They pushed their way through the crowded city, to the entrance of the cache. The chief was waiting for them, beaming on his people like a jovial war god.
“Are you ready to do battle?” he asked. “Or to surrender?”
“Sure,” Fannia said. “Now, Donnaught!”
He swung, and his mailed fist caught Donnaught in the ribs. Donnaught blinked.
“Come on, you idiot, hit me back.”
Donnaught swung, and Fannia staggered from the force of the blow. In a second they were at it like a pair of blacksmiths, mailed blows ringing from their armored hides.
“A little lighter,” Fannia gasped, picking himself up from the ground. “You’re denting my ribs.” He belted Donnaught viciously on the helmet.
“Stop it!” the chief cried. “This is disgusting!”
“It’s working,” Fannia panted. “Now let me strangle you. I think that might do it.”
Donnaught obliged by falling to the ground. Fannia clamped both hands around Donnaught’s armored neck, and squeezed.