The arena was a cauldron of noise and fury. The crowd's roars rose, a human tide drunk on blood, money, and violence. Bets were exchanged on the fly, tankards of beer were emptied, and dust mixed with the acrid smell of sweat and fear. Every movement in the sand triggered screams of triumph or rage.
At the center of the storm, Brannok danced. His body, sheathed in copper, responded with disconcerting agility to Barrock's brute-force assaults. The ape-man roared in frustration. His arms, thick as tree trunks, swept through the air, aiming for that one devastating blow he was sure would crush this harassing hornet.
But Brannok was never there. He dodged, rolled, or deflected the blows with his shield, using his adversary's own strength to unbalance the giant. The dull thud of metal against hard flesh echoed, but Brannok was no longer seeking a fatal strike. He was learning.
Every dodge was an observation. Every blow he landed—a thrust to the thigh, a slash on the forearm, the point of his sword aiming for the neck—was a probe. His sword barely pierced the tough hide, but each time it left a red trail, shallow, but bleeding. The wounds accumulated, a dozen, then twenty, like so many furious insect stings to the colossus.
Barrock was beginning to breathe heavily, a raw, angry sound. Blood ran down his arms and legs, staining the sand with dark spots. His strength wasn't failing, but his patience was. Every missed swing exhausted him a little more, while Brannok, with perfect economy of motion, preserved his energy.
In the viewing boxes, the spectacle of the faces was almost as intense as that in the arena.
Zarekh, initially pale and nervous, felt his smile return, transforming into a wider and wider grin. Every little cut on Barrock was a gold coin falling into his coffers. "Look at him bleed, the monster!" he shouted, leaning forward, his fingers gripping the railing. His anger had given way to the pure pleasure of seeing his investment perform.
Opposite him, Zarakhim. His arrogant smile had melted like snow in the sun. Anger now distorted his features. He clenched his fists, his knuckles white. "Crush him!" he screamed towards the arena, but his voice was lost in the din. Every drop of Barrock's blood was a coin slipping through his fingers. The morbid pleasure he felt at the beginning was turning into impotent fury. His invincible giant was just a slow beast, being bled dry by an opponent too fast, too smart.
Brannok no longer heard the crowd. He no longer saw the boxes. His world had narrowed to the ape-man, to his increasingly labored breathing, to his movements losing a fraction of their coordination. Brannok's eyes, steely grey, scrutinized every twitch, every muscle contraction.
He was no longer looking for an opening in the skin. He was looking for a flaw in the machine. And he knew, with the cold certainty of the hunter, that he would find it. The prey, no matter how big and strong, always eventually revealed its weakness. You just had to be patient enough to see it.