First draft

Rolim

Rolim furrowed his brow, watching the squire and Alva with growing apprehension. They had moved to a small yard, some kind of arena, located at the back of the castle. Lord Alfric, Ser Gilmore and his knights were sitting in the stands while Rolim and Ketil were standing a few feet away.

"Take position." Lord Alfric ordered when both fighters were armed.

The squire grunted and entered the circle of stones without a second thought, his every step resonating with barely leashed menace. Alva, on the other hand, hesitated. Her eyes met Rolim's, and he saw the terror fighting for dominance within them. He couldn't blame her. She looked completely outclassed.

Rolim looked at Alfric, wondering why a father would do something like this to his daughter. The Highlord still looked like a block of ice, cold and rigid, but there was something else beneath that emotionless mask.

...hope? Is he testing her?

He couldn't tell. The only thing he knew for sure was that this whole thing wasn't about him. He was only a pawn in whatever games those humans were playing.

"Take position." Alfric repeated, and this time Alva moved, straightening her shoulder as she entered the circle.

Rolim studied the two fighters. Lord Alfric's daughter and her opponent could haven't been more different. One was tall and stocky, the other short and slim. One was dressed in leather, in her hands a long oakwood quarterstaff, the other was covered in metal from head to toe and was carrying a sparring sword and a heavy kite shield. The ham-faced squire looked slow and stupid, but Rolim knew he was dangerous. He could feel it.

"The rules are simple." Alfric went on. "If you leave the circle or you can longer fight you lose."

Rolim winced when he realized this was closer to a sparring match than to a real duel. Using sparring weapons will put her at a disadvantage. She has to finish him quickly but a guy like that... He shook his head. It may be easier to kill him than to knock him out.

For some reason - aside from the obvious fact that his life was at stake - the idea of her losing disturbed him.

"This isn't a fight to the death." Alfric reminded them. The Highlord paused to gauge their reactions, making sure they'd received the message. Only when they nodded, he said, "Begin!"

Alva

Alva stepped forward, twirling the quarterstaff between her fingers as she stared down at Oscar, challenging him to make the first move. The squire was all too happy to oblige. Sour breath washed over her as he charged like a bull, moving in a straight line as he tried to bash her head with his shield.

Alva waited until the last moment then sidestepped, and swung the quarterstaff downward toward his knees. His legplates made a loud clang, but the squire didn't falter as she'd expected. Actually, he didn't move. At all. He spun toward her and grinned, lifting his sword to strike out at her.

Barely breathing, Alva hefted the quarterstaff just in time to parry the blow. She winced, the muscles in her arms straining as the backlash hurled her backward. She heard the noise of something cracking, and much to her dismay, realized it was the quarterstaff. The shaft had been split in half, leaving her with two jagged pieces of wood.

Oscar followed up with a flurry of blows, not giving her the chance to recover. His movements were woody, predictable, but his brute strength more than made up for his lack of finesse. Alva deflected a blow, losing a piece of the quarterstaff in the process. Then she backed away and kept backing away until she was at the edge of the circle. The squire didn't press the attack this time around. He knew he had cornered her.

Sweat beaded her forehead, her muscles protesting at the strain. Running in the snow was harder than expected, especially for someone like her. She looked backward over her shoulder. One step, she just had to take one more step, and everything would end.

It was tempting, so tempting that she hesitated for a moment, wondering why she was enduring such torture to begin with. It wasn't like her. She was no warrior and knew all too well that her body couldn't bear the strain of such a fight. So, why?

The Elf. That was the obvious answer, but deep down she knew that was not true. Not entirely at least.

Maybe it was just her stubbornness, but the thought of being able to receive her father's approval had been stronger than her self-preservation. Even now that she was barely able to move, she still couldn't give up. She knew that he was watching her.

She was right. Her father's cold eyes were locked on her, snow piling on his broad shoulders as he awaited her decision. 

What will you do now? His remote and stern gaze seemed to say. Alva tightened her grip on the quarterstaff. No, she couldn't give up. She had to win, no matter the cost.

Rolim

"Impressive. Lady Alva lasted more than I expected, lord Alfric." Ser Gilmore commented with more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Nonetheless, this fight is over."

Lord Alfric looked oblivious to the ironic tone in the knight's voice, apparently unaffected by what was happening in the arena. However, Rolim knew the truth. Alfric's shoulders were stiff, his fists tightening every time the squire was about to land a blow.

"I'm afraid he is right, little freak." Ketil whispered to him, and Rolim was surprised to hear his jailer wasn't as smug as he expected him to be. "She is about to lose."

The elf squinted, his eyes locked on Alva's face. Then his frown faded into a smile.

I'm not so sure about that.

Alva

Oscar lunged forward and swung his sword across from left to right, intending to push her out of the circle. Alva was ready for him and leaped sideways as the sword plunged into the space where she had been. Then she sprang to her feet and was about to turn when the heavy shield hit her back like a hammer, throwing her in the air.

The snow broke her fall, but it was far from being enough. She groggily tried to get up and winced. She could feel herself wheezing, the burning sensation in her chest so strong that the dizziness was immediately swept away. One of her ribs was cracked, maybe broken, and she felt sluggish, slow. As she struggled to regain her footing, she heard someone shouting "Watch out!"

It sounded like the elf, but she had no time to think about that. She instinctively ducked as Oscar's wooden sword cut through the air, the dull and heavy blade gliding over her. Then she leaped back, trying to keep the distance.

Once again, the squire didn't press the attack. He stood at the center of the circle, waiting. She eyed him warily, trying to discern his intentions, but he just stood there, unmoving. She approached cautiously, dancing around him as she attempted to find a chink in his armor. She tested him, prodding him a few times as she used the broken quarterstaff like a short spear. Unfortunately, it was like trying to break through a wall: completely useless.

She was at her wit's end, getting more and more desperate when she decided to take a risk. She prodded him again but delayed her retreat this time, trying to lure him in. He took the bait and lifted his sword, going for the finishing blow. Like a whirling tornado, she twirled the broken quarterstaff around in a circle, hitting the squire in the hand, the arm, and the ankle. Unfortunately, he just grunted, obviously unaffected.

Why don't you go down?!

Alva struggled to catch her balance, her mouth set in a grim line as she tried to bear the pain. She was out of breath and her muscles, joints - her whole body - hurt.

I can't go on like this.

She looked at Oscar's face, but unlike her, the squire's breath was steady. His mouth twisted into a parody of a smile.

She felt her blood going cold. The look of triumph on his face was unmistakable. He planned this! He wanted to tire me out!

Apparently, despite the way he looked, Oscar was far from stupid.

Well, two can play this game.

She raised her spear, pointing the tip of the weapon toward him, and waited, gauging the right timing for the next move. Then she dashed through the snow and feinting with her left hand, she swung her weapon like she'd done dozens of times before. When he parried with his shield, she retreated, tripping in the process. She panted, her right knee sinking in the snow. She looked totally drained of energy, the broken quarterstaff falling from her hands.

When Oscar was just a few steps away, she looked up, her eyes full of fear. The squire grinned, sure of his victory, and lifted his hand to deliver the killing blow. Alva waited till the last second, waited until his blade was just a few inches from her skull and then moved. She was just partially able to avoid the blow, the blade brushing against her shoulder as she picked up the broken quarterstaff.

Swiveling on her heels, she whirled around the shocked squire and slammed the weapon as hard as she could against the side of the enemy's face. She heard a sickening cracking sound as the jagged tip went through his skull, and then a collective gasp, followed by loud thud when the squire fell backward. His body twitched, going into convulsions, then it stopped moving altogether.

Dark blood gushed from his head, the spectacle filling her with a mix of horror, relief, and excitement. She had done it. She had won. For a brief moment, a smile spread over her pale face, then her eyes went dim, and everything faded to black.