Immortal

by T Nisbet

I was talking with Gill and the other guardsmen when Captain Marchon came in and announced that it was time. Gill and I followed him out of the station after the guardsmen had wished me luck, and we pressed our way through the jam-packed crowd to the brightly colored pavilion. We entered the same way we had earlier in the day, only the tents interior had changed dramatically. The canvas walls inside had been rolled up to the ceiling, opening the entire tent as one large room.

  Cots filled with men recovering from their duels filled the open space in neat rows. As we walked through the space I noticed the black stains on their clothing. Men and women in various colored robes were attending many of the former combatants. As I looked around a thought occurred to me.

  “Why are they still wounded? I thought the wounds faded after ten minutes,” I asked looking around.

  “That was for the testing,” Captain Marchon said picking his way through the cots. “If someone is wounded in a duel, but wins and has to fight again, they stay wounded, just as they would in a battle.”

  “For how long?”

  “They keep their wounds until the tournament is complete,” Captain Marchon answered.

  It didn’t seem very humane. Quite a few of the earlier contestants appeared to be suffering horribly despite the ministrations of the robed attendants.

  We exited the opposite side of the large circus tent and I found myself in a small staging area behind the main platform. Someone up on the platform was speaking to the crowd. Fifty-thousand people or more roared in response to whatever it was he was saying. The sound was deafening.

  “We must make our leave now Master Gunn,” Captain Marchon shouted above the crowd noise. “This area is for the contestants alone. Whatever happens, the Guard will be proud of you!”

  He clapped me on the back. Gill winked, and followed his captain around the platform out into the crowd.

  I watched them go and turned around wondering if there was a place I could sit down to wait until it was my turn to duel. An elegantly dressed elf stood before me. He bowed low, his long blond hair falling forward around his handsome face. I returned the bow awkwardly.

  “We shall have the honor of crossing blades,” he said smiling brightly.

  He was slightly shorter than me and weighed quite a bit less, but he looked extraordinarily athletic. His face was angular, with high cheekbones and flawless, lightly tanned skin. His eyes were merry and as blue as a Caribbean sea. It was hard to believe creatures so incredible truly existed.

  “I am Lathris, of Lor Lorenith,” he smiled, putting his hand over his heart.

  “Jake,” I said, and extended my hand, not knowing what else to do.

  “Jake then,” he laughed taking my hand. His laughter was so contagious I found myself smiling. “Perhaps it shall be a more formal salutation after you finish your quest.”

  I tried not to let my smile become a frown. How did everyone seem to know about my quest? I decided to play dumb.

  “What quest?”

  The smile disappeared from his handsome face as the stately elf regarded me.

  “Shall we speak of these matters after our match? I think it best that we don’t let the death drinker in on our conversation just yet,” he said nodding over to where a figure draped in dark clothing sat, a mask covering his features. As I regarded him, he reached up and pulled off the mask.

  I looked at the figure in black and recognized him immediately. It was one of the musicians from The Pregnant Wench, the flute player that Brianna had been so enthralled with. Feeling my gaze, the blood elf looked up at me and smiled, then tapped his ear to let me know he could hear what we were saying.

  “Okay…” I said, pulling my gaze from the musician, back to Lathris.

  A loud bell rang out over the noise of the crowd.

  “It’s time, Jake,” the regal elf said smiling once more and gesturing towards the stairs leading to the platform.

  I followed him as he lightly ran up the stairs and onto the platform. The sea of people surrounding the raised stage erupted into deafening cheers as we made our way over to a circle painted onto the top of the platform. A robed figure stood facing away from us towards the throng. I let my gaze wander over the immense square. It was filled to overflowing.

  He let the crowd go on for a few minutes, then held his hands up for quiet. His voiced soared over the enormous crowd like an announcer at a boxing match. I looked around but didn’t see any PA system or speakers. Some sort of magic must have amplified his voice.

  “The second semi-final match pits Master Gunn of our very own Guard against Prince Lathris Goldenfern of Lor Lorenith. The winner shall advance to the finals,” he said pausing as a page ran up onto the stage and handed him a piece of paper. Reading the note, he held up his hands for quiet. “Where he will meet… the legendary swordsman, Guldan,” he shouted and turned towards us.

  The crowd noise swelled up and crashed over the wooden platform as he looked at us both and shrugged as if in apology for who the winner would have to face in the finals.

  “Take your places on the edge of the circle,” he said, his voice magnified over the crowd noise.

  The elf standing before me was a prince? I moved to the edge of the painted circle and faced the high elf from Lor Lorenith.

  “Salute,” said the robed announcer.

  I drew Gwensorloth out of its scabbard and saluted. Lathris did the same with his elegant shining blade.

  “Begin.”

  The roar of the crowd faded into the background as I stepped forward and touched blades with the elven swordsman. His opening attack was tentative and I responded easily, my body and mind at one with my sword. He was far better than anyone I’d faced yet, his blade faster, his movements more sure and his technique perfect.

  I saw openings as we moved back and forth across the platform, but they were fleeting and quickly covered. I felt joy singing through my veins as we danced, our swords a blur of death.

  I decided to press him and see just how good he was. I went through a series of attacking feints and slashes I instinctively knew were called ‘The Quails Run,’ and Lathris fell back before me a joyous smile on his lips. I could feel myself mirroring his grin as he defended himself using a variant of Guldan’s defense. I relented in my attack and let him take the offensive. His blade was lightning and flashed in the late afternoon sun as he pressed me backwards. I countered, and parried, met his every slash and lunge. He relented not able to get past my guard, his grin giving way to laughter. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realized the crowd had gone silent.

  I found myself laughing as well as we traded attacks and defenses. I didn’t take advantage of the few openings I revealed in his guard, I was too busy reveling in the joy of the dance. It was so much fun I forgot about everything but the fight.

  I decided to turn it up a notch knowing somehow that I had higher skill levels I hadn’t explored yet. I attacked and he fell back before me across the stage, then suddenly jumped back and held up his hand. I stepped back from my attack. My regal opponent took a knee and placed his sword before him at the edge of the circle.

  “I yield,” he said still laughing. “You are my better Light-Bearer.”

  I became aware of the sudden tumultuous cheering of the crowd. I sheathed Gwensorloth and stood panting from the exertion.

  “Prince Lathris of Lor Lorenith yields,” shouted the announcer over the cheering crowd. “Master Gunn of the city guard advances!”

  The regal elf picked up his sword and sheathed it. He smiled and started walking towards me when he suddenly stopped, looking towards the stairs a dark look of hatred coming over his beautiful face. I turned and saw the blood elf step onto the platform. The crowd stopped their cheering as the pale elf crossed over to stand in front of me.

  “Our blades cannot cross young Immortal. So I too yield,” he said taking a knee and pulling out his blade. It was a quail blade. The cross guard on the ornate hilt was much like my own, though subtly different. I took a d
eep breath as he laid the sword at my feet.

  “Lord Guldan yields!” shouted the announcer. “Master Gunn is champion of the tournament!”

  The crowd went wild. Roses and gold coins showered onto platform as the blood elf retrieved his blade and stood.

  I was utterly shocked. Was this the same Guldan that invented the defensive technique?

  “Perhaps you and my brother from Lor Lorenith will speak to me of this quest to which I’ve been called,” he said standing confidently before me as people rushed onto the stage to congratulate me. I was hoisted onto shoulders. “After the celebration of course,” he smiled darkly.