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Ymor smiled as his servant finished strapping his armor on.  Out of habit, he picked up his sword and swung it around, making sure his armor wasn�t constricting his movement.  It wasn�t.  His smile grew vicious as he sheathed his sword, imagining the scene the upcoming battle would make.

Two brothers, fighting each other to the death for the throne, in the time-honored fashion of Klavolkia.  In the midst of the battle, an overenthusiastic supporter of Ymor�s would �help� his hero by shooting the other contender, Prince Torque, with a crossbow.  Ymor would, of course, be furious by this disregard for honor, and even more so when the assass-�er, devotee escaped.

Ymor turned to face the entrance into the stadium, the noise of the crowd muffled somewhat by the stone the whole building was constructed of.  It was a pity his brother had to die; he would have made a good advisor.  But Ymor wanted the throne, and if he had to kill Torque to get it, then so be it.

The trumpets played the fanfare marking Ymor�s entrance, and he strode through the archway in the sunlight streaming down through the nonexistent ceiling, his supporters screaming incoherently.  Torque was already there, standing perhaps two thirds of the way across the circular arena.  When the cheering�and booing�finally died down, some high official whose name Ymor couldn�t remember read the rules of the fight, which were basically: No outside help, and whoever lives, wins.  The nameless bureaucrat struck a gong, and the fight commenced.

Slowly, the two brothers orbited each other, gradually circling closer, like sharks.  With the suddenness of lightning, they both attacked at once, a flurry of blows and blocks, a whirling circle of steel emerging between them as it became impossible to tell the two blades apart.  As suddenly as the attack began, it stopped as Torque broke away.  The circling began anew.

�Oh,� Torque said nonchalantly, as if remembering something, �I asked the guards to conduct a weapons search for anyone attending this match.  I forgot to tell you, but figured you�d agree.  You wouldn�t want any overzealous fans affecting the outcome either, would you?�

Ymor�s sword grew slippery in his hands as he began to sweat.  He could see where this was leading.  Torque executed a complicated disarm maneuver with the quickness he was famous for, and Ymor�s sword slipped from his grasp.  Ymor�s eyes darted this way and that, seeking for escape, as his thoughts tumbled by too fast to make sense of.  He felt the cold tip of his brother�s weapon come to rest above his heart, and somehow heard him through the roaring in his ears.

�The funny thing was, there was only one person with a long-range weapon with him; one of your fans, I believe.  Unfortunately for him, the guards doing the weapons check follow me.�

Torque fell silent, as if waiting for Ymor to say something, his sword still ready for the killing blow.  Ymor stood, frightened almost out of his mind and slightly bemused, the whispered brokenly, �Mercy��

�No mercy, brother, for I showed the archer none,� Torque replied as he thrust his sword into Ymor�s heart.

Torque almost staggered as the noise of the audience, ignored in the concentration fighting required, hit him like a ton of�well, anything.  A ton is a ton.  Smiling, realizing he had finally achieved his goal after so many years of waiting, he turned away from his brother�s corpse and approached the plinth upon which lay the crown of Klavolkia.  His sister, the princess Zurianna, waited behind the dais to place the coronet on his head, for none but the members of the royal family were allowed to touch the sacred thing.  As he came to within a few yards of the pedestal, princess, and crown, Zurianna slid her arms out of the voluminous sleeves of her red robe�revealing a throwing dagger in either hand.

At that distance, she couldn�t miss.

As Torque sunk to the ground, cold steel embedded in his cold heart just like Ymor, Zurianna mirrored his smile of a moment before and placed the crown on her head.