15
Lars
The warrior across from me wore no helm or armour but rushed in as if his skin would deflect a blade. I charged to meet him. Sword met sword with a clang that set my ears ringing. I grunted under the weight of my larger comrade, feet scrabbling in the dust. He was bigger, but I was faster. Letting my knees bend, I dropped out from under his crushing girth, and darted away, my sword nicking his leg as I passed. A rage-filled bellow filled the air.
Warily, I whirled to face my opponent. With relief, I noted he was smiling.
“First blood, Lars,” the watching warriors shouted with respect. My opponent nodded his agreement, signaling the end of the sparring match.
“Well fought,” he called. I grinned back and cleaned my sword as he leaned on his to catch his breath. One hand rubbed h
