Fight!

Blood and **** surrounds you. The remains of your butchered caravan a burning ruin. But all that matters to you is the monster before you.

You raise your blade into an upward guard and spit back a challenge. The giant regards you for second then bellows a mighty laugh, the crowd set about hooting and chanting some feral warcry. With a gesture the leader orders the battle line to make room and soon the two of you are alone on the narrow causeway. The figure before you is a fierce sight to behold, but not without weakness; their chest and head are stoutly armoured, but their legs have only furs to defend them. Cut the legs off a giant they don't stand so tall any more. Still this would be incredibly risky. Best to keep them at a distance you thought, slipping the short sword into you belt and picking up the trader's abandoned spear. Across the path, your opponent seems to be appraising you too, shifting their stance as they think. Finally they settle with a parrying stance, shield low, sword high.

At the blow on a horn it began. The giant moved in trying to get within slashing distance but three quick thrusts to the head rebutted them. None came close to landing, but the third did its job as your opponent flung up their shield to defend themselves. Seizing the opportunity you thrust down, raking the side of their exposed legs. A small splatter of blood sprays onto the white snow. Your satisfaction is short live though as, stepping back, they beat aside your outstretched spear and slice viciously at your head. Ducking beneath the blow, you twist the spear in your hand and bring the blunt end slamming onto their elbow, redirecting the **** of their attack and sending them spinning away. For the briefest moment their back is turned, so you thrust the back of the spear at their head, ringing their helmet. They stumble slightly, but in a second they whirl round, back on balance.

A cheer goes up from the crowd and your opponent emits a hearty chuckle, but fear choked any humour in you. That last blow had come unnervingly close, your mind races with images of dodging a second too late. Armour rustles ahead of you and you shake free of your thoughts just in time to meet the giant's advance. They keep the same stance as before but your feint doesn't catch them this time. When you thrust low they are ready, darting their foot up and slamming it down on the spear's point. A brutal downward swing at the shaft sends a lance of pain ringing up your arms and you drop the weapon. A sharp kick sends the spear flying off the path but they halt to let you draw your sword.

Fear grips you. The situation had always been hopeless but now the outcome seemed inevitable. You think of your family, of all the things left unsaid, of Sylvia lying dead on the side of the mountains. Why couldn't you just have been happy on the farm, was it worth trekking all the way out here to die at the edge of civilisation? Your hands shake, so you grip the sword tightly and raise your guard.

With the spear gone the giant favours their sword for defence, only using their shield for blows their sword failed to catch. It's an indulgent tactic, but one that works nonetheless. You manage to keep pace, checking their blows before they can land, but never landing one yourself either. As the engagement runs on you feel yourself wearing down, your parries becoming slower and weaker with each flurry. You need to end this quickly before you can no longer raise your sword. Just then your opponent swings an overextended blow to your head and you see your opportunity. Ducking beneath the blow you rise and quickly grab the out swung arm, holding it away from their body. A second wind fills your muscles with a last burst of furious energy. You slam the pommel of your short sword violently into the giant's face, knocking them back. The crowd roars in indignation and you punch again. Blood is streaming down their face from an obviously broken nose. You spin the blade for a downward thrust and ready to coup de grace, but then the shield slams into your face.

The world turns white and you stagger back. On the edge of your perception you can hear the vulgar chanting and feel blood trickling down the side of your head. But for those brief seconds it feels as though those are being experienced by someone else, far away. Time seems to slow as the sword races towards you. A vicious rising cut aimed at your head. You were so close, you muse as the blade drifts inch by inch closer to you, an inexplicable calmness filling your being. The fear is gone, after all what is the point in fear when you are facing certainty. The sword bites into your right cheek and flows upward on its cruel arch. In the distance you hear a voice scream out in agony. Sounds painful, wouldn't want to be that guy you think as you watch the darkness leak across the right side of your vision.