The Pleasure of Memory by Welcome Cole Page B

etchings covered his forearms, though they were clearly more ornamental than functional. His legs bore no armor at all, but only billowy silk britches that ended in bare feet. A colorless cloak poured from his shoulders. Dressed as he was, it was no surprise he was losing the fight.
    Still, the man quickly found his way to his feet, though not without staggering a couple paces before catching himself. He slowly turned back to face the giantish man and held his sword point up unconvincingly. He was clearly in a state of exhaustion. He seemed to be defending himself through sheer will alone.
    The knight marched in and released a cut that easily slapped the Vaemyn’s sword point away. The warrior stumbled sideways in payment, nearly losing his weapon in the process. The knight showed him no quarter, but flew at him with the ferocity of a wolf while the savage stubbornly resisted, parrying blow after blow with only the greatest of effort.
    Beam knew the savage couldn’t hold out much longer, and the thought gave him some measure of satisfaction. In fact, he relished the fool’s inevitable fall. He couldn’t give one shit about the nature of their dispute, or who was at fault, or even who this dark soldier was or what his motives were. He only wanted to see this miserable savage’s blood spilled across the cold, black floor. That simple event would make this entire nightmare worth the trip.
    The knight swatted the warrior’s blade to the side and planted a vicious kick in the man’s flank. The savage stumbled sideways, but somehow managed to recover and immediately turned back toward the knight. He held his weapon out with both hands. His sword tip wavered under his fatigue.
    For just a moment, the fighters paused. They stood facing each other, the armored rogue seething in unearthly silence, and the Vaemyn wheezing and barely able to stand. Still, in spite of his exhaustion, the warrior continued to hold his sword up in stark defiance of his opponent. There was no way he could ever see this fight through to victory, though he willfully refused to submit. And while impressive, Beam saw the warrior’s act for exactly what it was: Heroic and valiant and utterly pointless.
    The rogue knight barked something at the warrior that Beam instinctively recognized as a dare. The giant of a man then stomped the floor, slapped his chest, and threw out a malicious laugh. He was taunting the Vaemyn to strike him, though the savage only stood there with his weapon held up unsteadily.
    Apparently tiring of the game, the knight lunged.
    Amazingly, the savage parried the strike.
    The knight pressed on, knocking the warrior’s sword from one side to the other. The sound of the sword blows bellowed angrily through the cave. The bottomless black floor shimmered beneath a flood of dancing sparks.
    Finally, the knight sliced his sword tip in a vicious arc that ripped across the warrior’s chest. The Vaemyn spun away from the blow as a shower of severed scales clattered off into the darkness. He landed on his hands and knees directly at Beam’s feet. His sword hit the floor beside him in a deafening clang, though the man somehow managed to keep control of it.
    Beam recoiled back into the steps.
    The savage slowly pushed himself away from the floor, forcing himself up with the greatest of effort. Resting on one knee, he braced himself on his raised leg and struggled for air. The gash in his mail armor was breathtaking, running down across his chest from shoulder to hip through a fissure of broken scales. The savage looked down at the colorless blood seeping through the wreckage of his chest with an expression more of resignation than fear. His left horn was broken. Blood bubbled from his lips with each ragged breath. And yet, in spite of the horror of his wounds, his fingers were still scratching for his sword resting on the ground beside him. It lay with the hilt at his lowered knee and the blade shaft running back along the dark floor toward