We were left speechless at Maapu’s action. Only the crowd cheered on until the voice of the Storm Lord cut in.

“A company of goblin sappers at your disposal,” he declared, “Fifty of the finest sappers.”

Mappu clenched his fists in defiance. With a stony expression, he considered the Storm Lord. Those who gathered regarded Maapu as fearless. We knew that he was trying to work out how much is a fifty.

The would-be hobgoblin gritted his filed teeth and looked at his moccasin covered feet.

“Seventy of the finest Sappers,” offered the Storm Lord.

Maapu controlled his irritation. He just wanted to remove his moccasins and count, but he had enough social intelligence, not to attempt it in plain view.

“Agreed,” I sealed the deal before Maapu could dig his own grave any further.

“Your challenger against three of my Dire wolves,” decided the Storm Lord.

His words were followed by a wave of howls and cheers from the gathered crowd.

Maapu lowered himself into the pit which served as the Arena. Opposite to him snarled the three chained dire wolves. A few heads taller than the goblin and covered in thick mangy fur, the chained beasts considered the tiny prey before them with feral eyes. Thick spiked collars wrapped around their neck, held by tight robust iron chains that restricted their movement but not their rage. Even their trunk-like limbs were constrained in spiked leather straps which in turn were fastened to chains, further restraining the Dire Wolves. Eventually, tired of the waiting, the biggest of the Dire wolf, a huge beast with bright silver eyes, bared its dagger-like fangs at Maapu.

A veteran hobgoblin might prevail against a long dire wolf, but Maapu is not yet a full hobgoblin. Against three dire wolves, his chances of success are slim at best.

Maapu, unnerved by their blood churning snarls, stripped to his loincloth. He stuck the serrated blade, hilt upwards, lifted his short spear and screamed back, issuing a threat of his own. A scream that was answered with cheers from the gathered orcs.

My mind raced frantically. What was Maapu thinking?

Theko slowly grabbed my arm and in a low assuring voice whispered, “Maapu will win, Mistress.”

On my left side, Taltil stood, unperturbed by Maapu’s action.

Eventually, the cheers gave away to chanting. In a slowly gyrating rhythm, the audience chanted Maapu’s name. In response to their actions, he thrust his spear into the ground and heaved it upwards, summoning a dust cloud from below.

“He trained with Beld,” said Taltil, “Against those big wolves, Maapu is the best.”

The Storm Lord finally gave the sign and the spiked collars restraining the Dire Wolves fell. Liberated from their shackles, the beasts slowly circled around the lone goblin. Maapu ignored the impending death looming near him and like a possessed maniac, continued his weird ritual of raising dust clouds.

The wolves converged on Maapu with a predatory pounce. Maapu dodged their ravenous maw by a hair’s breadth and disappeared into the cloud of dust. Thrice the wolves dived behind Maapu and thrice they returned with their deadly maws filled with dust. Maapu disappeared at one side of the dust cloud and appeared at the other end, striking them and quickly disappearing.

“Impressive,” said Lyria as she leaned forward with interest.

“He has both their senses confused,” Her bright eyes pierced through the low visibility and followed his motion, “He has thrown his clothes around the pit and masked his own scent with the dust. Now the dire wolves can neither trust their scent nor their sight.”

“The best is yet to come,” said Theko with a grimace.

Whatever Theko uttered next, disappeared into the sea of cheer. A madness gripped the crowd as they chanted the name of Maapu fervently.

The goblin inside the pit ignored the chant from above and instead rolled avoiding the closing maw. Narrowly avoiding another rushing dire wolf, Maapu grabbed the serrated blade and spun around staring directly into the hungering silvery eyes of the alpha dire wolf. With razor-sharp claws extending from its forelimbs, it swiped at him. Maapu twisted his grip on the short spear and held it in a feeble attempt to block. But the strength of the goblin was no match to the might behind those swipes and Maapu found himself thrown with his back to the ground.

“This is the end,” declared Theko. He seemed unaffected by Maapu's impending doom. 

The big dire wolf with bright silvery eyes pounced on the hapless goblin, its wide-open maw sought the pinned prey. Maapu let go of the spear, and twisted himself free but not before nipping with his serrated blade across the alpha dire wolf’s nose.

The big dire wolf stood stunned for a moment before its death wailing howl began, followed by a frenzied dash across the pit. The aimless frenzied rush continued. The sound of bone-crunching reverberated from inside the pit as the dire wolf crashed against the walls of the pit. Its ravenous maw closed on, making no distinction between friends and foe.

A dire wolf with pitch-black fur limped away from the alpha while the smaller one maintained a distance cautiously away from the enraged alpha.

Tharkas, who played the stoic observer, finally expressed his befuddlement.

“Dire wolves have a hypersensitive nose. They get crazy at the scent of blood,” explained Lyria, “but they get frenzied when overwhelmed with the scent of their own blood.”

Maapu stalked the smaller unharmed dire wolf. It considered the alpha and the goblin with cold calculating eyes and finally deciding that the goblin was a lesser threat, it charged towards him. Maapu spun to the side, narrowly dodging the charging beast and as it passed him, he grabbed its thick mangy fur, and lifted himself over its back. The dire wolf shook itself violently, in a vain attempt to through its unexpected rider but the goblin held firm and stabbed it behind the ears.

With untamed Rage.

Repeatedly.

Eventually, when Maapu stepped away from the dead body of the smaller dire wolf. The remaining two dire wolves were locked in an eternal struggle. Their wide jaws clenched tight around each other’s throat.

His rage, still unquenched, Maapu grabbed his spear and lunged, promising them the cold embrace of the unavoidable fate. 

Finally, when Maapu finally stepped away from the two dead dire wolves; away from the red smog of blood mingled with dust, he was covered in blood, mostly not his own.

Clutching his spear in one hand and the serrated blade in another, he lifted both his hands above, towards the audience and screamed a triumphant shout, proclaiming his conquest.

Maapu slowly advanced, unperturbed by the victorious chant of his name. He spat on the ground and with indignation returned the Storm Lord’s gaze. He demanded what was promised.

The chorus of voices that chanted Maapu’s name suddenly gave away to silence and only the Storm Lord's bellowing voice remained.

“A marvellous feat,” praised the Storm Lord. 

“Seventy of the finest goblin sappers are yours to command,” declared the Storm Lord.

Maapu simply spat on the ground again. He cared not for the sappers. He wanted to wipe the smug look on the Storm Lord’s face.

“I give you a choice now,” continued the Storm Lord, “You can go contented with your victory or take the challenge. Name your price and entertain us.”

“Ogre rock hurlers,” answered Maapu without much consideration or thought, “Twenty of them.”

Twenty was the highest denomination that Maapu could count up to.

With no attempt at hiding the wide grin on his tusked face, the Storm Lord shouted, “Then Survive Raslian Goblinpelt.”

Raslian strode in, leaving small tremors in his wake. Under his thick rock-like hooves, the ground shuddered with his every step. His steel column-like and animalistic calves supported his hairy muscular torso. His horns, as wide as his broad shoulders, were painted crimson. His imposing chest heaved with every breath he took and his nostrils flared; a low hiss escaped with the air he exhaled. The minotaur stood with his arms crossed, menacingly towering Maapu.

“I am Raslian Goblinpelt,” roared the minotaur,” I have laid waste to goblin villages.”

“Bullman is dumb,” answered Maapu. Coming from Maapu, that is really an insult.

“I will crush you under my hooves like a bug,” screamed the minotaur in response.

“Bullman go home to cowwife and has no food because Bullman is lazy,” taunted back Maapu.

Why do the stupid insist on talking?

A flurry of badly formed insults was exchanged. Eventually, both abandoned their weapons and decided to settle their differences with the elegant art of exchanging blows. Except, Maapu had the better reflexes while the Minotaur had better endurance.

The minotaur attempted to gore Maapu once and found that Maapu could fit himself in the space between his horns. The minotaur soon learned that Maapu was swift on his feet to avoid blows from his hands. After swinging his tightly clutched arms multiple times and only striking air in return, Raslian enrage and made his first mistake. He attempted a backhanded swing. Maapu capitalised on the momentum of the swing; took the blow and propelled himself to land behind the minotaur. In an action that further enraged his opponent, but drew laughter and glee from the audience, Maapu bit the minotaur’s tail.

Unrelenting and fuelled by rage, Raslian attacked Maapu with heavy blows. Heavy blows that could uproot trees; blows that could have levelled city walls; blows that could have shattered a trained phalanx; blows that were futile for they failed to connect.

Raslian was drenched in sweat. Despite his hair covered torso, the glistening from the sweat shone through. The minotaur tossed his head and swore profusely at his opponent. He was out of options. His famed gore attack, the goblin managed to squeeze in between and at times, even attempted to scratch his eyes. His powerful kick, the goblin sidestepped. At times when he would stop to consider his options, the goblin took the initiative and continue to nibble on his tail.

As the fight dragged on, the energetic ovation from the crowd soon dwindled, replace with dissonance. Gone was the chant and the chorus, instead, the crowd booed. Every time Maapu dodged the crowd booed. At every missed blow, the crowd booed.

There was only one thing left that Raslian could attempt. Keep the attack till the goblin tires. After all, Raslian was a minotaur, famed for their endurance. The goblin perhaps would survive till the sundown but not till dawn. He will have his victory. Or so would have been the fight, if it weren’t for me.

“Storm Lord, I demand you keep your word,” I shouted.

“You said to survive Raslian and Maapu survived. Now pronounce the victor or do you intend to stall giving his prize?” I intentionally left a bit of malice to seep into my words.

At my loud words, the Storm Lord’s held a hard squint and his hawkish gaze fell in my direction. His sneer cut through the mumblings from the crowd.

Time to push him over the edge.

“Or maybe your true goal is to stall duelling the Mistress of the Forge?” I taunted.

Unspoken, the Storm Lord beckoned for the Warhammer. He landed in the pit with a heavy thud and with a single groan silenced the protesting Raslian. Even Maapu acknowledged him instinctively as a formidable opponent and scurried away.

“Remember, do not harm him,” I whispered to Lyria as she grabbed her maul, “His death would unleash chaos among the assembled.”

“Rils, be assured. I have no intention of attracting the Warlord’s attention,” replied Lyria.

Whatever was the shared history between Lyria and the Warlord, if it is important she would reveal it herself. I trust Lyria. I always have. 

Amidst the loud ovation from the crowd, Lyria steadily walked herself towards the pit where her impatient opponent waited.

Only Theko maintained his grasp on reality,  for he asked, “Dark Mistress, how do we feed twenty Ogres?”