7 Meeting the Elves 2

It was true, what Gaebril was saying. Gareth saw that at once, the moment that he looked across the sands to where the other bands were fighting. There were at least three other groups there, and they were tearing each other to shreds.

"They don't look like they are going to pose much of a threat, even if they come against us. And we seem to have settled our little problem here. So ... It is a little embarrassing, to tell the truth. But I am glad that we got out of this one without having to fight."

Gareth agreed with Gaebril, although he continued to eye the chaos at the other end of the Arena cautiously. "We should keep an eye on things over there, while Edmon deals with their injuries. If they should start heading over in our direction ..."

He had no sooner said that than the situation changed before his eyes. The huge fight seemed to have ended. And the six remaining warriors turned to look their way.

"Ah! Too late. They have already come to an agreement. And it is rather obvious, that there are only three of us here who are ... more or less fresh. They have already dismissed the elves as opponents, I think."

Gareth grunted as he heard Gaebril's assessment. That seemed to be the case, and the elves were clearly in no condition to get into a fight. And Edmon was probably exhausted, handling the Healing for them.

Which was also likely to attract the attention of the Red Priests!

Then he sighed, and pushed all of that out of his mind. Whatever was going to happen, was going to happen! There was no point in worrying about it now! Dealing with those six armed men who were already starting across the Arena pit was the more important, and more urgent, matter now!

Then he turned to Gaebril, to see if the bearded man had a plan. Only to see the rogue readying his javelin, as he grinned back. "You were a little too anxious to make friends earlier, weren't you? Should have held onto your weapons back then. All of them," he said as he gave his throwing spear a shake.

Gareth cursed then, as he realized that he had left his spears beside Edmon, when he went to take a look at the elf's injuries earlier. Gaebril merely chuckled again, as he lifted his own to his shoulder, and peered at the six gladiators who were making their approach. Gareth turned back to study them as well, even as he drew his own sword from his side.

There were two of the six who bore obvious signs of the battle that they had fought earlier, while the Grey Ghosts were intent on the elves. One of them was moving a little too slowly, either because of the injuries that he carried, or because he was chary of closing with Gareth and Gaebril. The other had just had his leather armor damaged at the right shoulder, and that was making the suit slide down, exposing a good part of his right chest, and hampering his movement.

Neither of them seemed to be paying too much attention to Gaebril, Gareth thought. And even as that crossed his mind, the rogue beside him finally threw his spear!

The one with the torn armor was looking away from him, just as Gaebril made his attack, and it took a shout from one of the others to make him look up. By then, it was a little too late! The javelin pierced him through the leather armor, slamming him down onto the Arena sands with a loud cry. After a brief attempt to get back onto his feet, the fellow finally collapsed.

That was one down, Gareth thought, as he smiled to himself.

However, there were still five of them left, he reminded himself, as he turned his attention back to the others. Without having to worry about Gaebril and his spear, the others were already making a rush towards the two of them. Well, all except the one who was trying to hide the fact that he was hurt.

Still, four to two were not good odds to be facing, Gareth decided, as he reached for the knives that he had behind his back. There was one of them who was unarmored, so he would make an excellent target for a knife throw, once he was close enough!

Then he heard a low growling sound to his right, and was surprised to see the nelluan with the reddish-brown hair step up beside him, holding her long club as though it was a sword!

The glare that she shot him, however, kept him from greeting her with anything more than a curt nod. Which she didn't bother to return. But her presence alone was enough to make him feel a lot more confident: three to four was an significant improvement to the odds that they were facing earlier. And she looked like she could handle herself with that long stick of hers.

So he held his tongue, and concentrated on the men that were still rushing towards them. All of them were clad in leather armor as well, he realized, as he hefted the sword in his hand. That might prove a bit more troublesome.

The one closest to him was armed with a mace, and carried a small metal shield, about the size of a targe, in his left hand. That was enough to make Gareth breath out in a hiss. His leather armor was not going to be any protection against a mace. And his shield was going to make things difficult for the sword he was armed with. Mace and Shield was going to be more trouble, and given the odds against them, things were not looking too promising.

Then the nelluan with the red-brown hair surprised him with a war-cry, and charged at the enemy line with her club overhead!

Gareth was so shocked by that unexpected move that he almost lost his footing! But he recovered, and started after her at a sprint, even as he cursed her under his breath. Was she suicidal? Didn't she know that they were supposed to keep to a slow, steady advance?

Apparently, she didn't. Nor had anyone told her that she should be more cautious, rather than hammer away at her enemy like what she was doing at the moment! She was basically swinging her club at her opponent, as though she intended to smash his head into pieces, and didn't care if it cost her her life to do it!

That was enough to drag another curse from Gareth's lungs. And he didn't even bother to hide it this time. What sort of idiot would fight like that?

Then his eyes squinted, as he saw something that he could use:

The fact that the nelluan's opponent had both his hands on his sword, and it was raised over his head to fend off the brown-haired nelluan's relentless bashing with her wooden club, gave Gareth an opportunity. And one that he did not hesitate to take at once!

The Raven knife that he hurriedly pulled from its sheath flew accurately too, striking the sweat-stained fellow in the unarmored pit of his arm, making him scream out as his defense faltered. That little distraction proved fatal for him, as the nelluan smacked his blade aside with one smooth motion. And brought her hardwood club down on his head on the backswing, splattering his brains out on the Arena floor!

Gareth, however, had turned back to his original target. And was far too busy dealing with Mace and Shield to notice the last!

He launched an attack first, since he was at a disadvantage, when it came to weaponry and armour. Mace and Shield grinned too, as he lifted his targe to block Gareth's lunge. And from the way that he used the same to cover his weapon-hand as he countered, it was clear that he knew exactly how to use what he was wielding.

Which was enough to make Gareth give out another curse. His defense was sure to slip once he got tired, and the sand underfoot made dodging all of the attacks all the more challenging. He would have to finish this fight quickly, or wait for Gaebril's, or the nelluan's, assistance.

That wasn't very likely, given how they were outnumbered. Even with the two that they had accounted for already, the odds were still four to three. And he wasn't altogether certain that they could count on the elidaren maid. Still, what else could he do but try to drag out the fight, and hope for the best?

Then Gareth finally slipped, and was forced to parry a heavy mace strike with the narrow sword in his hand. His hand quivered then, as the hilt was almost torn out of his grasp. And the sharp snapping sound that echoed in his ear told him that his troubles weren't ended either. A quick glance at the weapon in his hand revealed that about half the blade had been broken off, leaving him with a greatly shortened weapon.

A quick chortle made him look up then, and he saw Mace and Shield laughing at him. No doubt he was confident of his victory, now that Gareth's weapon had been snapped in two.

Something snapped in him then. And the cold, hard glow that had filled his mind from the beginning of the fight suddenly flared into a raging storm. A firestorm!

His left hand made a grasping gesture then, and he could feel the flanged head of the mace in his fist as he thrust out with what was left of his sword. Mace and Shield's eyes were wide as he tried his best to defend himself. But the fact that he had taken time to laugh at his enemy, rather than follow through with his assault, had rendered him too late!

Gareth's broken sword stabbed into his throat, moments before Mace and Shield brought his own shield rim into contact with the same. That impact was more than sufficient to rip the tear in his flesh wide open. Gareth jumped back at once, as the blood poured out of the gaping wound, splattering liberally onto the Arena sands.

He didn't waste any time, and quickly snatched up the mace that his opponent had let fall. And struck him again, on the crown of his head, before he tore the targe out of his left hand as well. He wasn't all too familiar with shields but he had learned his lesson about not having enough protection.

Then he charged at the remaining opponents, who were already tangled up with the red-brown haired nelluan and Gaebril. That would balance things up. Three against three, instead of three against two, he almost laughed out loud as he rushed forwards. And from what he could see, these idiots wouldn't stand a chance against the Grey Ghosts!

And sure enough, the other trio were soon sprawled on the Arena sand, their blood soaking into the same, while Gareth, Gaebril, and the unknown nelluan slowly made their way back to the others. After they had retrieved what they wanted, from the corpses that lay around them.

And no one tried to stop them.

*

There was a bit of argument among the judges, after the fighting was ended. But it didn't take too long to resolve. Gareth had the feeling that it had something to do with the fact that they were merging, the Grey Ghosts and the elven troop. But the ones running the Arena appeared to agree that they had followed the conventions, and simply chased them off the sands to allow the next group to take their place.

But the group was clearly too large to fit into the cell where the three men had spent their days. That was how all of them ended up heading to a slightly larger cell, which had three stone walls, and only one side that was covered in thick iron bars, instead.

Which was certainly an improvement, compared to what they had been staying in!

And Edmon was quick to assign the elidar the side of the same that furthest from the iron bars. No one argued with him, since it was clear that he was the only Healer present. Even the elidar did not bother to disagree, and simply accepted his decision as though it was part of the treatment that he was providing for the semi-conscious eresan.

"The poison is more stubborn than I had expected. And I can barely keep it at bay. So long as he does not get too agitated, or suffer more injuries, I should be able to get rid of it, in another three to six days." Edmon wiped at his own sweat-drenched face as he spoke. And Gareth could see how pale he looked. Clearly, he had already used every last drop of magic that he had, to keep the poison from troubling the eresan.

"That sounds a bit more troublesome than you know," Gaebril sighed as he leaned back against his cot, "They are still going to keep hounding them, you know? The Red Priests? You should have heard what they said, about the feud between them and the elves. They are going to be tossing everything that they have at us, now that they are with us."

"Well, that is nothing different. They are aiming to see us all dead anyway, so it shouldn't matter if they did it earlier rather than later," Edmon replied, his tone a little terse. Which was enough to warn that he wasn't that accommodating, when he was exhausted.

So Gaebril merely laughed, and slipped away. Gareth merely said a few more calming words, before he stepped aside as well. From what he knew of Edmon, the short man wasn't about to let anyone, or anything, get between him and his treating the wounded.

So Gareth decided to leave well enough alone, and went back to the cot that he had picked, sitting down in front of it to clean his own weapons. Or rather, his new ones.

It was well after they had settled the division of the cell, that the one that Gareth had identified as a priest came over to visit. And he was wearing a long bundle, that looked suspiciously like a sword, wrapped up in an old cloak, on his back as he approached the mercenary.

The elf gave Gareth a quick bow, before he stepped closer to the sell-sword, who was seated on the floor of the cell. He gestured at an open space in front of the man, and Gareth nodded slowly, as he held both hands out to either side of his body. The unarmed one lowered himself to a sitting position carefully, and made no move that could be mistaken for reaching for the weapon strapped onto his back.

"You are familiar with our customs - Well, as familiar as a human can be. You have some of our blood in your veins too, unless I am mistaken." The elf spoke softly, as he crossed his legs before him. "I trust you are not too ... cautious about such matters as others that I have met."

The mercenary shook his head and gave the eresan a slight smile. "We are allies for the moment, at the least. And my great-grandmother has already passed into the Underworld, as the saying goes. What is left of my family are like me though, and they are scattered through the lands South of the River Anrak. Although I do not know ... my Bloodline, or the affiliations of my ancestress. She was from the Valley of Weeping Lilies," he told the elf, using the more commonly used name for the location.

The one seated across from him nodded gravely at that. "That is a tragic place, with too many tales to break one's heart. But as I have said, we are caught in a situation that forces us into conflict with others, and we must make preparations as best we can. As quickly as we can," he told the man with a grim smile, "Your ... companion's healing is appreciated. My lord is dear to us, and we have lost many in this last foray. The ones who govern here also hold ... certain items as anathema to their rule, and so have destroyed some of the weapons and gear that I possessed. Hence, I turn to you. And seek your ... cooperation."

"I am sorry to hear that. How may I be of assistance?"

"You bear a bludgeoning weapon, a mace. While it is crudely made and its balance appears to be ... Well, despite its inadequacies,I can use such a weapon. In return, I offer you this blade. It has belonged to my family, and I doubt that you can find better, in this horrible place."

With that, he brought the bundled length across his shoulders down into his lap and slowly unwrapped it to reveal a straight sword, with a blade narrower, and slightly shorter than the usual broadsword that was used in the Arena. He pushed it across to the man, who was surprised to hear such an offer from the elf. The weapon was unmarked, but from the way that it was handled, it was clearly dear to the one who had spoken.

"The blade was carried, and used by my younger, and only brother. He was head of our House, since my decision to join the Temple of the Highest ... some tens of years ago. With his death, the House is no more. So there is hardly any issue of you wielding it, here and now."

"Ah. That is ... My condolences. But I must point out that the ... weapon that you want from me is not ... in the best condition. The mace is not ... a very good one."

The elf-priest laughed. "Then it will be my loss. And one that I can afford. Trust me, man, that I will not count it so. A lesser weapon this may be, but it is one that I can use, compared to a blade that I have sworn not to wield again. Take the sword. I will not say that this exchange is meant to be, although it seems rather clear to me that the Morning Lord has ordained this trade."

To that, Gareth could only nod in agreement. "The Powers That Be must take a a perverse pleasure in seeing this, I fear," he sighed as he handed over the flanged mace that he had snatched off the Arena floor a day before, "I only hope that this decision does not return to bite me in the end. This uneven trade, I mean."

The elf laughed, and received the weapon gratefully. He made a practice swing with the mace, before he tucked it into his waist-sash. Whether the laugh was directed at the whimsical nature of the Powers, or at the man's words, Gareth could not tell. But as he slid the elf-made weapon into his own weapons-belt, something else occurred to him, and he stopped the priest before he could rise, and walk away with the weapon. "A moment. Please wait."

He pulled out the small metal shield that he had taken off the same fallen opponent from whom he had snatched the mace, who was also the one who had broken the battered sword that he had been wielding. He held the battered round shield to the priest with a rather embarrassed smile. "I just remembered that I took this off the one who wielded that mace, and I do not think that they should be parted from one another," he said carefully, conscious of the haughty nature of the elves, and what Allishi had warned about the manners of her people, "I would trouble you to use this together with the weapon, so that the two are not separated."

"A strange custom. A matter of luck, I believe," the elf replied seriously, as he accepted the shield, "I see no difficulty in doing this, of course. You are more ... honorable than most, Galar'eth of no particular House. Know that the sword that I have just given into your hands has been in my family for three generations. We named it Bloodthorn, after that plant that snatches at the skins of those who pass close to it, and feeds on the blood of the same."

The mercenary tendered the elf another a deep bow at that, knowing what he knew of their customs. It was one thing to hand an elf-forged weapon into his hands, but to Gift him with the name of the sword as well? That went beyond what some might call fair.

But the priest merely chuckled. "Ah! I see that your ancestress has trained you well in some of the subtleties of my race, beyond just our language. But come! Do not dwell on this small thing. It belonged to my brother, and we have no other close-kin. I would not let such fall into the hands of ... distaff lines, when they chose to remain ... safe, rather than taking up the quest with our lord. Better that it goes to one who shows more honor!"

Gareth sensed that there was more that the elf was not saying, but he decided not to press. There would be other opportunities to speak about such things, if the eresan had the inclination at a latter time. For the moment, he seemed more inclined to check on the other elves, particularly the one that he called his lord. Edmon had done what he could for him, but the mercenary feared that the poison in his veins would not release him so easily.

* * *