For those of you that have been faithfully reading this series I would like to thank you. I am nearly finished with the entire story arc, and I will publish the last few chapters in the next few weeks. If you’ve lost the storyline because I’ve taken so long between posts, I plan on reposting it in its entirety when it is complete.
Thanks again for reading.
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The shortish man’s war hammer did not hit Christian’s shield boss as he’d intended it to. He’d hoped for a glancing blow, knowing that his shield couldn’t withstand many more of the focused impacts from the war hammer. But as he’d raised his shield to bisect the arc of the hammer, wood shards from the previous hammer blow sank further into his forearm causing him to jerk in pain and pull the boss out of line with the head of the hammer. Christian cringed in anticipation as the steel head sank into the rim of the shield.
But nothing happened.
A moment passed as time stood still on the battlefield. Christian glanced quickly down at the inside rim of his shield and saw the head of the war mallet imbedded there, inches from the bony bulge of his elbow. And then he peered, with growing confidence, over the rim of the round shield and into the widening eyes of the squat brute on the other end of the weapon.
Christian’s shield jerked as the hammer handed foe tugged on the leather-wrapped handle in a vain attempt to free the weapon. But the steel head and spike end had become entangled in the splintered edge of the shield and would not come loose. Christian wasted no time gloating over his luck. In one swift movement he yanked downward with his shield, bending his knees as he squatted with the movement of the shield, dragging the hammer and foe with him. He brought his sword arm over the top of his shield arm, and sliced through the lower portion of the hammerman’s jaw in a quick backhand strike. Blood and bits of tooth and bone sprayed the next man in line and Christian’s opponent collapsed in a heap of mottled red fur and leather; a skin bag of imaginary bones whose marionette strings had been cut.
Christian’s shield was in ruin. The hammer had torn further through the gap it had made on the second impact, and the metal rim had come undone and was hanging loose near the bottom.
“Chris! Fall back! Front line, close ranks!” Michael called down the line to him.
Christian didn’t think about the order. He knew he’d never survive in the shield wall without a shield. And neither would the man next to him. He sank back into the ranks, swallowed up like something heavy dropped into a bowl of Jell-O. And then he was in the rear ranks near the supply lines. He was nearly to his tent when Neal’s excited voice chimed shrilly in his ear.
“Chris! I’ve got one! Chris?”
Christian stopped. And looked the hundred or so yards back towards his tent. Where a fresh shield lay. Where an entire armory sat waiting for him.
“Shit!”
“Christian? Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, Neal. Waddya got?”
“Peter Semetrovich. Responded to the message that he wouldn’t be fielding an avatar today. Had to work. But I’m tracking his avatar right now. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t on the field until just now. I searched the entire list that we put together after the game started. Nothing popped. But now. . .” Neal’s voice trailed off in disbelief.
“Okay. I’m heading back.” Christian looked longingly at his tent and shook his head. “No time now.”
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“Where is he?” Christian gasped as he jogged back towards the line of men.
“Now he’s about 150 yards east of you, and about 40 yards away from the Saxon front line. You better hurry up, or you may miss your chance. Oh, and Chris?”
“Yeah, Neal?”
“This guy is big.”
“Big? How big?”
“Really big. You’re gonna wish you’d grabbed that shield.”
“Shit.”
Chris looked down at the battered shield hanging off of his forearm, its steel rim dangling pathetically from the wood on one side. He stopped near the back of the line at the approximate point where he hoped to bisect the Goliath and began to push his way to the front.
Men grumbled and cursed at him as he forced his way past leather and chain clad shoulders, stepping on fur bound feet along the way and eliciting more cries of indignation. As he neared the front he could see the head and shoulders of a large man sticking up and to his right, and he knew he must have his man.
“So, what’s the story on this Peter Sonofabitch?”
“Peter Semetrovich? He owns a bakery in the Paladium. Parents were Russian refugees to the United States back in ‘23. Spends his time, when not baking, in here. Gaming. And sometimes toying around on the exchange. He fancies himself as an investor. No girlfriend. No kids. No other responsibilities besides his ailing parents. He’s attained Goliath status by sheer volume. The guy has logged enough hours for three people.”
“That’s it? Is he a particularly skilled fighter? Weapon of choice? Weaknesses?”
“No weapon preference, but I would say that his weakness is his size. It tends to make people overconfident.”
“Okay, Neal. Thanks. I’m about to get closely acquainted with the guy. I’ll fill you in later. Have you tried calling Semetrovich yet, to make sure he didn’t just change his mind about playing today?”
“Yeah. Funny thing about that. I’ve got him on the other line. He says he never received any message from us.”
“Uh huh. So what are you telling me, Neal?”
“He never intended to sit the Battle of Seven Tribes out. He didn’t uncheck his name from the participant list. And he’s been sitting at home trying to figure out what’s wrong with his console, because it wouldn’t let him log on this afternoon.” Neal’s voice sounded shaky.
“Then who the hell is in his avatar? Who am I about to face down? Neal?”
“Yeah. . . I honestly don’t know.”
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Thanks for reading, as always. I promise to wrap this up soon, and repost it in its entirety. Again, thanks to those of you who’ve stuck with me on this little experiment. Though it may have gone off the tracks a bit.
Kirk out.
