This story was a burst of inspiration from a particularly brutal comic book I read at the bookstore. I wanted to really get into the mind of a vermin and what he thinks as he lives his life. Surely not all of them are oafs, and there are reasons for their insane lust for war and death. This is a bit more of a grim take on vermin that leaves no room for nice things. Read at your own peril. The next part in this one-shot, two part series will be a similarly anonymous woodlander and his take on the eternal conflict, and the innate nature of both groups. I hope this is both informative and enjoyable.

Now, before I get too long winded, here is The Vermin, and why he is the way he is.

The cold wind sweeps in from the north like a raging warband, shrieking fury and death. It blows over the sand of the beach, sending annoying granules into our eyes and ears and cloaks. It's almost as if it's trying to blow us away. The beach just wants to be left in peace and quiet, not be host to the silly little grudge match unfolding upon it. I suppose I'd be in a dark mood myself if somebeast with dirty paws was stamping all over me in my private time. I watch, nevertheless, and stand with the others, ignoring the wind's protest as we stare at the bleak ceremony about to begin.

There are two creatures on the beach, each of them armed, deadly, and ready to die because they're too stupid to do anything but follow orders. Two vermin, each with the bloodlust already starting to rage. I wonder which one will fall, gauging the victory scales based on what I know, though in the end it doesn't particularly matter who wins. All that's going to change is somebeast is going to be dead, and the other will be a little more famous for having killed him. Hatred will subside, tempered and cooled by blood spilled on the sand, until the blood dries and flakes away. Encouraged by a lack of restraint, preying on the bored and the old and the spiteful, hatred will flare and burst into flame once again, and then the whole cycle of this-for-that killing starts over and Vulpuz will wait at Hellgates to claim more idiots who keep dying for nothing, but they go to him because they die in "honorable" combat.

I have to wonder if he ever gets annoyed that he only seems to get the dumb ones.

There's a killing circle in the sand, set up to accommodate the death match between the two combatants, each chosen to avenge some imagined slight against their lord, eager for the glory, the payment, and even a bit of fun at killing some fool who thought he could kill you.

On one side stands Riklag Wolf-Eater, a giant of a rat from the south, with pale grey eyes and a wicked smile made a little deranged by his curving teeth. I don't know how he fits incisors that freakishly huge into that putrid mouth of his, but he bares them at every opportunity. I'd know. The monster sits next to me in the dining hall every week. His and my lord are the same: the great Chief Karnak, whose honor Riklag fights for today. He is here because our lord's nephew, Larsk, was badly burned in a fire in another chief's dining hall, and since he was the only one seriously injured, our chief came to think it was an assassination attempt, even though everybeast knows Larsk was just drunk off his rocker and was snoring while the others ran for their lives. So Riklag was called on to avenge Larsk's non-existent honor. He's good at killing and enjoys it, which makes him exceptional for this kind of thing. He hates easily, and those he hates usually don't live beyond the first few minutes of his hating them. I once saw him take a spear to the gut, but he only laughed and snapped off the shaft, then used it to beat the unlucky sod who had stabbed him to death.

On the other is the opposing lord's champion, a wiry ferret called Frisk the Tall. He's here because, well, nobeast else in their right mind would want to challenge Riklag. I don't know much about him, except he's quick as a whip, has a tongue sharper than his daggers, and has the eye of every female on this side of the sea, and his popularity is working its way through the jills on the other side too with every raiding season, if rumors are right. It makes most of us jealous that some males have all the luck, but I don't blame him, or the jills, really. He has the lithe, sinewy form all ferrets should, with eyes as deep and green as a well watered forest. Handsome chap. For a ferret, I mean.

Riklag, by contrast, is well muscled and sturdy, sort of like a wine barrel with tree trunks for limbs, which is always a plus in a straight on fight, but this is no shield wall, no wild scuffle in the woods. It's going to be a duel, and curse the fool to Hellgates who says skill and form doesn't matter in a duel. In battle, when fear grips your veins like ice and bloodlust burns you from the inside-out, it's not so big a deal. You swing your sword or your axe or your rotting mace of wood like every other beast and eventually something dies and you come closer to winning. At least, that's how it is for the common foot soldiers. In one-on-one combat, the odds are stacked against you and you have to know how to move, how to slice, how to jab and block and thrust and parry. You have to know how to stare your opponent in the eye for a long time, reading him, letting the knowledge that he is going to kill you sink in. There's time to waste in a duel, each second that your opponent lives is one second closer to you dying, and you can't depend on the vermin next to you to take your opponent down while he's too busy watching you.

No, a duel takes practice, skill, and knowledge, and if you know what you're doing, you can win before you even get to the field. So both fighters have armed themselves appropriately.

Riklag has come to the sacred circle with a big round shield and an axe, which fits his brutal, simple nature. The axe is a wonderful weapon, even though richbeasts and starry-eyed idiots will tell you a sword is where it's at, or sabers like those froofy hares over the sea use. An axe has all the weight concentrated at the head. A well made haft gives you better leverage, and if you swing it right you cleave clean through wooden shields, or even mail armor, and shatter a sword that isn't tempered properly if the beast holding it is stupid enough to block with it. Getting the angle right for cleaving a limb is much the same as chopping a tree. On top of all that, axes are easier and far, far cheaper to make than swords, and provide the punch you need to end a fight quickly and effectively. Just because it's crude doesn't mean it can't be effective. Riklag here has a weaponized version of that time honored tool. He named it Snakefang, in honor of the time he supposedly chopped off a snake's fangs with it while it was in mid-strike. He probably made it up, like we soldiers do when we want to make an epic of the time we stubbed our toes or accidentally punched out somebeast at the tavern.

The haft measures almost a meter long, formed from sturdy oak, a good hard wood, cut young in life to give the handle a bit of flex, and runs straight to support the larger blade. Any weapon that wobbles a bit instead of snapping right in half when struck is a friend of mine. The socket is thick and triangular to provide a nice, heavy head for the comparatively small size of the blade, and with the long haft that concentrated weight will tear apart a shield or armor. All about leverage, remember? The cutting bit measures thirteen centimeters, reinforced with steel to give it a nice, hard edge, which is shaved to a point so sharp you can cut yourself by looking at it. The blade itself is quite thin and does not significantly widen until it nears the head. A thinner blade means better cutting ability. In and out of flesh without much fuss. What fool wants his weapon stuck in the bowels of the creature he just hit? The head itself is formed of layered soft iron, with another, harder layer forming the core. Cheap, easy, and weighing in at all of three pounds, it is a good weapon to bring to a fight.

Three pounds. So light for so much power. Anybeast who tells you a weapon is "too light" doesn't deserve to hold one. A lighter weapon is a quicker weapon, and sure they'll tell you a sword can dance around a spear, and a spear can dance around an axe, but the thing is, Death is quick on any good blade, no matter the weapon. Some of the younger ones are afflicted with the idea that all weapons must be heavy and slow. Well that big, heavy axe? It'll be curving around your own blade and into your skull before you can blink, you daft fool, if the wielder knows how to use it.

This is another reason why Frisk, with his sword, might have an advantage.

He was favored with it after personally killing an enemy lord in battle, and his lord had it forged for him. He didn't name it, just took the thing and started killing other beasts with it. But it is a great weapon. Swords follow a basic construction: bars of steel are heated, pounded down, then hammered on top of each other. They are then welded together when they're nice and hot with a yellow glow, folding them over each other and hammering them together. Frisk's sword is constructed from sixty layers for the blade alone, and separate bars for the edges. Folded, then refolded who knows how many times to better hold an edge. The whole thing was quenched, tempered, heated and reheated to give it a perfect balance of strength and flexibility. Cool a blade once and it's hard and brittle and will definitely snap. Reheating after quenching, that's the tempering part, softens the steel again and makes it less apt to crack. All this gives it a nice, solid body, firm but flexible, like your favorite tavern wench. The fuller runs all the way down the length of the blade, to make it lighter and less brittle. I'm not sure how, but it's supposed to make it less likely break right at the hilt, as well as reduce the overall mass. More strength for less material used. Any weapon maker runs a fine line between hardness and tensile strength, and whoever made Frisk's sword knew how to balance it perfectly. The blade is just shy of three feet long, just enough reach to make it count, but not so long to make it unwieldy. Not for Frisk, anyway. It weighs a little over two pounds. The pommel is large and rounded to compensate for the weight of the long blade, and provides balance and a good secondary attack. Whack someone on the head with that and they're down for the count. The crossguard is small, but thick. Not great protection, but if the enemy is close enough to lock blades with your hilt, you're probably dead anyway.

Frisk has a smaller shield than Riklag's wooden monstrosity, reinforced with a metal boss and a ring of iron around the edge, useful for making the opponent's blows glance and shear away. But take a direct hit with that from Snakefang, and his arm will snap in two. Good luck holding swooning female ferrets then, pretty boy…

"Riklag has this in the bag," the fox next to me says. "Frisk 'as a nice sword, but there's no way it'll get through that shield. Or the chain mail."

"One good stab at the groin and Riklag's through," the rat on my right replies. They're both from opposite houses, but both of them converse like the duel is a friendly sport. Which it is, really. We're spectators. This is our fun. It is our way, even if it is bloody and violent and sometimes doesn't make a lick of sense.

I see the helpers finish fitting the fighters, then rush out of the circle, and the fight is finally ready to begin. The two of them just sort of stare at each other at first, sizing each other up, deducing what strategy the other will use and how to counter it. Frisk is just wearing a helmet, forgoing protection for maximum speed, while Riklag is kitted out with helmet, mail armor, and thick padded gloves that are cut at the fingers to expose his deadly claws. Both of them have claws and teeth at their disposal, but nobeast reverts to that if they can help it. It's messy and leaves you vulnerable. Unless you're a badger, and you're so corking big being vulnerable doesn't matter. I once saw a badger in battle, big bloke leading an expedition from across the sea. He fended off a joint attack from our house and one of our allies almost single-pawed while his ship prepared to escape. He was covered in arrows and spear gouges, but he still managed to bite the head of an allied lieutenant clean off, then spat it in my face. I turned tail and ran after that, but it didn't matter because the rest of us did too.

It makes me wonder why anybeast thinks attacking that flapping big mountain of hares and badgers on the eastern shores is anything approaching a good idea.

"Riklag will fight like a wolverine. Wade in and tear at Frisk," somebeast behind me says. A gust of wind threatens to blow his words away.

"Frisk looks skinny, but he's tough," the rat on my right replies. "He'll dish it out. You wait and see."

It's because we like fighting that we talk like this, isn't it? We're born and bred for it. We hate dying like any sensible beast, but we love fighting, and we love killing.

Vermin, in my opinion, are much more interesting than woodlanders. We take things at face value. If you are strong, you are respected. If not, you are pushed around like the weakling you are, and you deserve it for not being smart enough to change. Woodlanders attempt to make things complicated, with their silly notions of honor, fighting fair, sharing even with the enemy. They are mostly weak, and that is why we mostly prey upon them. They choose not to be strong, and in a world where the strong survive, the weak are naturally the first to go.

And yet they're still so whiny about it. When our ships set sail, and our great reaver parties set out across the sea, or warlords who can't carve out an empire here decide to try their luck elsewhere, it is only then the woodlanders are on guard. It is only when the danger is obvious and the threat is real they actually do anything about it, and for many it is far too late. Otherwise they cloister themselves in dream worlds with plump little farms ready to be ravaged and children ready to be enslaved. I respect the few woodlanders that live here, because they make themselves strong, making great fortresses that none of us dare to assail, but they never come down out of the hills to make war with us, which makes me wonder why they're living here in the first place. Maybe they couldn't take being surrounded by their weaker cousins. Woodlanders deserve what they get more than us, because they are weak. They make themselves prey and then bemoan their place in life, wondering why we overtake them and destroy them. It's enough to make me sick, sometimes, their hypocrisy. Make yourself an inviting target just begging to be plundered, grow fat and rich off the land that gives you its bounty without building armies and forts to defend it, then turn around and blame us when we exploit that obvious weakness. Complain and sigh and reluctantly take up arms to defend what is theirs. Sometimes, I wonder if we fight them because if we didn't there'd be nobeast around to toughen them up and make them better opponents.

I never feel too guilty killing a woodlander, whatever the case.

We vermin, however, live in constant readiness for conflict, which is why the woodlanders cannot destroy us entirely, and why we cannot utterly destroy ourselves either. I like to think not all killing is senseless. Sometimes it must be done. When your king or lord or chief angers another, or even something small sparks a feud, killing is the only way to defend yourself. What happens with us smaller fiefdoms and tribes is there's too few of one or both sides to wipe out the other, so we focus on making each other's lives as miserable as possible until one side admits defeat.

A war party does that job. It is the smallest level of organization for vermin under a good ruler. A war party must be at least a score strong, but less than a hundred, to balance fighting ability and speed while traveling. Their job is to rush over to the lands of the other lord and not defeat another great army, but destroy the land and those living on it. We all know how to handle a weapon, but farmers just don't have the time to train, poor buggers. They're the first to go.

I watch as the fight begins in earnest. Riklag does as predicted, rushing forward screaming, or rather bellowing, like a wolverine in heat. He holds the big shield before him, and raises Snakefang over his head, hoping to simply rush Frisk and knock him down for one swift killing blow. Frisk doesn't fall for that. He rushes forward too, but only to gain momentum for dodging out of the way, dancing nimbly to Riklag's left. Riklag drops his shield arm to block the low slash Frisk uses, and plants his footpaws in the sand, stopping frighteningly quick to pivot on his torso and slam Snakefang down onto thin air. Frisk is already dancing away, keeping at maximum sword range, forcing Riklag to lunge and made great sweeping passes that can tire him out. He is trying to be a real warrior and crush Frisk, who weaves and bobs and isn't there when he should be there and dead. His light, strong sword dances through the air, never contacting Snakefang, just chipping away at the big shield and confusing Riklag with the wild, wavy moments. Neither parries with their weapon. Only a dunce would block a weapon with another weapon when you can dodge or use a shield instead. That's just asking for a broken blade. Riklag catches Frisk's sword on his shield and turns it aside. Frisk hops backwards as Snakefang lunges down. Frisk scores a lucky, glancing blow off Riklag's chain mail coat. I can hear the chink! of splitting metal from here. Riklag growls, and that is also audible clear across the beach.

"Maggot-eating tail chaser!" he screams. Frisk says something quietly in reply, and Riklag flies into a rage, swinging wildly and missing once more before getting a rein on his temper and huddling behind his huge shield to catch his breath. First smart thing he's done since the fight started.

Shields are interesting things. They almost never outlast more than one or two serious battles. They are chipped away, hacked, splintered, crushed to dust and then you're just standing there with the handle and the iron boss, looking like an utter moron as you try to cower behind even that little lump of metal. Yet we grip them so tightly. We gnaw the edges so we don't brown our trousers with fear of death. We cling to such mad, desperate hope that something, anything will turn away the endless sword blows, the smashing axes and the spears and arrows that lodge in them and make them too heavy to wield. In that way, I suppose us and the woodlanders are much the same. No matter how brave the warrior, all the pomp and shouting and screaming is just there to hide the fact that if we weren't shouting and screaming, we'd be crying on the ground for our mothers. I wonder, with a twinge of irony, if we all just sat down and cried instead of fighting, whether we'd have to fight at all.

But we don't do that. We go and we kill, because we know, we know if we don't, some other hard-hearted monster will send a war party our way and we'll just be crying while they slaughter us without pity, screaming and shouting to hide their own fear and pain.

Lots of warriors, you see, will gladly shout the name of Vulpuz, lord of the Hellgates, bearer of the black axe and god of all things violent and messy. Those are the fools who are taken up by the battle joy, who think they're invincible just because they have some experience and feel good when blood spatters on their face. Me? I tend to think that Vulpuz, being a fox, appreciates trickery and deceit every once in a while. The lesser gods some of our barbaric cousins worship embody some of these traits well, and many is the warlord that wrangled his way to power just by knowing who to fake, who to talk to, who to bribe, and they never have to lift so much as a butter knife. Vulpuz appreciates smart warriors, does he not? Isn't that way the oafish clods are all the minions, and the clever vermin always seem to come out ahead? We want to see some trickery in this duel, too, as much as we call it an "honorable" fight. When I die, I want to tell Vulpuz I managed to outsmart all those daft fools who came knocking at my door with sword and spears and killed them without even having to fight. I figure a fox will appreciate that.

A lot of beasts call that trickery cheating. They usually say it from beyond the grave, because they're all dead and the cheaters sit back, take a smug sip of ale, and don't say a word. Because why not do all you can to survive? Why not go back home to your snot-nosed kids and your nagging wife when you have the chance? Why not sit next to the fire, kick back, make a really epic recipe for spicy fish soup, and live to see your heirs crush their rivals under their iron fists? Why fight fair when staying alive and enjoying what's left is so much more precious? No warlord did any good for his mob by coming back dead.

That is what separates us from woodlanders. We do not revere the dead, because they don't need it. None of that silly worship of a ghost with a magic sword, like in that fortress of red stone. The dead are just that, dead, and we who live fight to live longer. We fight, and we kill, and we take life because we know that life is worth living. We steal the lives of others so that our own will be better.

In Frisk and Riklag's cases, they fight because they follow orders and they'll get rich off each other's deaths. Riklag opens himself wide to attack by lowering his shield and axe and pretending like he's dumbfounded. Frisk risks a quick, dashing lunge, hoping to take Riklag off balance, but that's like trying to make a tree fall over by shouting at it. Riklag swipes his axe downward with lightning speed, and knocks away Frisk's blade. It quivers. It bends. But it does not break, making us all "Oooh!" and "Aaah!" with the quality of the steel, and Riklag curses the day he went for a weapon instead of an arm. Perhaps he was hoping to smash it with such force Frisk would drop it, but he does not, and takes the shock well. Sturdier fellow than I thought.

Riklag's biggest mistake was to swat the sword away and swing Snakefang towards his shield side, leaving his weapon side wide open. Frisk's shield arm darts upwards and the metal rim of his shield clangs off of Riklag's helmet. The sinewy ferret is dancing away again while Riklag blindly swings Snakefang, bringing the shield up in front of him once more.

They begin to dance around each other again. Riklag stands steady like a bulwark against the teasing wind of Frisk's hopping, making slow, carefully measured steps. Frisk tries to circle, and Riklag wards him off with Snakefang. He's trying to herd the ferret towards the edge of the dueling circle, and for whatever reason its working. Riklag is big and slower than Frisk, but he's still fast enough to make the ferret wary, cautious enough not to attack outright. Riklag can afford to be defensive and patient. Frisk must take advantage of his speed and attack like there's no tomorrow, but he cannot get around the shield without some serious paw-work, or maybe a shorter, faster blade.

That's how you break a shield wall, in fact. You're standing there like Riklag, armored up with a huge shield and thinking you're invincible. Then some bratty little runt you didn't notice because you're too busy bashing away at the other armored clod right in front of you gets between your legs with a dirk and aims it at your groin. There's a stabbing pain and suddenly you realize that trickle down your leg isn't you urinating out of fear, it's your blood coming out because you weren't watching yourself or your mates weren't watching you. Then you fall down and die, feeling like an idiot, and the gap you leave allows warriors of the other side to press through and crack your line in half. Shield walls depend on unity and cohesion, like any good army, and the problem is when you make a wall, the enemy will probably do it too, and then it's a shoving match until you, the idiot, dies and opens a hole.

Break down that cohesion, and all that's left is a bunch of fools milling around trying to get back together. I hate hares for that very reason. They are the only woodlanders who act like real soldiers. They train, and train hard, but not in good ways of war. They pepper us with arrows and javelins and slings from a distance like cowards and crack our shells. They don't fight in formation; they don't need to fight in any sort of real formation at all when they can just tear ours up before we even get there. We do not use ranged weapons as much as woodlanders, and sometimes we suffer for it. Standing in a shield wall is tiring. You have to heft your weapon, your shield, sometimes your armor if you can afford it, and stand there for hours beating away at the opponent's army, and you just heave and shove and grunt and stab and bleed until one side gives way.

When you are being assaulted by arrows and whatnot, it just makes things even harder, and so that's why sometimes warlords just say "To Hellgates with it" and tell their mobs to charge in a big, screeching mass of death. At least then you'll be assured you can mix it up before being defeated, especially with woodlanders. Formations take work, study, and knowledge from all involved, and they must be maintained by discipline. It just takes one little break, one fool dying, and it can all come crashing down.

Riklag can't afford to be that one fool. He has to have his eyes on Frisk at all times, not easy from under a helmet, and Frisk can't just leap on Riklag and hope he's faster. We aren't bothered by the fact the fight is taking a while. As long as somebeast is dead by the end of it and it doesn't take until nightfall, what do we care what they do to each other? Although, the wind blowing is starting to make me cold, and the sand is itchy on my ears. I turn them down as best I can, and wonder how my mate is doing with the children. All those endless waves of pillagers have to come from somewhere, don't they?

I think about them often nowadays. With party raids becoming more often, and getting closer to the homestead, I wonder when my turn in a shield wall will come. Or maybe I'll die in a forest ambush with an arrow clean through my skull, and I'll have to go explain to Vulpuz how I died in such a silly, cowardly fashion, and he will cleave my soul in two with his axe, because I didn't even die stupidly and bravely, just stupidly. Large armies will gather this planting season, when the ice thaws. We will be allowed just enough time to plant and plow. In later spring, when the roads aren't mud, we will march. All because one king wants the land of some other king and is sick of the endless raiding.

I've been on several of those raiding parties. They are the hardest, I think. You go and you find some random little hamlet, or farm, or little riverside tribe, and you punish the weak and the unprepared without mercy. You lose yourself in the mechanical, fluid motion of killing, the sweet bliss of ignorance while you pretend you aren't slaughtering some poor sod's wife and children, you're just swinging your sword like you were taught, and some beasts just happened to be too slow to get out of the way. The blood runs wet and thick, and sometimes it's your own, and then it's over all too quickly and you're faced with the cold reality of what you've done. And you think, as you look over the dead bodies of the weak, faces frozen forever in mind-bending terror, I had to do it, because every last one of these cretins would do it to me and my family without a second thought. My children would be slaves. My mate would be the personal pet of some flea-bitten chief. The thought makes you angry and you feel a little better.

You pick through the rubble if you aren't ordered to burn everything, distracting yourself with baubles while you mill about, awkwardly pretending you can't hear the crying and begging of the children as they're placed in slave manacles to be sold in foreign markets, or the quiet tears of what females are still alive as they're picked out for servants. The steady drip, drip, drip of blood from the bodies of those who fought, and some of those who didn't. And then you go home, and your wife is beautiful no matter how much she nags, and the children are little angels no matter how much they screech and complain, and you hope and pray that the next morning doesn't bring a war party your way, because you're too busy getting drunk with victory. And the next morning you think maybe if they had been stronger this wouldn't have happened to them, and you know it's true. Strength is victory. Weakness is death.

In that way, too, we are very similar to woodlanders. I have killed them, raided their homes and enslaved their families, and I noticed something. All our deaths are equally horrible.

I like battles much more than raids. I like it when they fight back, to match wits and muscle with another snarling, demon-possessed warrior, the clashing of bone and sinew, and I lose myself in that. The martial pride of battle can overtake anything, even the urge to cry for your mommy, and I love it like any other vermin. That ultimate rush as you best your opponent and send him crashing to the ground, and you find you aren't so afraid anymore, and you feel like a god in your own right.

Riklag and Frisk are blessed in some ways. They have no families, just loyalty to their chiefs. Riklag has his love of killing, and Frisk can pick and choose any blasted female he wants (as long as they are also a ferret, because not even the most depraved vermin considers going outside his species). They can grin and bear it. I have to deal with the one thing we despise the most: caring. Caring makes you weak. It makes the killing so much harder than it needs to be. But you wrestle with it, because you have to care a little, or you wouldn't care about anything and then you might as well be dead.

Frisk is hard-pressed now. If he takes a single step outside the circle, he forfeits and loses his great reputation and is shamed forever. He doesn't dare do it, not even with Riklag getting closer, and closer, like a shark circling in the water. We watchers lean forward with anticipation. The duel is reaching a high water mark. Frisk crouches down. Riklag doesn't see the danger, taking it as a sign of victory, and lunges with the shield, which he would then follow up with Snakefang. It's a decent attack; any other beast would have no choice but to back up and forfeit or take the blow and die. But Frisk is faster than any of us. His legs work like springs, and he makes a perfectly aimed roll out under Snakefang, and Riklag grunts and totters at the edge of the circle, almost toppling, but he is fast too, gaining his balance just as Frisk is getting to his footpaws. Snakefang lashes out at him and a quick fall back is all that saves Frisk from disembowelment. Blood stains the front of his tunic. It's not a deep hit, but it's something. It's blood, and we howl for it.

"Hit! Hit! First blood!"

"About ruddy time!"

"Get 'im! Get 'im, Riklag!"

But Riklag does not capitalize as Frisk finally falters. The giant's face is scrunched up. He is in pain, and is hunched over just slightly. Frisk is smiling. Blood finally begins to seep down Riklag's leg. Frisk's wonderful sword did its work, stabbing through the mail to puncture the skin beneath. We murmur in appreciation, even if Riklag is our champion.

"What a weapon!"

"Frisk 'as more muscle than we thought, punchin' through armor like that!"

"I gots ta' use the liddle vermin's room. Somebeast tell me wot 'appens!"

Now it's a waiting game. Did Frisk do enough damage, and all he must do is bleed out Riklag? Was Snakefang's bite deeper than we thought, and the ferret is also running out of time? Frisk must think so, for he darts forward again, tempting Riklag into another downward smash. The sword whips out and nips Riklag under his arm. He cries out and withdraws, hiding behind the shield, favoring his weapon arm. Frisk tries another bait and stab, but Riklag is ready this time. Instead of exposing himself with another attack he lunges forward with the shield, smacking Frisk right in his pretty face and bowling him over. There's a moment of confusion as they grapple on the ground, Riklag trying to smash Frisk into the sand with the shield, the ferret swinging both arms to attack and rolling away from Snakefang. Frisk's shield is smacked away by Snakefang, but then he drops his sword too and grabs a pawful of sand. He hurls it up into Riklag's face, blinding him, and some of us grin viciously. Dirty moves like that are encouraged when one can get away with it, and none of us are about to stop the fight just because we finally see vermin tactics. While Riklag blinks, the sword flashes up again and whacks him in the thigh. We hear the hard, ringing clack, and Riklag grunts and hops back. Frisk is dancing away again.

Riklag is in a mighty, frothing rage now. Frisk watches him a moment. Riklag is kneeling on the ground, grunting and heaving. Frisk has a boyish, giddy look on his face. He thinks he has this in the bag. He decides to tease the giant instead of going for a killing blow, poking at him with his sword… but Riklag surprises us all, and catches Frisk off guard. In spite of his small injuries, he jumps up, still half-blinded by sand. Frisk is too close to use his sword and tries to leap back, and Snakefang crashes down onto his shield. There's an audible crack as the tiny thing splinters, and Frisk yelps with pain, his handsome faced scrunched with agony. Something is probably broken, and the look on his face says that it hurts like the fires of Hellgates. Riklag keeps going forward and bowls the ferret over, tackling him with his shoulder and they topple into the sand. There are a few moments of confusion as Frisk is trapped beneath the large shield, and Riklag is grunting and snorting, trying to stab the ferret with the tips of Snakefang's cutting bit or saw into his face, unable to raise his arm too high for a serious attack. That blow to his weapon arm must have really done a number on him.

We all watch with bated breath, not particularly eager to see either champion come out on top, but just to see who is going to die first.

Riklag suddenly screams like he was being torn by demons, and rears back, dropping his big shield at last. He's clutching something in his gut with his shield paw, as Frisk crawls back, deep cuts on his face and neck where Snakefang managed to nip his flesh. The ferret's shield paw is definitely broken the way he cuddles it against his chest, and the shield itself is left behind, cracked almost clean in two. Riklag rips something out of his belly. It's a dagger.

"A hidden blade!" one of the soldiers from my tribe growls. "That putrid bag of fish bait!"

I'm not sure if he's angry that Frisk cheated, or because Riklag was too stupid not to.

"Not surprised," another from Frisk's land says. "Frisk don't care for rules. That's how he ended up gettin' caught with old Lord Burrstripe's daughter after 'e swore not ta' go near 'er, 'member? Finagled 'is way outta that one too."

It's now just a matter of time. Riklag is bleeding seriously and must end the fight now, or he'll bleed to death before any of us can do something about it. He stands up, amazingly, like his chopped up insides were nothing. He glares at Frisk, and even from here I can see the awed fear on the ferret's face. Riklag picks up Snakefang with his uninjured shield arm. Frisk picks up his sword. For a few moments, the two bloodied warriors are frozen in time. The next few seconds will be the end game, and even the wind sounds a little quieter.

Then they both laugh, realizing that the end has come and one or both of them will sail the fiery seas to Hellgates. Maybe they'll end up on the same ship, and they'll joke about how they murdered each other.

"Heh. You skinny little son of a wench," says Riklag.

"Hehe. You big troll wife," says Frisk.

They charge each other and everything sort of blurs into itself then. They swing and twirl their weapons, blood streaming from their wounds and faces set with grim determination. Duck, jab, leap, listen to the whistle of good steel cutting the air; it all becomes one epic moment, one near miss after another. A pale sun shines through the clouds behind them. I wish for a moment that there were some way to freeze this into immortality. Two great fighters, gushing their crimson blood and down to the final stretch, neither backing down, struggling against this bleak backdrop.

Riklag punches Frisk in the face, and Snakefang follows. Frisk staggers back and swings his sword, but Riklag ducks to the side. Snakefang catches on the sword, and it looks for a moment Riklag will tug it free from Frisk's grasp, but it slides away like greased lightning. Frisk is still faster and losing less blood. That's why he didn't put on a mail shirt, for that speed. The charmer likes taking risks, and this was a big one. Mail armor actually isn't all that heavy once you get used to it. If your body knows the weight, it's like slipping on a tunic. But without it you're still a smidge more flexible, a tad bit freer to move, and like that one fool who dies in the shield wall, that one little bit can make a huge difference in a struggle for life.

Unless you're trying to swim. Armor is rather useless then, it'll drag you to the briny deep.

Frisk is caught in the middle by an elbow from Riklag, and he's almost paralyzed from being struck right on the gaping cut on his side. But he kicks out and hits Riklag in the gut where he was stabbed. The rat doubles over, and lets out a rattling wheeze, but doesn't go down. He stands back up to see Frisk's sword coming right at his face. It enters his eye and his head snaps back, but with two steps the giant regains his balance, and is holding onto the sword which is in his eye.

We all freeze, even Frisk. But the sword has gone deep enough. Riklag doesn't move, and then he just sort of goes limp. Frisk lets him down, and he dies.

Cheers erupt from the crowd, mindless shouts mingled with groans of disappointment. Some beasts are just impossible to please.

"Wasn't that good a fight."

"Should've lasted longer."

"Should've been quicker!"

"Lookit all that blood!"

"Needed more blood!"

"Frisk! Frisk! Frisk the Tall!"

"I missed it! Wot 'appened?"

I remain silent. Frisk finally sinks to his knees, and his helpers rush forward. He fought very well, but it wasn't anything worthy of legends hundreds of seasons from now. It wasn't a mythical kind of duel where thunder shook the land and lightning cracked the sky, and the only bad weather was some clouds and cold wind, and there certainly weren't any fires of Hellgates spewing from anybeast's eyes or mouth or any other orifice. We'll tell his story, though, and his fame will spread further, and female ferrets across the land will swoon even more at the mention of his name.

Riklag is still gushing blood. It covers the sand, and the wind howls in anger. Now it will have to wash the blood out with high tide. I wonder what I will say to our chief about Riklag's death, and decide to let my seniors do the talking. Our great champion is now a lump of flesh that we have to burn. We'll put his weapons and armor on his pyre and send him on his way to the afterlife, and Vulpuz will sigh and wonder why he can't ever get a victorious deadbeast for once. Life will go on for us who live. I sigh and flap my cloak free of sand, feeling the joy of seeing death pass away. That was a good fight, but it was just one of many, and will not be legendary. So many fights are small, like this. Wild scuffles in the sand. They are like the wind. A quiet breeze kicking into a quick, shrieking blast of terror and fury, and then… it is done. It matters everything to the fighters, whose lives are on the line, but the wind and sand and the rest of this cruel, cold world just doesn't give a rat's tail end about the outcome.

The wind shrieks, the sand gathers in my cloak again, and I think about how this beach will be here long after I die. Countless other vermin have died here, and will die here later on. I will join the army that will gather in the springtime as we prepare to assault neighboring vermin lands, and the defenders will be just like me. They will all have the same worries, fears, and nightmares as I, and will hope for the same things. We will still kill each other, wipe each other from the face of the Earth. We will never change. But I look at the sand, and Riklag's dead body, and Frisk who is flush with triumph and pale with blood loss at the same time, and I figure that we don't need to change. This is our nature. These pointless little scuffles in the sand make us who we are, give us reason to drink, to laugh, to grab victory and take it for ourselves, blood-soaked and pitiful though we are, because victory is strength, and strength is everything. I and so many others will struggle for victory in a neverending cycle of death and new life, that timeless battle we revel in, and we will never give up.

Because it is the struggle we love. The struggle that gives us life. We are predators, we are warriors from day one, we are selfish and ruthless. Born to hunt, kill, maim, devour, even as we fear the same being inflicted on us. The fight for life is what makes it glorious and even though the battle is over and we pick up the pieces and everybeast is acting normal again, I find quiet pride in our insane little ceremony.

I am a vermin, and I am strong.