Behind him, a twig snapped. He flinched and barred his teeth, growling like his wolf mother had to ward off predators. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He scanned the darkness. Nothing.
Creak.
A whoosh-like noise followed as something thin and sharp—an arrow—struck the tree trunk inches from his bottom. With a yelp, he jumped up, right before a hatchet embedded itself into the tree where he’d been sitting only seconds before. Another arrow sailed over his head. That was his cue to run. He made like a white-tailed deer and bolted into the forest at full speed. Low branches smacked him in the face and caught his clothes, but there was no time to cut a path as more arrows poured down on him like rain—sharp, pointy rain. One grazed his cheek, leaving a red line before it stopped in the trunk of a tree. Too close, thought Mongrel. From a glance, he could tell it wasn’t of elvish make. The tip was made of white bone. By the quality and quantity of weapons coming his way, he assumed it was Kavik’s tribesmen who pursued him. A spear whizzing past his head only validated his speculations.
He made a sharp left turn just in time for another spear to strike the ground where he would have been had he not changed course. Now he knew what the deer felt like running from his wolf pack as he fled into the shade of some old pine trees. He promised himself if he survived this attack, he would cut back on his meat intake, but only by a little bit.
There was only one way out of this, and fighting wasn’t an option. He found a giant old tree and took refuge behind its trunk. Holding his breath, he remained perfectly still until all the northern men passed.
At last, Mongrel let out a long-held sigh and lowered himself to the ground. He touched the cut on his cheek. It was shallow, nothing worth fussing over. A few inches deeper or lower and he would’ve had something to worry about. Realization set in. This had become a dangerous game whether he wanted to play it or not, and the stakes were higher than the wizard had projected, much higher.
It was worse than Laerilas had anticipated, much worse. Less than a day into the competition, and already a man was mortally wounded. They’d spent hours trying to heal him, using all varieties of leaves and magic, but their efforts were futile. By the time they’d started, the man was too far gone.
Laerilas stood back as one of the members—he couldn’t tell which one—stuffed leaves into the wound and summoned their healing properties to take effect.
His fingers twitched, a common reaction all elves experienced when near so much plant life. It was an urge to bend them, to make them dance, or help them grow. Unfortunately for Laerilas, his abilities never allowed him to do much more than coax open a shy bud, let alone grow a tree. He could only dream of raising a seed from the ground into the sky, and he doubted he would be of much help now.
Gwyndor stood beside him, breathing shallowly through his nose. His rage had finally boiled down to a simmer. Not that his temper couldn’t suddenly flair. But for the moment, Gwyn was the least of his worries. His petty cruelty was nothing compared to what the other competitors had in store. Injury, pain, and death loomed in the forefront of Laerilas’ mind and filled him with dread.
He wanted to live. He had nothing to live for, but all the same, he wanted to live. Death had always been an dicey subject for him, which even he had to admit was odd considering his upbringing as a taxidermist—damn that Mongrel—Preserver of Nature. There was something about killing animals and bringing them back to life, a better and more eternal life, that distorted his understanding of death.
His parents were dead. So was his grandfather . . . he assumed. So it wasn’t like he hadn’t experienced death firsthand. Still, there was something about the whole process that vexed him. Maybe it was the finality of it or the uncertainty of it; he wasn’t sure. All he knew was he didn’t want to experience it for himself, at least not anytime soon. With luck he wouldn’t have to face it for another nine hundred or so years. Or he could end up like whats-his-name over there, withering like a dying plant.
“Well?” Gwyn asked the healer after several minutes had gone by.
He shook his head. “The wound is beyond my abilities.”
“Useless,” Gwyn hissed and pushed the man aside to take his place beside their fallen comrade. “Don’t worry, Glandias, we shall avenge you—”
“My name’s not Glandias,” said the dying man.
“It’s not?” Gwyn frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. My name is Yeerlin. There isn’t even a Glandias in this group.”
“Oh.” Gwyn paused to consider his words. “Perhaps that’s one of my brothers. I have so many of them.” He offered the wounded man a smile before moving on with the eulogy. “Anyway, we will always remember you as a great swordsman—”
“Actually, I’m a much better bowman.”
“Nuance. But not only that, you were a talented baritone.”
“I’m more of an alto.”
“All the same, you will be remembered as one of the finest the city had to offer. The king’s guard will not be complete without you.” He turned to his men. “I don’t suppose one of you is hiding some uncanny talent for healing with plants, now would you?” he asked, a grim smile on his face. “If so, now would be a most convenient time for you to reveal that information to me.”
Laerilas pressed his lips together and kept his eyes to the ground. His fellow guardsmen did the same as Gwyn scanned their faces.
“I could give it a try.” The wounded man feebly raised his hand.
Gwyn smiled down at him. “No, you’re excused for the moment.” He glared at the others, who looked worse by comparison. “Surely one of your brothers is willing to try.”
They had already tried, even Aerin, who didn’t give a damn whether the man lived or died—everyone, that is, except for Laerilas. He’d just been standing there, useless, the entire time. He could tell by the way Gwyn’s eyes rolled as they passed over him that he was thinking the same thing. But he could at least try.
“Perhaps I could help,” he offered to the amusement of his fellow guardsmen.
Gwyn spared him a bemused smile. “No, this wound is beyond your abilities.”
Laerilas’ cheeks burned. He might as well just be a human, he thought bitterly, a human with pointy ears. But so what if he was magically challenged; there was one talent he possessed that didn’t require magic at all—taxonomy. He was sure none of the others knew much about plants, or they would have suggested it already.
“My grandfather taught me about healing herbs,” he said a shade uncertainly. “There’s one, a dark burgundy plant, that’s very potent. Perhaps it would be strong enough to save Yeerlin.”
“Fine, go get your plant.” Gwyn waved him away, no doubt grateful for a chance to get him out of the way rather than having him stand around looking like a failure.
“Actually, I carry some with me,” he said, reaching into his satchel.
Gwyn narrowed his eyes at the handful of burgundy leaves. But still he nodded his consent then moved aside so Laerilas could try. “Go on. Get it over with,” he said.
Laerilas knelt down beside the wounded man, who watched him warily from the corner of his eye. So much confidence they had in him, he scoffed as he stuffed the leaves inside the wound, but then again, if the man was going to die anyway . . . He placed his hands over the wound and coaxed the leaves to do their work. As usual, nothing happened. He tried harder. Still the leaves did not respond.
Why couldn’t he do it? He closed his eyes, concentrating all of his energy on activating the healing properties inside the leaves. But still, there was no response.
Just give up, he thought, lifting his hands from the wound, when a voice inside his head nagged at him to keep trying. Was it the plant? No, of course not. Plants never spoke to him the way they did for his grandfather. It was his grandfather’s voice lecturing him through the plant, giving instructions. And he listened. Maybe he wasn't good at listening to plants, but he had always obeyed his grandfather. He did exactly as he was told
until his fingers began to tingle. At last, a response, a weak one granted, but a response no less. The sensation spread to his hands, up his arms, and continued on until it filled his entire body. He couldn’t describe the feeling, but it reminded him of a time when his foot had fallen asleep after sitting too long.
When it was all over, his entire body was drained, as though the energy had been sucked out of him and absorbed into the leaves. Perhaps that was how it was supposed to work . . . had it worked?
He opened his eyes and removed his hands from the wound. Only there was no wound, just a scar. He gasped, realizing what he had done.
“So it seems our Laerilas does have a hidden talent.” Gwyn came beside him and placed his hand on his shoulder. The weight of it almost knocked him over. “Perhaps you’re not so useless after all.”
“Th-thank you,” Laerilas stuttered. Not that he believed Gwyn had meant to praise him. In fact, he wished he’d never revealed his true potential to Gwyn. After being used for target practice, he could only imagine how bad things would be for him as Gwyn’s white mage. Just when he thought things weren’t bad enough, they’d just gotten worse.
They were three against one, the dwarves versus Grrargh, not that the dwarves were at an advantage. What Grrargh lacked in number he made up for in size, sharp teeth, and fists like hammers. More importantly, he had rage, which was more than sufficient to hold his own against three dwarves.
Littlehammer ruminated over this as the ogre took blow after blow from her hammer, unaffected. After several more hits that yielded nothing more than a few bruises, Littlehammer was beginning to feel frustrated.
“Ach! Go doon awreddy!” she growled after her brother Battleaxe made a cut behind the ogre’s knee. Still, against the logics of physics, the creature would not fall.
“Toogh buggers, these ogres, eh?” Pickaxe laughed, backing away as the ogre took a swing at him. When he saw an opening, he brought his pick down, piercing a hole in the ogre’s foot. Being that close to the ogre made his eyes water. “An’ smelly, too.”
They shared a laugh while Grrargh nursed his wounded foot.
Littlehammer smacked them both upside the head with the flat of her hand. “Quit messin’ aroond. Let’s jist gie thes dain.”
“Ach! Gie us a break, Lil’ammer,” said Pickaxe. “We’re jist havin’ a wee bit ay fin.”
“Oh, aye,” she said, grabbing him by the ear and pulling him along. “An’ it’s nae wonder th’ brute’s still standin’.”
“What’s th’ big hurry, eh?” Battleaxe asked her. “We’ve got plenty ay fights aheid.”
“Nae if we lose thes one.”
“Lose?” Pickaxe snorted. “Thaur’s nae way we can lose. We’re three against one. Hoo cood it possibly—”
On cue, Grrargh charged them like a juggernaut at full force, bowling them over before making his escape.
“He’s gettin’ awa’!” Pickaxe scrambled to his feet. “Hurry, efter heem!”
“Ah, lae heem be.” Battleaxe, as always, had the final say, considering he was the self-appointed eldest. “Lit th’ coward run aff tae lick his woonds. We’ll catch up wi’ heem later. Besides, thaur’s better fights tae be hud, ye ken?”
Pickaxe nodded in agreement. “Ah’ve always wanted tae fight an elf.”
“’At’s th’ spirit, laddie.” Battleaxe clapped him on the back. “We’ll defeat them aw, we will.”
“Except fer Mongrel, reit?” Littlehammer finally spoke up. She placed her hands on her hips and set her jaw defiantly.
“Wa nae Mongrel?” Battleaxe asked her. “He’s a competitor like th’ rest ay them.”
“But he’s nae fightin’ oan their side.”
“Nur is he fightin’ oan uir side.” Battleaxe pointed out then concluded without any additional thought. “An’ if he’s nae oan uir side, he’s uir enemy.”
“He is nae!” Littlehammer stamped her foot. “He’s one of us ’til th’ end.”
“Is ’at sae?” Battleaxe smirked. “‘En why’s he carryin’ ’at elvish bow an’ ’at man-made sword, eh?”
“Ah daen’t knoo, but it’s got naethin’ tae do wi’ whose side he’s oan,” she said, feeling the fire inside her belly ignite.
Battleaxe stoked the flames. “Weel it doesnae matter. If we see heem, we’ll fight heem.”
“Ah wulnae fight heem!” She stood her ground, quite literally as her brother tried to push past her. “An’ Ah’ll be damned affair Ah lit ye—”
“Enaw awreddy!” Pickaxe pried them apart. “Top of Form
Yoo’ve hud yer go at each other; noo gie it a rest. Besides, Lil’ammer’s reit. Uir fight’s nae wi’ MongrelBottom of Form.” He gestured to the circle of elves that had formed around them. Their bows were drawn, and their eyes were as cold as silver. He smirked. “It’s wi’ them.”
Less than twenty feet away, Akono watched from the safety of the branches as the dwarves and elves squared off. The warrior had been hiding there for some time now, completely unnoticed thanks to the abundant foliage that served as remarkable camouflage. There were not many trees in the Southlands, and at first Akono thought they’d hinder the hunt, but this territory was proving to be more beneficial than originally thought.
The dwarves were three to ten; victory for the elves was certain. Not that Akono planned on challenging the victor. There was no way a single warrior could hold up against either group. When it came to numbers, the warrior was at a greater disadvantage than even the dwarves. If only Buziba had known the others would enter more than one contestant, he would have—done nothing differently. His pride was too great and his confidence in the strength of his people unwavering. He would watch Akono fall to a dozen weapons before admitting his strongest warrior was insufficient in a competition like this. But Akono wasn’t so keen on dying. Besides, there was no reason to join the fight; it would be over as soon as—snap! Thud.
At last someone stepped into Akono’s trap. The earth fell out beneath one of the dwarf’s feet. He swung his arms before grabbing ahold of his siblings and pulling them down with him into the pit. The elves gathered around it, bows drawn and ready. But for reasons Akono could not comprehend, their leader would not give the order; in fact, he had them put their bows away.
Akono waited for the elves to leave, but they remained by the pit. It seemed the fight would not resume until the dwarves crawled out. Well, Akono wasn’t going to wait around here any longer; it was obvious how this fight would end.
Careful so as not to be heard, Akono climbed down and headed off in the opposite direction. It wasn’t that Akono wasn’t brave. Oh, no. Akono was the champion of the Southlands. But Akono didn’t become the champion for being brave and foolhardy but rather for being brave and smart.
When hunting for a hidden item, one doesn’t have to be brave or smart, just patient . . . very patient. Mongrel reminded himself of this as he pulled out yet another handful of dirt and plant rot from inside a tree hole.
Cursing under his breath, Mongrel wiped his hand on his pants. As he did so, he looked to the sky, or what little he could see of it through the foliage. Dusk was fast approaching, and he’d have to seek shelter soon. In his satchel, he had a light cloak. But he was less worried about the cold nights than being caught in the dark by the other competitors.
Crack.
Mongrel spun around. Someone was hiding in the shadows.
Mongrel gripped his axe but relaxed when he recognized Empress Eiko heading his way. She was leaning on her cane, barely able to support herself. Her hair was disheveled, and her face paint streaked with sweat. He rushed to her side and offered her his arm.
“Are you all right? Here, let me—”
Swish!
Quick as a flash, she produced a blade concealed within her cane and slashed at Mongrel. He jumped back, barely in time.
“It’s okay.” He laid down his axe and showed her his palms. “I’m not going to attack you. See, I’m unarmed. I only want to help.”
�
�Such a nice young man,” she said then raised her blade again. “You can help me by dying!”
Mongrel stepped back, just out of reach.
“I don’t want to fight you,” he said, backing away until he was up against a tree.
“Too bad!” she said and swung at his head.
He ducked, causing the blade to strike the tree. Sap oozed from the gash. Mongrel gulped and reached for his throat, relieved to find his head still attached—not that it would be for long if Eiko had her way. He had to admit, for a woman her age, she was in surprisingly good shape.
“We don’t have to fight!”
“Silence, peasant!”
“I mean it!”
“Hold still!” She pointed her blade and lunged. Mongrel dove out of the way, rolled, and landed in a bush. Eiko’s blade continued its path into a tree. No manner of yanking would free it.
At last, an opening! He crawled out of the bush and retrieved his axe. But rather than strike her with it, he took off as fast as his legs would carry him.
He had barely made it a mile when something sharp and star-shaped whizzed past him, striking a nearby tree. He glanced over his shoulder. Eiko was behind him and gaining. Something was aiding her, but what he did not know. Whatever it was, it was not benefiting him. Even with youth on his side, she was gaining fast.
She reached within her robes and produced several more star-shaped weapons and threw them at him. Mongrel dodged these as well, anxious to know what other horrifying trinkets she had tucked away. He caught the flash of two more projectiles coming his way. One barely missed him. The other struck him in the back of the shoulder.
The Wizard's Gambit Page 11