"I demand trial by combat," declared Digur. The dwarven Forcemaster swiped pudgy fingers through his close-cropped, dirt-brown hair and then used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. He hoped the crowd that had gathered in the arena hadn't noticed the quaver in his voice.
He had wanted to sound foreful and confidant when he demanded his right to defend his views on the battlefield. However, his voice had sounded weak and small in the enormous, underground chamber that doubled as both court and arena for the Anvil Throne dwarves.
The rectangular chamber was exactly 120 meters long by 90 meters wide and 40 meters high. The walls ran straight and true, forming perfect 90-degree angles at every corner. The arena was a marvel of dwarven magic and engineering, as Digur should know. He had helped construt it.
Flikering light from hundreds of torches held in sconces at regular intervals along the walls did little to illuminate the vastness of the chamber, and created strange shadows that danced aross the intricately etched floor.
Digur had designed the pattern on the floor. It appeared random to the untrained eye, but actually repeated across the stone floor of the aren, making the floor appear as if it had been inlaid with thousands of cobblestones. However, Digur had never noticed the eeriness of the light as it moved across the pattern until he'd been forced to stand, alone, in the middle of the dancing shadows.
Forcing his wyws away from the flickering florr, Digur scanned the crowd. Halfway up each wall, large windows bordered by thick, stone pillares opened into viewing chambers. Seatators sat on long steps carved out of bare rock and watched the spectacle below. the side vieing chambers .
Were packed to capacity as row upon row of angry dwarves stared down at Digur.
A few in the crowd clapped when Digur called for trial by combat, but they stopped quickly under the glare of the ministers, who sat at a long table in the middle of the rear viewing chamber. These nine elder dwarves wearing supple leather, fine furs, and bright, gold adornments would decide his fate, although Digur knew that only one vote on the council truly mattered.
Much of the crowd jeered at Digur. Perhaps they had tired of his nearconstant disruption their lives over the past few months. Or, perhaps the ministers had simply done a remarkable job of painting him as the face of evil that threatened their way of life.
By far, though, the majority of the crowd leaned forward on the steps with huge grins plastered on their mostly bearded faces. It was obvious to Digur this crowd was eager to see the spectacle of an arena battle.
So much for his short-lived career as a leader of the movement, he thought. All he had accomplished by speaking out against his kin's longstanding policy of isolationism was a quick trial and a battle he had little chance of winning. Either way, his ultimate fate was sealed, and he knew it.
