went through the shocked audience that, after what seemed like an eternity, turned into agitated mumbling. In a defiant pose, the warrior placed the axe head on the blood-soaked sand. He rested his weight on the shaft in an attempt to look confident, but it also helped him to slow his breathing.

Then, ignoring the pain that racked his wounded and bruised body, he laughed mockingly until the crowd became silent.

He bellowed, "Is that really all you got?"

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Author's note:

Heya, Author here... 

I hope you enjoyed that fight, if you have any sort of feedback for me, I'd love to hear it.

Please show your support by voting. :)

- M.