The horn blasted three short bursts and the combatants all stood and seemed to charge at Sarengerel. They all seemed more lively and active, as if the twelve hours of hanging at the render-post didn't drain them. Sarengerel wondered if he was the only one whose limbs were aching and nearly lifeless. The cloud of dust from the trampling feet drew nearer. He dug in his feet and held the two sticks in his hands, ready for the onslaught.

He had spent his youth training in Kanyen stick fighting, so he knew to trust his training. The rules were simple: using sticks in each hand, he had to disarm his opponent or render them unable to fight. He needed to focus on disarming them if he could, as enough men had already been hurt.

A warrior with red war paint on his face was the first to attack him. The warrior swung wildly and Sarengerel was able to avoid the swing by stepping back two paces. The next to attack was more precise, a thinner and athletic man, and Sarengerel had to duck and roll on the ground. He sprung to his feet, ignoring the needles in his thighs, and leapt toward the third attacker before the next swing could happen. He struck the third man across the neck with one stick and came down on his strong arm with the other, disabling him. The strike sent shocks up his exhausted arms. Anticipating a convergence he dove sideways and caught a glimpse of missed swings at where he stood.

He swept the feet of someone nearby and with the red stick in his right hand struck the falling man's wrists before he fell to the ground. He knew he was prone to overhead blows so again so he raised his left stick horizontally to protect himself. Three blows met his stick—he had blocked the blows just in time. He swung the right stick across the kneecaps of the three men and immediately positioned his left stick over his head and along his spine, blocking one strike. Attack and anticipate, Sarengerel, attack and anticipate, he told himself.

He leapt backwards and rolled to his feet. The distance he created allowed him to assess the field. The three men were busy dispatching the two that Sarengerel had knocked down, but soon they would turn to him again. There were men fighting in the far end of the arena, and then he saw the a warrior in the distance with the black and red sticks. That was his random partner he needed to connect with.

He saw a gap between the three men and sprinted toward them. He hoped the aggressive advance would throw the three off. He was right, as the three assumed defensive stances and when Sarengerel made a sharp move toward the gap, the late blows were easy enough to defend with both sticks. One man was waiting for him and as he prepared to swing. Serengerel planted his left foot firmly in the sand and spun his body around by pivoting on that foot, striking the man across the hips and when he finished spinning he kept running.

The other black and red was fending off two blue and yellows. Sarengerel flanked the pair and forced one of them toward him. He recognized uncertainty in the man’s eyes as his two-on-one advantage was lost now that Sarengerel had arrived. While the man hesitated, Sarengerel took advantage and lunged forward and jabbed the sticks into the man’s sternum, taking away his breath. As he fell, Sarengerel kicked the sticks away from his hands.

The remaining blue and yellow spun to confront both Sarengerel and his new partner, unsure of where the attack would come from. Sarengerel feigned an attack to the man’s head, and while the man raised his sticks in defense, Sarengerel’s partner struck him from behind. Sarengerel joined to finish the task.

"Just my luck," laughed the other black and red, "I draw you as a partner, Song Lord. I might as well have a target on my back."

"I am Sarengerel."

"I know who you are, general. I am Captain Ihasuril of the Iha clan."

"There are only ranks on the battlefield, Ihasuril," said Sarengerel. "Here we are equal. Be wary, they are coming."

Sticks of all colors rushed at Sarengerel and his new partner. "Do you know the Dual Bolas formation?"

"What's that?"

"Never mind," Sarengerel said. "I will be swinging low, you keep your swings high if you can and don't hit me."

As the sticks came, Sarengerel swung his sticks in alternating fanning motions to block while the other stick struck at the knees of the attackers. He crouched and kept advancing, knocking man after man down. The dust clouds bellowed as each man fell, adding to the confusion from where the attacks were coming from.

As each man fell, Sarengerel lurched past them he extended the swing to knock the fallen man on the back of the head. Two men left. He brought both sticks up and blocked two overhead swings and leaned forward and lunged at both men, knocking them on their chins. He had just disabled six men and turned to find his partner being beaten by two men, but still standing. Sarengerel threw his stick like a javelin against the temple of one man and as the stick bounced back he leapt and caught it and spun and struck the other man with two blows before landing on his feet. Ihasuril nodded to acknowledge he was fine. Sarengerel motioned to the other men on the field.

“I’ll have to teach you the Dual Bolas formation someday,” Sarengerel said.

There were only four other men left who were fighting each other. When Sarengerel and Ihasuril arrived, there were only two left. Each of them took on one combatant each, and Sarengerel was too skilled for his challenger. Ihasuril had little trouble of his own, Sarengerel noted. He looked at the multiple tattoos on the captain’s body and saw how experienced he was. When Ihasuril’s opponent fell, the crowd began to chant. Ihasuril looked around at the stadium. "Looks like everyone is either disarmed or unconsious. It is just us now, general."

“I see you were at the Battle of the Red Floods,” Sarengerel said, pointing to a tattoo on Ihasuril’s abdomen. “I was there as well. You fought for the Iha clan, you say?”

“I was there for far too small a part of it, yes,” Ihasuril said. “My Lord had me defend our territories, so I was not on the primary battlefield as I would have wanted. I missed the glory of the final fight. And I see you have been in many battles I have only heard songs about.”

“There is no glory in any fight, ever,” Sarengerel said. “Shall we?”

The two men took stances against each other. "The Iha clan once ruled Neredun, long ago," Ihasuril said. "If I win the princess' hand, the ancient clans could unite and all Neredunians will prosper. Think of this, general. You could defeat me, but think of how strong you want our nation to be. You have no blood-tree. Not all will follow you. Think of our people. You need me to win the princess, for our people's sake."

Ihasuril lunged at Sarengerel. Sarengerel pivoted his stance backwards, causing Ihasuril to force his reach. Serengerel tossed his own sticks at Ihasuril and grabbed the captain's sticks and wrestled them away in a single twist. Ihasuril fell to the ground, disarmed.

"I'm not trying to win the people," Sarengerel said. “You’ve been disarmed, Captain. It was an honor to fight with you.”

The final contest was over. Sarengerel had endured the jousting at sea, the slaying of the unchained beasts, the endurance in the burning sun at the render-post, and finally the Kanyen stick fighting tournament. Over two hundred men had started the contests three days ago, and now he truly stood alone.