The ritual master stepped back. "The circle is sealed. None may interfere until a victor emerges." He struck his staff against the stone. "Begin!"
Gristholm charged immediately, his massive bulk moving with surprising speed. I sidestepped, barely avoiding his initial rush, feeling the wind of his passage against my hide. He pivoted faster than I expected, one massive arm swinging in an arc that would have taken my head off had I not ducked.
The crowd roared as we circled each other. I kept my movements economical, conserving energy while studying his patterns. Gristholm was power incarnate, but he telegraphed his attacks with subtle shifts in weight.
"Already running?" he taunted, feinting left before lunging right.
I blocked the blow with my forearm, pain shooting through the limb despite Kalyndi's protective salve. His strength was overwhelming. If he landed a solid hit, the fight would end quickly.
"I expected more from the famous War Chief," Gristholm continued, pressing forward with a series of heavy blows that forced me to give ground. "Perhaps you've grown soft living with your human mate."
I saw Kalyndi in the stands, her face tense with fear. The sight of her triggered something primal in me, not possessiveness, but a fierce determination to not let her witness my defeat.
Gristholm's next attack connected, his claws raking across my chest, drawing first blood. The crowd gasped. I staggered back, feeling warm liquid running down my torso.
"First blood to me," he gloated, displaying his bloodied claws to the crowd. "Soon to be last blood."
The pain cleared my head. I couldn't match him for strength. That path led only to defeat. I needed to fight smarter.
Kalyndi's words from the night before echoed in my mind: "The Fanghorns rely on overwhelming force. They've never needed to develop technique or strategy."
I altered my stance, adopting the lower center of gravity my father had taught me. Gristholm charged again, and instead of evading, I stepped into his attack, using his momentum against him. My shoulder connected with his sternum, and I twisted, sending him stumbling past.
Before he could recover, I struck at the vulnerable point where his neck met his shoulder, a pressure point unique to our kind. He roared in pain and surprise, one arm temporarily numbed by the precise blow.
"First technique to me," I said quietly, circling away from his enraged counter-attack.
Gristholm's fighting style grew more reckless as his frustration mounted. He launched a barrage of powerful but increasingly predictable attacks. I evaded most, absorbed others, and countered when openings appeared. Each exchange left both of us bloodied, but I was targeting specific points while his attacks overwhelmed.
"Stand still and fight like a true mapinguari!" he bellowed after I slipped away from another charge.
"I am fighting like a true mapinguari," I replied. "Just not a Fanghorn."
The insult struck home. With a roar that shook the arena, Gristholm abandoned all pretense of technique, launchinghimself at me in a berserker rage. His claws raked my side, tearing through hide and into flesh beneath. Pain exploded through my body, but I used his momentum to flip him over my hip, sending him crashing to the stone floor.
The impact would have stunned most fighters, but Gristholm was back on his feet almost immediately, bleeding from a dozen minor wounds but seemingly unaffected. My own injuries were fewer but deeper, and I could feel my strength ebbing with each heartbeat.
Our eyes met across the circle, and I saw the confidence in his gaze. He knew he was winning through attrition. Soon, blood loss would slow me enough for him to land a finishing blow.
I risked a glance toward Kalyndi. Her face had gone pale, one hand pressed against her mouth. Beside her, her sister trembled, tears streaming down her face as she watched what she believed would be my defeat, and her condemnation to life with the Fanghorn.
Gristholm charged again, but this time I stood my ground. At the last possible moment, I ducked under his swing and drove my fist upward, my claws coated with the special paste Kalyndi had prepared. The one she'd warned me to use only in desperation.
The paste contacted the soft tissue under his jaw, immediately absorbing into his bloodstream. Gristholm's momentum carried him past me, but his next step faltered. He turned, confusion replacing rage as the herb mixture took effect.
"What have you done?" he slurred, his massive body swaying.
"Winning through intelligence rather than brute force," I answered, circling him warily.
The paralytic herbs worked quickly. Gristholm's movements grew uncoordinated, his limbs responding sluggishly to his commands. Still, his raw power made him dangerous, even inthis compromised state. When he lunged again, his blow caught me across the shoulder, sending me spinning to the ground.
Pain lanced through me as I rolled away from his follow-up attack. The crowd's roar seemed distant now, drowned out by the pounding of blood in my ears. I regained my feet just as Gristholm charged again, his movements now visibly affected by the paralytic.
This was my only opportunity. As he barreled toward me, I sidestepped at the last moment, using his own momentum to guide him into the arena wall. The impact was thunderous. Gristholm bounced off the stone, disoriented and weakened by the herbs coursing through his system.
Before he could recover, I struck, not with claws or strength, but with a precise knowledge of our anatomy. My fingers found the nerve cluster at the base of his skull, applying pressure in the exact pattern my father had taught me decades ago.
Gristholm's eyes widened in shock as his limbs failed him. He collapsed to the stone floor, conscious but unable to move.
