'Begin!'
The first cut sent him reeling, shattering his confidence, his poise, and nearly his wrist.
He had been watching Gorst fence before of course, if you could call it that, so he knew the man would come out swinging, but nothing could have prepared him for that first shattering contact.
The crowd gasped with him as he staggered back. All his carefully laid plans, all of Varuz' carefully worded advice, vanished into air.
He winced with pain and and shock, his arm still vibrating from the force of that mighty blow, his ears still ringing from the crashing noise of it, his mouth hanging open, his knees wobbling.
It was hardly the most promising start, but the next chop followed hard after the first, flashing down with even greater power.
Jezal leaped aside and slid away, trying to make room and give himself time. Time to work out some tactic, some trick to stem the pitiless tide of swinging metal.
But Gorst was not about to give him time. He was already loosing another throaty growl, his long steel already begun on its next irresistible arc.
Jezal dodged where he could, blocked where he couldn't his wrists already aching from the ceaseless punishment.
To begin with he hoped that Gorst would tire. No one could throw those great lumps of metal around for long the way that he was doing.
Soon the fierce pace would take its toll on the big man and he would slow, and droop, and the heavy steels would lose their venom.
Then Jezal would fight back doggedly, run his opponent ragged, and win. The crowd would crack the Agriont with their cheers. A classic tale of victory against the odds.
Only Gorst did not tire. The man was a machine. After a few minutes there was still not the slightest sign of weariness in those heavy-lidded eyes.
There was barely any emotion of any kind that Jezal could see, during the rare moments when he dared to take his eyes away from the flashing swords.
The big long steel swung, swung, swung in its brutal circles, and the short steel was always there to turn way such feeble efforts as Jezal could make in between, never faltering or dropping even an inch.
The power of the blows did not decrease, the growls from Gorst's throat with as much vigour as ever. The crowd were given nothing to cheer at, and merely muttered angrily.
It was Jezal who began to feel his legs slowing, to feel the sweat springing out of his forehead, to feel his grip on his steels slipping.
He saw it coming from a mile away, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had backed off until he ran out of circle.
He had blocked and parried until he lost the feeling in his fingers. This time, when he raised his aching arm and there was a crash of metal on metal, one tired foot slipped and he tumbled squawking from the ring, floundering on his side, his short steel spinning from his twitching fingers.
His face slapped against the ground and he took a gritty mouthful of sand.
[...]
'Begin!'
This time Gorst came out even harder, slashing away as if he was scything wheat, making Jezal dance around the circle.
One blow passed so close to his left sidethat he could feel the wind from it on his cheek. The next missed him by a margin no greater on his right.
Then Gorst flung a sideways sweep aimed at his head and Jezal saw an opening. He ducked beneath it, sure the blade tore at the airs on top of his scalp.
He closed the distance as the heavy long steel swung away, almost catching the referee in the face on the back-swing, leaving Gorst's right side all but undefended.
Jezal lunged at the big bastard, sure he had finally got through, knowing he had made it one touch apiece.
But Gorst caught the thrust on his short steel and forced it just wide, the guards of the two blades scraping then locking together.
Jezal cut at him viciously with his short steel but somehow Gorst blocked that too, bringing up his other sword just in time, catching Jezal's blade and holding it just short of his chest.
For a moment their blades were locked together, Jezal pushing with every grain of strength, each hard-trained muscle flexing: legs straining against the ground, stomach straining to twist his arms, arms straining to push his hands, hands gripped the hilts of steel like gri, death.
Every muscle, every sinew, every tendom. He knew he had the better position, the big man was off balance, if only he could push him back a step ... an inch ...
For that moment their steels were locked together, the Gorst dipped his shoulder, and grunted, and flung Jezal away as a child might fling away a boring toy.
He tumbled back, mouth and eyes wide open with surprise, feet kicking at the dirt, all his attention focused on staying upright.
He heard Gorst growl again, and was shocked to see the heavy long steel already curving through the air towards him.
He was in no position to dodge, and there was no time anyways. He raised his left arm on an instinct, but the thick, blunted blade tore his short steel away like a straw on the wind and crashed into his ribs, hammering the breath from his body in a wail of pain that echoed round and round in the silent arena.
His legs crumpled under him and he sprawled out on the turf, limbs flopping, sighing like a split bellows.
- The Blade Itself, Part II, Never Bet Against a Magus