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My enemy and I circle around the clearing, eyes locked. Or at least, I think our eyes are locked. The Samurai standing across from me wears a mask, though the corner’s dented where I connected with my sword a few seconds ago.
The next hit could be the death of either of us though, a one-on-one duel that’s gone on for what seems like hours. My palms are sweaty, my arms sore as I shift the weight of my claymore back and forth—first left, then right, left again, then up above my head. My opponent mirrors my actions, both of us looking for an opening.
Then a fat Viking bursts through the trees and stabs my opponent in the back. “I’ve got your back,” he yells, before taking off again.
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