The orc stood off to the side of the campsite, his hand on the hilt of his cleaver. Bron knew there was no choice. In fact, his guest’s ambush enraged him. He’d lost one fight, damn if he would lose another. There’d been times he’d been forced to improvise in a fight before. He clenched his fist around the hilt of the bronze cleaver. His strength had improved over the last year. One hand or two, he would swing the sword.

 He tied the stump of his left hand to the hilt of the sword, and lifted it to his shoulder.

The weight was a concern. He’d never tried to swing it with just muscle power before. The indestructible blade was thicker than any normal sword, with the weight to show it. His new rival untied his cleaver and circled around the campsite. It had now become a dueling ground, with the small fire in the center.

Bron forced himself to be confident, keeping the blade close, so its momentum wouldn’t throw him around. “Even in a fight to first blood, this blade can be lethal in one hit.”

His guest grinned, showing off long tusks and sharp fangs. “You can wield the weapon. Great! No fight is without risk. But you must land a blow.” 

 Bron was more nervous than he let on. The heft of the weapon weighed him down. He couldn’t keep up with the orc’s quick rotational movements, so he stayed patient.

The orc felt out his defenses, chopping at him from just close enough to reach. The cleaving greatsword was too heavy to easily parry with, especially clumsily strapped to his arm. Brondulf’s footwork kept him clear of the cleaver’s reach. His own counter swing backed his opponent off. But it took all his strength just to reel the blade back in.

The weight of the attack impressed the orc. His cleaver smashed against the bronze greatsword, deflecting away. The orc nodded in appreciation. Bron raised the blade to strike again, and his rival started circling. But the orc adopted a serious face, dashing closer, cleaver swinging. Bron blocked the blow high, but even as he did, the orc pressed in closer, binding the bronze greatsword with his cleaver. Chips flew from the orc’s iron weapon, but his goal had been achieved. The orc pushed him back, and Brondulf felt a large foot reach behind his own, sweeping him from his feet.

He hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him. Before he could rise, he felt the crooked tip of the orc’s cleaver against his cheek and the orc’s foot pressing down on his good hand and sword hilt.

“I could give you any wound short of a mortal one. This is fair in a fight to first blood. Dangerous to be knocked down in a duel like this.”

“I gave you a warm meal by the fire,” Bron said, sweat beading on his brow.

“I appreciate it. So I will not take any of your blood. Lucky it was a friendly duel. Some orcs might not take kindly to your intrusion into our lands. The homelands see very few human visitors. The next duel might be for your life. But this sword will be enough.“

Bron tried to roll free, but felt the blunt shock of the hilt end of the orc’s cleaver across his temple. 

He woke a little later, his last worthwhile possession gone. “Curse my weakness. Without Rhunal to boost me with the stone hand, I’m nothing. The alfar greatsword was nothing but a dead weight, an anchor for a one-armed man. I’m not even a proper warrior.” 

He’d been trudging forward, hoping to catch up to Rhunal, but that goal would fail. He couldn’t help her in his current state. The orc hadn’t even needed to use the blood rage, just overpowered him in a grapple.

Brondulf remembered Kyvril’s promise. To aid him with any request. And he just might do it. The guildmaster would leave his children and travel up north. Certainly the man was skilled, but it was wrong. Even worse, if more came with Kyvril. The orc wanderer who’d beat him was right. Taking more people that far north was a death sentence.

“Not like my fate will be any different,” he muttered aloud. “I’m useless. Maybe I always was. Dragged along by that relentless girl. Without her, I have nothing. Damn orc wanderer pushed me down like I was nothing. Nothing!”

He stood there for a moment, shaking in anger and fear too. Of the orc who had beaten him, of the hopeless situation he was in, and even of the world itself. Just being away from the sorceress, he knew there were countless creatures he was defenseless against. With her around, they always had a chance.

He thought of the wizard’s suggestion. To find the grey-haired chieftain. An insane request, but the wizard had left him alive. He didn’t have to do that. Rhunal was already unconscious. She never would have known about his fate. Maybe Carinus had been telling the truth. He intended to make an attempt on Sanndur’s life, with his former student to aid him. That was their impossible task.  

But Bron had no bronze greatsword and no left hand. His chances of success had been dashed. A million fears plagued him that night. Both for himself and for Rhunal’s sake. They were both alone now. But she was surrounded by enemies. Even if the wizard spoke truth, and he meant to kill the warlock, it was just the two of them against an entire city. Resolve came to him before sleep.

“I will go up there alone. I will fight who I need to fight, and I will find this chieftain. Probably die out here.” Despite the circumstances, he chuckled. “I’ve said the same when I was with Rhunal and we survived. Well, I hope some of her insane luck has rubbed off on me.”

 But first, he needed to learn how to fight again. Staring at the stump of his left arm, he knew he could craft something to give him a chance. Guluss the smith had made him a padded metal sleeve for his amputated left arm. Anything could be crafted to attach to it with a hammered in bolt. Two-handed weapons were too clumsy for him, even ones not as heavy as the alfar greatsword had been. Lacking a wrist to rotate, a weapon with a fine edge like a sword was out of the question. A blunt weapon would be better, and a shield would be most useful. 

Bron was no stranger to the wilds, his only weapon was a hatchet, but it was sharp and durable. After felling a tree, he split it in several quick strokes. He had his kit for repairing armor. There were several nails and short bolts in there. It was simple enough to make the shield. Using bolts and the back of the hatchet as a hammer, he locked the shield to the socket around his missing left hand. He would have to break the bolt to get it apart.

He’d kept the size of the shield small. It needed to be quick to move around in a close fight. More of a buckler, really. It had enough size to intercept a javelin, a fast moving arrow would take a good eye to intercept. The buckler was a start, but it needed reinforcement around the rim to stand up to any punishment. And he intended to fashion an iron boss to the front of it. It needed to function as both weapon and defense.

Lacking the iron for the metal boss, he used a sharp piece of steel to make a spike protruding out of the front of the shield. Despite suffering the same handicap as before, he was more confident when he set forward later that day.