Another one bites the dust (Five minutes freewrite)

The towering figure of the lord of the lands bent down over the body of this latest brazen challenger, picked up the dagger clasped in the now dead hand and put it under his belt. The crowd erupted in cheers as he spat on the body. Another win chalked under his name. He'd lost track long ago of his duels, his hand sometimes shook, but he still reigned supreme over the seven counties. As he should.
A short fat peasant with a sweaty brow came forward to offer him a bottle of whisky. Lord Bast raised the bottle over his head in a sort of toast. Time for the party to begin. He didn't not drink with them, he never went in any of their filthy pubs. That would not do. He was the undisputed lord of this god-forsaken land, he had no time to mingle with these simple brutes. They would have cheered his death just the same, that much he was certain of. That stupid boy lying dead in the dirt had been one of them, maybe not from this village exactly, but still a nobody like the rest of them. Kill one guy in a drunken fight and the next thing you know they fancied themselves a match to the mighty Bast.
He'd spent decades bringing all these peasants to heel, spilling rivers of blood to rise to the top and still there was no end to the arrogant pricks who tried to take his crown. As if it were that easy. Kill Bast and bam, you're lord of the Land.
It didn't work like that, he'd learned it the hard way. He was nothing but an arrogant little prick himself, all cocky, all strutting around after he'd killed a couple of small time crooks. He thought he was king until a knife in the back almost ended his short reign. He was lucky he'd always been strong and managed to kill that sneaky bastard that had followed him out of the whorehouse and had crept upon him as he was preparing to mount his horse.
He became Bast the ruthless after that, he never showed fear or mercy. If he happened to walk their streets, he walked alone. Teach them they were not worthy to walk in his shade or call him anything other than Lord Bast.
These days he rarely ventured in their villages, enough that they sent him his due and a steady flow of maidens to keep him company. He'd never married, that would have made him vulnerable. He'd never voluntarily offer them a weak spot. If they wanted to be rid of him, they'd have to kill him.
A young girl took a few fearful steps towards him. Their way of apologizing for having given shelter to the unfortunate challenger. Such a common face she had. Lord Bast turned his head in disgust, a calculated move to show them his anger. And, he really had no interest in the stupid girl. Just how many virgins does one man need? He had his faithful Martha at the farm in case he needed a woman, which he rarely did these days.
He was tired and he needed to rest, too, as another fight awaited him. He'd heard of that young man up north, who was making his name killing landowners and tradesmen. Making his way to Bast. Oh, well.

Only two weeks from his last duel, Lord Bast rode to the village. He'd had word young Matias was there, trying to raise the people against him. His people!
He had fire in his eyes young Matias and his arm was strong. He stood defiant and dared to look the lord in the eye. Bast liked a worthy opponent and he could see the boy had it him. He could see himself in the young man and Matias could see himself in the old man standing before him. But only Bast knew how hard and lonely the road to the top was.
He lingered maybe a few moments too much on these thoughts and Matias struck him hard, sent him reeling to the line of trees. Bast picked himself up and returned to the fight. Like a hungry dog, the boy had sensed the weakness behind the proud face of the all-powerful Lord Bast and dealt him two more blows, sending Bast down on his knees. The crowd gasped. Young Matias hurled himself forth ready to deliver the final blow. His sword went deep inside, barely a few inches from the heart, leaving Lord Bast in a pool of blood. Not dead, though. Matias picked up the sword again. It was his moment of glory, the road to success lay open before him. All he had to do was to dispatch the old man to the other world with a masterful blow. Something fearsome, something people would remember. As he pondered his choices, Lord Bast picked his own dagger and in one swift move plunged it hard into his murder's right arm, severing flesh and muscles, until it scraped and cracked the bone. The young man's fighting days were over.
'One day you'll thank me for this', he told the boy who would never grow up to be Lord Matias.

Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge. Today's prompt was: chalk! Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.

Thanks for reading!

Image:Pixabay