Grimjaw Stonehide's Arc

Chapter 12 of 15

Throk's warning stayed with Grimjaw. A patient man would not lunge. He would wait and probe, and Grimjaw would never feel it coming on his metal side. So Grimjaw needed to know the truth before a real challenger found it. He needed to learn where his steel tusk failed under a slow, grinding lock. He walked to the training tent at dawn to find someone who would not go easy. Inside, hides and bones braced the walls. A wrapped post stood in the corner, straps worn from years of grinding tusks. Grimjaw drove his metal tusk against it and pushed. The steel held. It always held. But the post told him nothing about a living opponent who twisted and hunted. "You waste your morning, champion." The voice came from the shadows near the trophy rack. Grath Ironjaw stepped forward, an old orc, gray in the beard, two swords crossed at his back. He had watched every bout of the tournament from the crowd and never once cheered. "A post does not fight back. Neither do those boys you throw around." Grimjaw faced him. "You think you can grip a troll?" Grath spat and set his swords on a rough bench weighted with boulders. "I have wrestled trolls since before your father cut his teeth. I do not tire. I do not rush. That is what will break you." He lowered his head. His own tusks were short but thick. "Come. Test the steel or stay blind." They locked. Grath went left, straight for the metal. Grimjaw felt nothing through the tusk, so he shut his eyes and read the feet. But Grath's feet did not slide. They rooted. He ground slow and steady, tightening the lock a hair at a time, giving no rush to exploit. Grimjaw waited for the shift Throk taught him to feel. It never came. Then Grath twisted his neck and drove down at a sharp angle. Grimjaw's metal tusk took the whole force. It did not break. But the root where steel met bone screamed pain up into his skull. His jaw buckled. He staggered and lost his footing. Grath rode him down and pinned him in the dirt. The old orc released him and stood. "There," he said. "The metal never snaps. But the bone that holds it is not steel. Grind it long enough at that angle, and your own jaw gives before the tusk does." Grimjaw sat up, hand pressed to his aching jaw. He had his answer now. The prosthetic had a limit, and it was not the tusk. It was the socket, the flesh and bone beneath. A patient challenger who found that angle would not need to break the steel. He would only need to break Grimjaw. Grath gathered his swords. "Now you know where you die," he said. "Learn to guard it, or don't come back."