A Small Fight
We did get to go into the castle the next day. I am not sure what we accomplished there, as the leaders took care of that sort of thing. But we kids got to go into the castle. We didn’t have any particular responsibilities today. We would start out again tomorrow.
The inside of this castle, like the last one, was bedlam. Children were everywhere--all the usual races that had come with us on our ship, plus Spearsiblings.
You might never have seen Spearsiblings, so I will describe them to you. First of all, they are big. I think they are born big. I saw a nursing baby that was fully four feet long, and that was the smallest child I have ever seen among the Spearmen. They are big around as well as tall. The males have huge shoulders, and both sexes have huge hips, with a wide stance.
Second, they are, like Trolls, all over furry; a black or grey fur, not the usual white of Trolls.
Third, they are loud.
And fourth, they are violent.
This violence was evident within the first few minutes of our arrival. One of the Spearsiblings, the biggest, was being confronted by one of his peers.
“I’m the King’s Son, that’s who I am.”
“And you suppose that makes you special?” the other retorted.
“What makes me special is that I can lick you every day, and twice on Sevendays. I always beat you!”
“Well today is a new day,” the other remarked, and the two went at it.
I pushed through the circle of Spearboys, gaining a front row seat. They would have objected, but my small size put them at ease, and besides, they could still see. So we all turned our attention back to the fight.
The fight resembled a cross between a whirlwind and a jackhammer convention. When they weren’t wrestling on the ground, they were standing up slamming at each other with their fists. The fight went on for a full ten minutes before the smaller boy, pummeled to the ground, finally admitted his defeat. The larger boy stood quietly, resting, and looking insufferably pleased with himself. He suddenly turned to face me fully. I suppose the look on my face caused me to stand out from the admiring crowd.
“What are you looking at?” he spat.
Since my earliest youth, I had been taught that Dwarves did not fight. First of all, we are horrible with weapons. We use hammers, chisels, and picks well enough, but not for fighting. Our nature is to concentrate on everything we do so much that in a fight, we would be killed before we could decide exactly how to aim our blow.
Secondly, although this wasn’t well known, we are deadly with our fists. It’s true we are small, and can’t work all day like Farmers, or lift small houses like this behemoth, but we have a lot of strength in our arms and shoulders, and our hands were almost invulnerable. Being small also means that we have lighting-fast reflexes.
We were always taught, therefore, not to fight. In a fight with a Fisherboy, Farm lad, or even another Dwarf, one well landed blow could quite easily be fatal.
However, I did not see how I could hurt this monstrosity, and from what I could see he was altogether too proud of himself. So, in traditional boy fashion, I returned his question.
“That’s a good question. I couldn’t really tell you. But it’s ugly, whatever it is.”
Dwarves are good at insults, and I could tell this one went home. Most other races must consider Spearmen as exceptionally ugly with their flat faces and, well, take it from me they were ugly.
I could tell also that he was confused. He knew that his elders would not be happy with him if he injured one of the other races.
Still, by the time I had added insult to insult, using my full powers as a Dwarf, he didn’t care what his elders thought. He was ready to go at me. My speech, and its evident result, had gathered pretty much every boy in the compound, most of whom couldn’t even see me, as I was hidden from the crowd by the circle of Spearsiblings.
The boy came at me, crouched low (as indeed he had to if he wished to reach me). I suppose he could have kicked me, but I was sure the crowd wouldn’t stand for that. He wasn’t sure how to attack. I could see the confusion in his face. Should he strike out, or wrestle, or… what? He had fought plenty of his own race, but never a Dwarf.
I stood impassive, my hands at my sides, watching his moves, turning only to face him. Finally, he made up his mind and struck at me with an open hand.
I pivoted, crouched slightly, and met his open hand with my closed fist. I am sure everyone expected me to go flying, but I rocked back only slightly. The boy jerked his hand back, staring at it.
He tried again, this time with a closed fist. Now that I had seen how he moved, I stepped quickly inside of it and hit him solidly on the inner thigh--not my best choice of targets, but a convenient height. Then I stepped away, behind him, and waited again.
The missed hit and blow caught him off guard and knocked him off balance, but he quickly recovered and turned to face me again. I could tell that this time he was going to try to wrestle me; both his hands were outspread.
And I am sure to this day, he doesn’t know how he got the bloody nose.
An older fighter might have avoided the blow, and would definitely have continued the fight--but my opponent was not an older fighter. Three times now, he had been struck as if by magic, and three times he had missed his own blows. He sat on the ground, held his bleeding nose to staunch it, and looked at me.
“My name is Heinrich,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m a Dwarf.”
“My name is Renatus,” he replied, “and you fight really well.”
At just that moment, a hole opened in the crowd and a larger version of my opponent came through it, looking angry. When he saw the tableau on the ground he stopped, but continued with what he had been going to say, “What’s this I hear? You were fighting a Dwarf?”
“That would be me,” I said, raising my hand.
He ignored me and went on castigating his Son. “You should not fight the other races. It is not fair.”
“That’s what he found out,” I continued. “See, he got himself a bloody nose.”
Finally he deigned to notice me. “You gave him a bloody nose? Why, you couldn’t even reach his nose!”
“I could if he bent down,” I said, “which he did. See?” I continued, pointing at the Spearboy, who was sitting looking abashed.
When the Spearman said nothing, but stared at each of us in turn, the boy took the opportunity to say, “This is my Father, the Watch Commander.’
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, holding out my hand, “My name is Heinrich.”
The Spearman broke off his staring. “Did you want to fight my Son?”
I was hoping I had the psychology of these people figured out, and I replied, “Of course. Did you think he just attacked me?”
At that, he didn’t know what to say, for I had followed his train of thought exactly. And so he said nothing, and stomped off.
I turned back to the boy on the ground. “Hey, I’m new here. You want to show me around?”
Thank you for reading Von’s Substack. I would love it if you commented! I love hearing from readers, especially critical comments. I would love to start more letter exchanges, so if there’s a subject you’re interested in, get writing and tag me!
Being ‘restacked’ and mentioned in ‘notes’ is very important for lesser-known stacks so… feel free! I’m semi-retired and write as a ministry (and for fun) so you don’t need to feel guilty you aren’t paying for anything, but if you enjoy my writing (even if you dramatically disagree with it), then restack, please! Or mention me in one of your own posts.
If I don’t write you back it is almost certain that I didn’t see it, so please feel free to comment and link to your post. Or if you just think I would be interested in your post!
If you get lost, check out my ‘Table of Contents’ which I try to keep up to date.
Von also writes as ‘Arthur Yeomans’. Under that name he writes children’s, YA, and adult fiction from a Christian perspective. His books include:
The Bobtails meet the Preacher’s Kid
and
Arthur also has a substack, and a website.
Thanks again, God Bless, Soli Deo gloria,
Von