"I hereby formally challenge you
in the manner of the Duelist.
By the power of the Two Moons,
I propose to you: Lupo Dexus!"

*

The sun crested the Viltna pass and washed over Wolven Demise like a wave bursting a dam. Roger Dunbar - the Black Stallion - winced as its light reflected from his blade, threatening to blind him. He stepped back to cover the momentary lapse in his guard, but his opponent was on him in the time he'd taken to form the thought. One two-pronged fork slid past his guard. It was shaped like a foot-long V, with each point sporting curved back thorns like arrow heads. One of those sliced along Dunbar's forearm, flicking away in an arc of blood.

The crowd surrounding them gasped as he cursed, jumping back and circling, his broadsword now held defensively once again. He glanced at his arm - a criss-cross in red, but that new wound was deeper than the others. The spectators were muttering in a susurrus of excitement, each of them paused in their journeys to watch a duel. The Black Stallion - bloody stupid name - ignored them, determined to focus on the task at hand. His opponent sported many cuts of his own, but Dunbar knew they were nothing. He'd not landed any fight-altering blows.

They circled for a while, staring and daring with their eyes. After the best part of an hour, Dunbar's chest was heaving. His chain mail torso and leg armour didn't help, or his heavy metal boots and gauntlets. Still, he was a large-set man - unlike his opponent - and relied on strength over speed. That meant covering up, waiting for his diminutive opponent to tire, and delivering a crippling strike.

The man opposite was barely five feet tall and so slim he almost disappeared into the sun's rays. He danced in constant motion, shifting from foot to foot, his bare legs and chest rippling with a thin but tightly defined layer of muscle. His mop of blond hair waved above him as he weaved like crops in the wind. The left side of his forehead was dominated by a six-sided red star tattoo, a black sigil of a bird of prey in its centre. Dunbar could feel his own tattoo - a warmer patch where the sweat didn't cool so well - the same star, his with a rearing horse. Marked men, condemned to fight.

Giving no warning, Dunbar lunged forward, swinging his sword in an overhead arc and down towards his opponent's head. Falcon - that seemed to be what the crowd was calling him - hopped backwards neatly and crossed his forks to block the sword blade above him. Dunbar stepped forward, forcing Falcon's arms over his head. Not to be unbalanced, the man darted to one side, releasing the sword from its trap. Dunbar took a swing, but the man was already away, skipping in a broad circle and laughing.

In twenty two duels, this was The Black Stallion's toughest challenge. He was used to two kinds of opponents; those that enjoyed the fight, and those seeking a quick exit from the torture of their existence. Duelism was a harsh, hard life, inflicted by an authority many questioned. Exiled from their home towns, Duelists were tolerated in only the roughest of roadside taverns. A code of honour bade them challenge other Duelists they encountered to mortal combat. Success brought them sustenance and brief shelter in a registered church, along with an ephemeral hope of future acceptance. Morta Siecle - one hundred kills - was their holy quest, though nobody could name anyone who'd managed it.

Dunbar's blade had seen off several criminals who fought with half a heart and almost allowed him to win. Between them came the rough element who knew something about the harder side of life. They fought - some of them well - and died cursing with their last breaths. This Falcon was something else. His pale eyes twinkled with malice, and danger meant nothing to him; in fact, it excited him. The Black Stallion had met only one other opponent like this, and he'd been a stalwart toe-to-toe slugger with a sword similar to his own.

Nobody beat Roger Dunbar in a straight-up fight. This dancing, though ...

Falcon darted in, forks held out to his sides, and slashed them forward in a pincer motion as he closed the space. Dunbar braced his sword horizontally, aiming to block, and the smaller man leapt into the air, spinning as he launched. In a blur of skin and sweat, the last thing Dunbar saw was a foot. It crashed into his jaw, sending his vision to the sky and his senses reeling. He staggered, and as he tilted his head back down, a fork gleamed before him. He jerked backwards, feeling the bite of metal in his face, and swung his sword upwards, one handed, from its lowered position. Fire seared through his mouth in a blur of chrome and a surprised yell issued from Falcon. The crowd cheered.

The two staggered apart, Dunbar feeling his upper lip hanging down across his mouth. Air wafted across bared gums and blood dribbled across his chin and neck. Crimson splashes flecked the point of his sword and he looked at his opponent. Falcon was dabbing the back of one hand at a deep gash in the underside of his chin, eyes so wide the whites showed all round. Dunbar smiled in satisfaction - neither had escaped the exchange unscathed.

"Dirty mare!" squealed Falcon, running once again at his opponent. "I'll pierce your eyes!" He launched a succession of attacks with incredible speed. Forks coming at him from all angles, it was all Dunbar could do to block. The attacks had no precision or technique to them, but their unpredictability made them dangerous. He held the solid blade of his sword upright in the bar position, frantically turning to block the successive blows. Cuts appeared up and down his arms and he staggered backwards. Surely Falcon couldn't keep this up!

Desperation started to show in the slender man's expression as exhaustion flicked in the corners of his eyes. His movements began to falter, wild swings becoming erratic, and it was mere moments before Dunbar got his chance.

As a fork flew particularly wild, he leaned back and raised one leg, lunging forward and planting a steel boot in Falcon's bare chest. As the thin Duelist staggered, almost losing balance, Dunbar advanced, bringing his heavy sword down in repeating overhead arcs. Falcon blocked them all, but his arms were shaking and each blow came closer to his plastered-down blond hair. Dunbar kept swinging, knowing his technique was obvious, and acknowledging his vulnerability to flank strikes if his opponent noticed, but it was a calculated risk. An exhausted, insanely angry man was unlikely given to rational analysis of his enemy's attack patterns. He thundered another blow from above, and another. This time when he raised his sword, a string of blood flew into the air, clumps of pale hair clinging to the globules.

He reached the apex of his swing, reared up for a killing blow, sword almost touching his back, and realised too late his opponent's expression had changed. He'd already committed to the swing, and the next overhead blow was in the hands of his muscles, now an inevitability. Perhaps the pain focused Falcon's mind, but his eyes were once more sane and he looked ready. Sure enough, as the broadsword came down, he reared upward from his beaten crouch, holding a fork back-handed. He angled it to catch the blade as it loomed over his head, deflecting it to one side and twisting his grip to trap the larger man's weapon. As the heavy sword thunked into the dirt, the second fork stabbed forward and triumph shone in the small man's face.

Dunbar saw two metal prongs heading for his eyes, seemingly unstoppable, and knew he would die. In that moment of clarity, he discarded one of the core warrior's principles. Never release your weapon. It was the oldest rule there was, and Falcon was relying on him being a traditional fighter, doggedly trying to free his weapon as a code of conduct doomed him. Dunbar smiled inwardly; he might be turning into an old dog, but he could still learn new tricks. He met that triumphant gaze full on, and let his weapon drop.

Falcon had time to look surprised, then angry. Then it all turned to pain as Dunbar grabbed his advancing wrist, turned to lead the extended arm perpendicular across his own, and yanked downwards, snapping it backwards at the elbow. The sharp, wet crack echoed through the clearing, drawing gasps of imagined pain from the crowd and an ear-piercing scream from the diminutive Duelist.

The bigger man stepped in and cannoned a fist into Falcon's belly. He doubled forward, air exploding from his mouth, and met a metal knee coming in the other direction. As he snapped upright, nose mashed to a crimson pulp, Dunbar slammed a gauntleted fist into his face. Falcon pitched backwards in a cloud of shattered teeth and blood, twisting as he fell, some survival instinct putting his hands beneath him. He roared in agony as his broken elbow folded under the impact, and flopped to his face in the sand.

The Black Stallion retrieved his sword and held it to the back of the other man's neck. "Get up, carcass," he growled. There was no response from Falcon, beyond his breath sending puffs of grey dust away from his mouth. Dunbar sneered. "I'll not kill a fallen man from behind." With that, he turned and walked away.

There was a shuffle and a slow, guttural voice in the crowd shouted, "Look out!"

Dunbar turned, swinging his sword as he twisted, to see Falcon pouncing at him, good arm thrusting a fork at waist height. The broadsword dipped under, round and up, meeting the extended wrist as it accelerated. Metal, nocked but sharper than sunlight, sluiced through flesh and bone, flinging Falcon's hand high into the air, spinning in a pirouette of blood as it still clutched its weapon.

The skinny man stumbled to a standstill, looking dumbfounded at his wrist, spurting rhythmic arterial gore across the sand. Dunbar, anger swelling in his belly, span on his heel, bringing his blade full circle in a level arc, and hacked through Falcon's throat to the spine. The head wobbled, almost unmounted, and the mouth worked without sound as sundered muscles danced in the open neck below. Sickened by the sight, the Black Stallion finished with a final mighty overhead chop, crashing through Falcon's skull from above, driving that mop of hair deep into the brains beneath. Finally, his opponent fell dead to the ground.

A wall of sound went up from the spectators, their excitement finally unleashed. Dunbar thought there must be two hundred of them at least. Wolven Demise was the only clearing along the Viltna pass, and a favoured spot for Duelist encounters. As such, there was rarely a shortage of crowds. Money clinked around his feet, thrown from the appreciative audience - a Duelist's only legal means of income. Larger amounts were exchanged by various members of the crowd as bets caused joy or disappointment.

The Black Stallion held his ruptured lip in place and bowed in all directions, acknowledging that, whilst painful, this had been a profitable bout. Then, as the travellers began to disperse, he walked over to his fallen opponent, limping as he noticed a gash in his leg that hadn't previously registered. He crouched over Falcon's corpse and yanked a gold medallion from round its neck. One side sported the bird of prey sigil whilst the other was blank. Later, he would carve his own emblem into the reverse as proof of his victory.

A shadow fell across his crouched form, and he looked up into the alien face of a Ralieri Tradesperson. Eight feet tall and grey of skin, the Ralieri came from a distant land. With their upturned mouths and large eyes, they were difficult to read, and formidably effective in commercial enterprise. For the most part, they travelled between settlements, peddling goods human traders rarely managed to come by.

"Lupo Dexus," it said in a stilted, gurgling voice. "The duelling of wolves. You play the game well, Black Stallion."

Dunbar smiled. "I'm still getting used to that name." He thought back to the fight. "It was you who called out?"

The trader nodded. "I like a fair fight, and he took advantage of your honour. What is your true given name, Duelist?"

"Roger Dunbar." He offered a hand, which was politely refused, and chuckled. "Do not worry, your lordship - you would have been the first."

The Ralieri's mouth flattened almost straight - an expression Dunbar knew to be a smile. "I am Rhyll, of the Ralieri, and I am no lord. Are you close to your tenure?"

"This was my twenty second victory, so I have seventy eight to go, but it's not all bad." He nudged the body with a toe. "This one was sadistic, and twisted - I could see it in his eyes. At times, there is pleasure to be had in ridding the world of such scum."

"I wish you luck," said Rhyll, "and I am sure that your crime was a provoked one."

Dunbar stood and bowed, for he'd been paid the greatest of available compliments. "Thank you kindly."

The alien mounted its horse - a beast of fully twenty hands - and flicked a large silver coin into the takings pile. It was worth easily double everything already there. "You have needle and thread for your wounds?"

"Yes, and thank you again. You are courteous and generous beyond all requirement."

"Farewell, Black Stallion. We will meet again, when The Way requires and you are more than you are now." With that, the tradesperson rode away, leaving the gory scene to be baked by the burning sun.