The big one laid on his back to dodge the swipe of the blade and kicked his attacker, trying to push him away. He reached for his scabbard but it was too far away. To crawl to it he’d have to let himself be stabbed.

“Get off me, you piece of shit.” - the fat soldier yelled and threw the meat at the thin one, trying to distract him.

The skinny man was not an experienced soldier, he wasn’t a veteran of two wars but he had fought behind many a taverns. His moves were not elegant or decisive, they were ugly, the doings of a butcher. The square man kept kicking at him, trying to get away. If he lets him reach the sword he’d be done for, the thin one knew that. So he started slicing at his feet. The blade wasn’t big or sharp enough to wound his leg critically, but the blade punctured the skin of the boots and came out bloody.

The big soldier screamed as the blade met his skin.

He thinks you’re weak…

Lesh kept whispering in their minds as the blade flashed like a firefly in the darkness.

He wants your throne…

Fear can cripple a man but now Lesh used it as fuel. Fear was the log that he tossed into the fire to feed it. The big soldier finally had some power, any power. He had spent most of his life agreeing even when he didn’t want to. Even when everything in him screamed otherwise. Now he didn’t have to agree with anyone, let alone that bastard who thinks he can steal his spoils.

The skinny soldier sunk his thumb into the bandaged wound the dog opened that afternoon. He felt the moisture of the blood underneath and felt satisfaction as the bandage turned red. The fat man cried out in pain and laid on the ground, finally giving an opening for his enemy’s blade. The thin soldier immediately tried to sink the knife in his belly, but something hit him on the head, sending him tumbling in the mud.

In his pursuit of slicing the belly of his former partner, the thin man didn’t see him reaching and grabbing a log from the fire. The pain must have been unbearable, to reach inside and grab a burning wood. But fear can make a man forget about pain.

The big soldier swung the log, sending embers and sparks all around them, catching him right on the temple. The wood recoiled in his hand telling him that it found the target and it found it hard.

It is in moments of violence that people find clarity sometimes. The blank moment between the hits when you stare at your enemy eye to eye can clear the cloud of anger that rages within you. But not when fear is blowing the wind. Lesh hit their minds with no subtlety, screaming at them, triggering their most primal emotions.

And they charged at each other again.

The knife was lost in the darkness and pain had finally got to the big man’s hand. The unseeing eyes of their followers watched them as they grabbed each other and fought for their lives. They pulled their clothes and hair. They used every dirty trick and chance to cause the enemy even a drop of pain. Punches rained, jaws clacked and teeth flew never to be seen again.

Such are the struggles of the lords.

In a bit one of them would join the ranks of the soldiers and guard the camp while the other reigns victorious.

They fell to the ground and rolled to the rhythm of punches, slaps and screams. It was to the death, there was no backing down. They mud - the final stage of every fight that doesn’t quickly. If swords can’t finish the work with grace, then you are bound to be rolling in the dirt like pigs.

They were a knot of limbs and Lesh only knew who was winning depending on who was swearing more. In the end it was the big soldier who found that last piece of strength, driven by his fear, and sat on the chest of his enemy. He pressed him down with all his weight, pinning the little guy’s body in the mud. Then when he was sure that he finally had him, he took a deep breath and rained punches on his helpless face.

He pressed the thin man’s hands with his knees, so he could finish the deed undisturbed. He hit him in the nose until he heard a crack and the guy underneath started squealing like the dog did earlier in the day. It took three strikes to get the mut to shut up, but it required a lot more than that for the soldier. It was a good two minutes of non-stop pummeling followed by screams.

When his face became a mess of blood, teeth and split skin the bastard finally shut up.