Lunge. Thrust. Parry. Dodge. Lunge. Thrust. Parry. Dodge.
The two fights danced in the flickering torch light of the undercity chamber. The stench of sweat, blood and mildew was so heavy in the air it was almost nauseating.
His opponent adhered to this predictable pattern like a code of ethics, though he fought like his life depended on it.
In all honesty, it really did. Beads of sweat dripped from Vikas' beard and several strands of hair had wriggled free from his loose braid. Dark, wet stains spread outwards from his underarms, but he remained outwardly collected. He didn't even blink when the sweat ran into his eyes, accepting the sting as a constant reminder of the stakes.
His pulse raced until he heard the blood rushing in his ears, and nothing else save for the song of steel on steel, blades clashing and scraping on one another. The crowd jeered, spat and roared, some calling for his death and others calling for his opponents, depending on who they had bet on.
His opponent worked hard, he seemed to put more concentration into his repetitive moves then he did in the man he was actually dueling with. Some buck from the streets who fancied himself a killer, no doubt. Perhaps trained by a local guild master or just someone who watched too many sword fights and took away too much confidence from it.

Though, far be it from Vikas to underestimate any opponent. Any mistake could lead to his death, and he had always had the notion that he would decide whose hand he would die by. Yet he had to remember that this lads sword was just as real and deadly as Vikas' own. Only his hands weren't. Nor were his eyes as keen, his instincts as sharp and his heart as accustomed.
Vikas had killed men before, oh yes, both as a soldier, part-time mercenary and as an illegal duelist. He never claimed to do it for anything else but the money and the rush, a bastard he may be but a liar he was not. At least in a duel a man fights as an equal and is rightfully struck down by whoever the melee should determine was the better of the two. Strict rules were placed down to ensure that no man could cheat.

Vikas was growing weary of the combat, letting himself become too accustomed to the pattern his opponent followed, and soon found himself following the motions as well.
He attempted a play, backpedaling at his opponents lunge he attempted a stroke to the mid-section only to have the other fighter spin away from the blade and place himself at Vikas' back, on his right flank.
Even the seasoned duelist had to admit it wasn't something he'd anticipated. Likely the young swordsman's strategy was to stick to his routine and bide his time, ever vigilant for the move Vikas would no doubt make in impatience. Just another lesson learnt.
The young fighter betrayed his cunning with over confidence. Thinking the fight won through one clever ruse he took a wild swing at Vikas' head. The veteran duelist just managed to duck beneath it and spring up to close the distance between them, and as he did plunged his sabre into the young fighters heart. After only a few moments, the twitching stopped and the blood began to run and pool at the young fighters feet before Vikas withdrew his blade. The body slumped to the floor.

Vikas was handed a towel to wipe off the sweat and clean the blood from his blade.
"The winner is Tyr!" Came the rumbling voice of the announcer, and all of a sudden the din and ruckus of the crowd came rushing in to fill the silent space of his concentration.
Vikas accepted his prize money, a hefty fist-sized sack of gold coins that would see him through the next month of travel. He collected his cloak and scabbard and left without saying a word.
Perhaps a drink for the road and then he'd be gone by dusk. Perhaps to Engels? He knew a woman there and in spite of himself was yearning for her warmth again. He smiled as he ascended back to the city, the stuffy tainted air of the undercity warrens gradually being replaced by sweeter, cleaner air. He welcomed the road back with an open heart.