The voice in his head said, “Staff up.”
Grit threw his staff up just in time to deflect the second arrow coming from the first elf. Grit realized that the elves were working together. Grit charged the first elf. He ran as fast as he could. The elf tried to notch another arrow, but didn’t have time. He threw his bow to the ground and pulled his blade free. Grit saw the grin on his face and knew he was looking forward to this battle. Grit saw the elf to his rear preparing for another shot.
Diving to the ground, he came up with his staff pointed at the elf’s face. The elf batted it away, causing Grit to have to spin to avoid the lunge of the knife at his midsection. Grit tumbled to the ground and saw the elf with the bow release his shot. Grit didn’t have but a fraction of a second to make a move. He spun his staff and caught the elf behind his knees, knocking his feet out from under him. He fell, blocking the arrow’s path. Grit heard the arrow thunk as it buried itself in the elf’s side. A look of shock filled the elf’s face just before his eyes glazed over.
The elf in the meadow screamed and notched another arrow, pointing it in Grit’s directions as he ran forward with his bow cocked. Grit stood, lifting the other elf by his bakree and using him as a shield.
Grit charged the other elf, holding the dead elf, covering his midsection. The elf, filled with rage, threw his bow to the side at the last second and pulled his knife. Grit pushed his staff out as far as it could go just as he pushed the dead elf to the side. The surprised elf ran into the pointed end that Grit had hardened with flame and pine-pitch and felt it slide into his stomach. Grit bared his teeth and using both hands, drove the staff in, piercing through to the other side. The elf dropped to his knees and curled into a ball as Grit pulled his staff free. It made a sickening sucking sound as it exited the wound.
The elf watcher charged across the field, his knife raised. Grit had precious little time to raise his staff and bat away the first blow. By now, Grit realized that they had colluded to kill him. The elf circled to his right, staying just out of reach of the staff.
They fought, each taking turns attacking. Grit had cuts across his arms, his leg and a shallow cut across his middle-section. The elf had a broken arm and contusions on his ribs and legs.
“You are going to die,” the elf growled.
“You are a watcher? Why do you do this?”
“Because you are human! No human will ever win the contest, not while I live and breathe.”
The elf charged again and his knife narrowly missed Grit’s ribs as Grit cast a spell of speed. Grit swirled his staff and the elf pulled back, ducking under the staff and rolling to the side avoiding a fierce downwards chop.
Grit was tiring and his moves were getting sloppy. “Stay alert!” the voice said.
Grit growled and held his staff in front of him. The elf laughed as he danced with his knife. “You grow weak!”
“Not so weak as to be unable to beat you.”
The elf lunged and Grit stepped back. The elf paused mid-strike, giving Grit an opening. Grit spun his staff as fast as he could, catching the elf in the jaw. He heard the sound of cracking bone and saw the elf’s neck cock awkwardly off to the side. The elf fell to the ground, an arrow buried deep in his back. Grit crouched low and spun full circle, looking to the attacker. He saw the girl elf, his watcher, step up out of the grass. She was holding the bow from the first elf he had killed.
Grit visibly calmed.
She walked up, pulled the arrow free and kicked the other watcher, rolling him to his back.
“He brings disgrace to the entire elf clan. I have never witnessed such betrayal and bitterness.”
Another two watchers came out of the woods.
“We should call off the contest!” the oldest said, shaking his head.
“I disagree Vadim,” said the other female. Grit has fought per the rules. He beat the two contestants. The watcher he fought should not figure into the contest. What say you, Gwyn?”
“I agree,” answered Gwyn, the girl who had killed the watcher. I will still report this to Shar’ran. He needs to know.’
‘Then it is settled?” the oldest asked.
The three nodded.
The fair skinned dark-haired girl turned to Grit. “You need to go back to your camp and tend your wounds. You can hunt again on the morrow.”
“I didn’t want to kill anybody…” Grit moaned.
“We know,” Vadim said. “You honor the games!”
Grit turned and headed into the woods, his head bent low and a sickening feeling in his stomach.
Once he had left, the old elf sighed. “That one is honorable.”
The old female, called Aela nodded. “He fights well. As outnumbered as he was, he should not have survived.”
The young girl, Gwyn, agreed. “Now we need to get these bodies back to the village and let Shar’ran know what has happened.
“I have already sent for riders,” said the old elf.
Gwyn looked into Vadim’s eyes and saw nothing but sorrow there. “I should watch. “If this were to occur again, we would have to take action.”
“Agreed!” said the old elf, rubbing his cheek. “I am sure that Shar’ran will want to address this at the council tonight.”
“Then you will see to it?”
The elf nodded, “I will.”
The old elf returned to the village of the people with the three dead bodies draped over the back of a horse. He traveled along with the elder female elf known as Aela. When they reached the center of the village, they laid out the three bodies in the council chambers and Shar’ran was summoned.
Shar’ran entered the chambers and saw the bodies. His face saddened. “What has happened here?”
Aela cleared her throat. “These elves have colluded and attacked Grit together. Grit killed the two competitors in fair battle. Grit’s watcher was forced to put the other elf down with an arrow. It is not clear if Grit would have won had she not fired.”
Shar’ran swore in elvish, cursing the gods. “We cannot have this. It has disgraced our kind. We owe great fasah to Grit. I hope he can forgive us and does not think that all elves are such.”
“Fasah? Are you sure?” asked the eldest, looking more than a bit pale. “Fasah is reserved for debts that are owed by the tribes—together…”
Shar’ran nodded. “Grit is guided by the ancients. He is here for purpose. Aaron has told me so in a dream.”
Vadim knew that the spirit of Aaron talked to Shar’ran, and now that Shar’ran had mentioned that the spirit was guiding Grit, much of what had transpired began to make sense.
Vadim stroked his long beard. “Do we continue the contest?”
“We must. If Grit does not win, the tribes will never follow him in the battles to come.”
“Of what battles do you speak?” Vadim asked.
“The battles against the dark forces of magic that I can feel rising. There have been whispers in the air from our forefathers. They say the dark tide is rising.”
“They would follow you,” Vadim quietly added.
Shar’ran stared down at the dead elves before him. “Yes, But I do not think that I am supposed to lead…”
The eldest head jerked at the comment.
Shar’ran noticed the reaction and placed a comforting hand on his friends back.
“I think that Grit has more magic than I. I’m afraid that we will need his magic and the combined magic of all those who wield the one power before this battle can be won.”
That evening, the horn sounded eight times. There were three left. An angry Shar’ran stood in the council chambers and chastised the elves of the south, asking them to leave the valley and never return until they had learned the way of the people.
“You have disgraced us all with your plotting and scheming.”
The long-eared elf of the south stood and shook a finger at Shar’ran. “No, it is you who disgraces us, by letting a human fight for the title.”
“He has earned the right.”
“Bah! He has trained but a short few weeks. We have trained a lifetime. We are the people.”
“You do not act like the people! Mayhap the gods and spirits guide him. He is marked by the ancient ones.” Shar’ran quietly said.
The long-eared elf snarled. “You talk about things you do not know…”
Shar’ran was getting angry. His neck pulsed and his fists were at his side, clenched. His face went pale and his eyes rolled in their sockets and a haunting voice came from his mouth as his body quivered and fell to its knees.
“You are dangerously close to being arrogant in assuming you know anything about the elders. I, Aaron, have chosen Grit. It is I who trained him and guide his eyes. It is I who have selected who will be Tala’fein.”
The long-eared elf stared in disbelief.
The room went dark and the fire flashed high. A vision of Aaron, the elf warrior and guiding spirit of the elves rose from the flames for all to see. His long white hair flowed to his waist and his eyes shined like the stars. His battle armor glimmered and his bow, by name—El’tandor—was draped across his shoulder and his two scimitars were sheathed at his waist. He stepped out of the flames and walked into the room, a vision for all to see.
The people lowered their heads and fell to their knees, bowing before the spirit.
“For many centuries, Shar’ran has carried the mantle of champion. The wars to come will need a new leader. The dark ones have returned. Grit will lead us and the wizards into the battle. It is by my choice. The lad is a war-wizard and will be the mightiest in battle. His heart is kind, and true. I have seen this. The tribes owe him much fasah.”
The long-eared elf bowed, but said nothing.
Aaron walked to the long-eared elf, who refused to bow. “Will you not bow before me? You show me much disrespect.”
The elf snarled. “I will not bow before a traitor of my race…”
Aaron eyes flared and he reached out a hand, placing it on the head of the elf. “Then, you are unworthy…”
And with that, Aaron sucked out the vitality of the elf. His skin dried and his face collapsed in upon itself. Finally, his body burst into flame and was consumed.
Aaron held out a finger and swept it across the room. “Are there any others who wish to challenge my decree?”
Grit heard the eight blasts from the horn and knew that there were but three of them left. He had mended his wounds with moss and herbs and tried to use a healing spell. He was surprised that it worked—partially. His wounds had stopped bleeding and had scabbed over. Try as he might, he could not get them to heal further. His head hurt and he was exhausted. The healing had taken more energy out of him than he had estimated. He sat on a small rock and waited as his rabbit cooked.
Morning did not greet him kindly. His body was stiff and sore, causing him to wince as he crawled out from the leaves. He had been lucky the night before and stumbled upon a morel mushroom patch. He had gathered as many as his arms could carry and had set them to the side for his morning meal. He skewered them on a stick and roasted them over a fire along with the few remaining tubers he had dug the day before.
Grit pushed himself to his feet after finishing his meal and steered his trek back in the direction of the ravine. He didn’t know where the two remaining elves were, but had figured that he had not checked either the far side of the valley or the area near the entrance. He didn’t run this day, conserving his energy.
He heard the battle. The unmistakable sound of metal on metal rang in the air. He followed the sound, half running and half walking, as best as his battered body would allow. He saw the two elves fighting in the middle of the field. They circled each other and their blades lunged and swiped at each other.
“Study and learn,” the voice in his head said.
Grit watched the rhythm of the blades; saw the methods they used to lure each other close and how they used the backsides of the blades to turn away deadly blows. The thin elf that the voice had warned him about was one of the warriors, Grit did not remember the other, although it was possible he had met him in passing.
For well over thirty minutes he watched before the thin one scored a deep gash on the thigh of the other. The wounded elf tried to continue and was further wounded with a blade across his mid-section and one across his back. He held his blade in the air and offered surrender. The thin elf nodded and stepped back.
Grit watched as two watchers rushed into the field and tended to the wounded elf, carrying him off on a stretcher made of woven reeds. Grit considered whether he should attack now, while the thin elf was tired. The voice in his head cautioned him against the plan. “You are not in condition to fight this elf. He is stronger than he appears. See how he walks? His step is not that of one that is weary. He used that to trick the other elf into making rash moves.”
Grit watched him cross the meadow and disappear into the wood. Grit returned to his shelter and drank deeply from the water sliding down the cliff. He worked his way back to the field where he had battled the two elves the previous day and was surprised to find one of the bows and a quiver of arrows laying in the tall grass.
He shouldered the bow and searched for the camp of the two elves. He found their hideaway not more than thirty-feet into the wood. They had a pile of berries and some plants that Grit recognized from his meals and training. He gathered up what he could carry and made his way back toward his camp.
At dusk, he ventured out to check his traps. They were empty, which wasn’t a big surprise to him, given that he had already pulled seven rabbits from the area. The likelihood of more hares in this exact area was small.
A motion to his right caught his attention and he froze. He spotted the ears of a small dear just above a tall shrub not more than thirty feet away. He slowly removed his bow and nocked and arrow. He pulled the bow to length and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He aimed through the brush to where he thought the deer’s midsection was and let the arrow fly. The deer jumped into the sky and took off down the trail. Grit growled at his poor aim and followed as fast as he could, hoping the deer wouldn’t run far before calming down.
Grit found the deer laying on the side of the trail not more than a hundred yards from where he had shot it. The arrow was buried deep in its chest. Grit pulled the arrow free and set his bow down. It took him less than fifteen minutes to remove several slabs of meat. He felt guilty about not being able to take all of it. It wasn’t in his nature to waste. He hefted the deer into a tree and hung it upside down, gutted it and hoped that the cool night air would be enough to preserve the meat for a couple of days.
He returned to his camp and skewered the venison and cooked it over the fire. He ate as much as his stomach would hold, knowing that his body needed the nourishment to heal.
He felt better the next morning. He stretched and did his morning exercises, just as Shar’ran had taught him. The watcher elf watched him practice. She studied his movements, which were crisp and clean. This human did not move as such—he was more elf than human she decided. When Grit pulled out his blade and the blade he had found at camp and began to dance, her eyes went wide. Grit recalled the battle yesterday and mimicked their movements. At first, it felt foreign, but after several minutes, he saw the flow and wisdom of the motions and a wide grin spread across his face. A deeply chagrinned elf sat high in a tree, shaking her head. She had just witnessed a human learning the Dance of the Spin in a matter of minutes. Most elves needed a decade or more just to avoid slicing themselves to ribbons. She concluded that this human was far more than he appeared and was blessed by the gods.
After he finished, he ate more of the steak, washing it down with plenty of water. He examined his wounds, which were close to being healed. He wondered if it were the magic he wove or just time that had healed them.
Grit picked up his staff, bow and knife and headed toward the ravine. When he arrived, the elf was standing in the middle of the meadow waiting for him.
“I was wondering if y
ou were going to attack me yesterday...” he said with a grin on his face.
Grit nodded. “I’ve about had enough of this fighting.”
“I agree,” the elf said. “You could just surrender and let me win.”
Grit shook his head.
“Well then, we will have to battle to see who is best.”
“Seems that way,” Grit said, then added, “I could try to skewer you with arrows.”
“Do you really think you will have better luck on me than the two woodland elves had with you?”
“You know about that?” Grit asked.
“I watched.” You were lucky that the elf girl Gwyn helped you.”
“They cheated—”
“—and they paid the price it would seem.”
“Shall we wait for the watchers to come witness the battle?”
“Why not…I’m in no hurry to win; are you in a hurry to lose?”
Grit shook his head and removed his bow. Grit saw two watchers enter the meadow, Gwyn he knew and another girl he didn’t.
“Well, let’s get on with this...” Grit mumbled as he started across the meadow.
The two competitors circled one another, taking measure.
“You don’t move like a human,” said the elf in compliment.
Grit nodded. “You also cover well for the shortness of your leg.”
“One does what one can,” he said, while shrugging and giving a short bow.
“Born that way?”
The elf nodded.
“I don’t remember your name,” said Grit.
“Val’aer. Val’aer Thorn,” the elf replied with a curt nod.
The elf made the first move, lunging in with a quickness that Grit had not expected. He slashed at Grits leg as he dove and rolled away, rising quickly to his feet. Grit had managed to get his blade down to block the blow, but just barely.
The elf smiled. “Very good! Not too many elves would have been able to block that attack.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Grit growled.
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla Page 37