Grimjaw Stonehide's Arc

Chapter 11 of 15

Two days after Kraz'jin fit the metal tusk, a challenger arrived. Grimjaw learned it in the trophy tent, where he slept beneath hanging skulls and banners. A messenger ducked through the flap. "Grok Frostmane calls you out," he said. "He wants the belt." Grimjaw sat up on the hide-draped bed. His left tusk was cold steel now, silent to every touch. A challenger this soon meant the man had a plan. He found Throk Ironhide near the weapon wall, testing an axe he had no need of. The old champion had lost his title to Grimjaw days ago. He set the axe back on its rack. "You beat me with your right," Throk said. "Everyone saw why. Your left was rot. Now it is metal." He tapped his own left tusk. "Frostmane knows both. He built himself to work your blind side. He will grip left-to-left and read every twitch. You will read nothing back." "Then tell me how to beat a man who fights inside my dead side," Grimjaw said. Throk did not answer at once. He studied the metal point. "You cannot feel his lock. So do not try. Feel him another way. His feet. His breath on your neck. His weight through your shoulders. I fought blind on ice once. The tusk lies. The body does not." Grimjaw walked out to the arena at dusk. Grok Frostmane waited in the packed dirt ring, broad and grinning, lower tusks jutting. "The metal-mouth champion," Grok called. "I studied you all week. Your left is a stick now. Dead wood." He lowered his head and drove straight for the blind side. Their left tusks met. Grimjaw felt nothing through the steel, no shift, no angle. Grok twisted, hunting the lock, sure his prey was helpless. Grimjaw shut his eyes. He stopped waiting for the tusk. He felt Grok's front foot slide forward. He felt the shoulder press harder on his left, felt the breath quicken against his cheek. Grok was committing everything to a side that could not be tricked. Grimjaw gave. He let his dead left drop, and Grok's weight fell into the empty space he trusted. The moment the foot slid past, Grimjaw drove up with his right tusk and locked hard. He read that grip clean, bone on bone. He turned his hips and hauled. Grok's own lunge carried him over. He hit the dirt on his back, tusks pointing at the sky. The ring roared. Grimjaw stood over him, chest heaving. He had won blind on the left, not by feeling the lock but by feeling the man. Throk crossed the ring and gripped his arm. "You held the belt," he said. Then, quieter: "But you won by luck of his rush. A patient man will not lunge. He will wait, and probe, and never give you that fall." Grimjaw looked down at his silent metal tusk. The belt was his. The next challenger would come slower.