Chapter 8

ENJOY!

Beak and Talon

The current lessened, and the wind turned for the better. Villian, and the sailors, though relieved, were exhausted. Everyone straggled onto the deck, hoping that nothing else was afoot.

Horlan looked worse than any of the sailors; his face was soaked in sweat, his hands raw from rowing, and his legs shivering from so much work. No one talked, save Loylen, (who acted as captain,) and even he could hardly speak. It was almost dark, so he gave his final orders.

“Keep up the sails…then half of you get some sleep, so you’ll be able to take the night shift. You others…keep a sharp eye for were-wolves and other evil.

“I need to rest; I will see you tonight.” And with that Loylen silently drooped to the bunks under the ship. Villian and Horlan followed, but Stolar waited a while until all the sailors that were allowed to rest had sleepily taken to the bunks. He soon was in a bunk himself.

The hold was filled with many things: spices, food, weapons, armor, silk, cloth, and many other things that were good for trade. He had never truly noticed what was in the ship, because it was either too dark at night, or he was too focused on rowing in the day. Either way, this was the first time he noticed the trading items that were to be sold.

“At what prices will these goods sell for at the docks?” he inquired.

“Oh, I’d say forty ta’ fifty o’ gold piece,” said the merchant. “But no more questions; I’m o’ turin’ in!” And with that he slumped into his bunk.

The bunks stacked on top of each other in twos; Loylen took the bunk above the merchant, while Horlan took his own, and Villian took the bunk above Stolar. They dozed away, praying that nothing as bad as that day would come again in a good many years.

Villian awoke to the yell of, “We’ve made it to the lake!” And so they had, a vast dark blue, shining in the sun. It was huge, and one could not see its northern shores. Villian gaped at its beauty.

“The Clog Lake,” said Loylen from behind Villian. “Largon rests not three miles from here; this ship should reach her docks by dawn tomorrow.” It was dawn then, and the day passed slowly. The pink sun soon grew white, and scorched the sailors’ skin though it did not redden it.

The men began to put on coats, hoping to shield themselves from the cold that had reached their ship. The Clog Lake was far north of Cath-Lenor, and the sailors normally went downstream, to Lerves, which was much farther south. Though they didn’t enjoy chapped and reddened skin, they found it no pleasure to be in the cold. Under the deck was much warmer, and Villian spent much time there, when he could. Fortunately, he knew nothing of sailing, (save what the other sailors had taught him,) so he could spend most of his time in the hold. But sometimes he had to keep watch, or climb to adjust the sails, and since those were high places, they were cursed with wind. So Villian avoided as much work as he could that day. The fifth day seemed to pass at a medium speed.

The sky was pink, and was turning into orange, as the sun sank. The bluffs on port-side were very beautiful, and the sun also shone on the water.

“This lake views many things,” said Loylen, coming up beside Villian. “The Bluffs in the west, the tundra in the north, the mountains in the east; even the fields you and I call home can be seen from here.”

“Have you been here before?” inquired Villian.

“Yes, but only twice. I wish it had been more, for the beauty of this lake is immense.”

“What of Stolar? And Marsen? Have the seen this place?”

“Marsen yes, but Stolar has only been to Lerves, which is a place I would like to go someday.”

“Have you…” began Villian, but he was interrupted by a sailor who was Beckoning Loylen.

“Sir, you need to see this,” he said. Loylen and Villian walked to the port-side. The sailors started talking between themselves. Loylen looked for a moment, his face becoming very stern.

“All hands on deck! Archers to the ready! Arm yourselves! Bows and arrows, along with long swords! Go!”

Villian looked out to the west, into the sun that had almost disappeared; he squinted, and began to see what looked like two arches connected to each other. But there was more than one; there were at least thirty, maybe forty of them. and they seemed to be changing shape. It was like they were…then Villian understood; he armed himself, just in time to see the hawks’ eyes. There were at least twice as many hawks as there were men aboard the ship.

These hawks though, weren’t what one would think of if he thought of a hawk. The proportions were the same, but instead, these birds were twice the size as the largest eagle that had ever been spotted. They’re talons could easily tear apart anything smaller than them made of flesh and blood. Villian had good reason to be afraid.

The hawks were not stupid though, like a regular animal. They instead had a vast intelligence, and had a strategy for their attack. Soon they were close enough to the boat to dive, and so they did, but only about half of them. The sailors scrambled on the deck, positioning themselves to get a clear shot. Then came the hawks; they dove so quickly, that the sailors had hardly any chance to aim. Two arrows hit a hawk, and it fell, but at least another ten missed. The hawks were about to hit the ship, when they pulled up suddenly, trying to snatch one of the men. Many of the men ducked, but three sailors were carried off.

When the hawks reached the shore, they would drop their prey on the pebble beach, killing them on impact. Then the giant birds would return to the battle, ready to do the same with another.

Villian fought, but with little success; the same was with the others. Soon he saw hawks swooping down lightly, and landing on the deck of the boat. It was a hand to hand fight now, bows being dropped to be replaced with swords. Villian though, stayed away from the battle, up on the poop-deck, where he shot as many of the birds as he could. Fortunately, they were bigger targets. Unfortunately, a hawk came and tried to carry him off, before he could hit more than two or three. Villian ducked, but another dove, and he had to jump from his place on the poop-deck, to the main deck. He fell hard on the wood, which was not the most pleasant thing he’d experienced. A bird noticed, and came over, pinning him to the floor. Villian’s sword was still in its sheath, and his arms could not reach due to the fact that they were being pressed against the floor. Then, the hawk released him, and he got up, to draw his sword. But as soon as it was in his hand, another hawk swooped down and grabbed him. Searing pain took to his shoulders, and he fainted.

Villian woke to the flapping of strong wings, and rushing air. He also felt an excruciating pain in his shoulders. He painfully looked at them, and saw that the hawk that was carrying him had driven its claws into his shoulders, and was grasping them tightly. He struggled, but that only brought more pain, and did nothing anyway. His brain worked slowly; the first thing he noticed was that his chain mail was soaked with blood. Then he decided that his life was about to be taken from him. He bowed his head, using as little muscle as possible. He felt hopeless.

But then, he saw something; a flash of light near his waist. He had dropped his sword when he was taken, so it could not be that. But then he remembered; his dagger. Getting it was a painful process, having to move his shoulders. He nearly passed out a few times, with no success. He finally grasped it, and brought it up. He drove it as hard as he could into the claw of the hawk; it made a screeching sound, and dropped him. He fell in the water, just yards from the shore, which he had not noticed. He began to sink. This is better death than the one I would have suffered before, he thought.

His mind recalled all of the experiences he’d had with water. He remembered how his friends taught him how to swim, so that he would not drown when they dunked him. He remembered kicking…kicking. That was it. He finally processed the memory and did what it said. But when he tried moving his arms, he felt searing pain, and had to immobilize them again. He kicked though, and soon was closer to air. His lungs screamed, begging to inhale the entire lake. He kicked harder, and he lightly burst through the water.

He kicked his way to the shore, and washed up on the pebbles; it was cold. He lay there, hopeless and exhausted.

He woke to the cold, and he ached all over, but the pain in his shoulders was mostly absent. He rose, using his arms a little. He was hungry, thirsty and cold.

He looked around; there were no houses around, nor a farm in sight. He slumped over to the water’s edge, and drank from the crystal surfaced lake. Then, he took his chainmail off. His coat was soaked, so he took it off to let it dry. He took all of his garments off, but unfortunately, the foggy land would do little to dry them. Of course, they would do better on the pebbles than on him. So he lay there naked, knowing his demise would take place soon.

Chapter 7

Sorry for the big time gap! Here's my latest chapter; enjoy!

The River

Villian woke to Loylen’s voice, which beckoned him to follow. He followed sleepily, (after dressing,) and soon found himself in a room full of beds and potions. On one of the beds, lay Maron. Vill stared at him like one stares at a ghost. His leg wasn’t bandaged, but the deep cut in it was covered in some sort of green herb. His small black beard was stained with blood. He looked dead; in fact, Villian would have thought so if Maron had not moved his head over to look at them, crushing Villian’s hopes.

“What are you here for?” he snarled, “and why did you bring the little murderer with you?” Maron glared at Villian.

“We would like to hear your story of what happened yesterday,” said Loylen. Maron almost smirked, and began to tell his story. Of course, he completely reversed the roles of he and Villian, ecept for the fact that Villian had attacked him with success, while in truth, Maron had failed in his attack, and had been wounded in the process.

Once Maron’s story had been told, Loylen thought and compared Villian’s story with Maron’s. Villian knew it was time for the truth to be told, and that he would be the one to tell it.

“In truth Loylen,” Villian began, “I was the one Maron wounded.” Loylen looked puzzled for a moment, but let Villian continue.

“Although, my effort was only in self-defense, I still struck him a second time, out of fear.” Loylen accepted thiese truthful words and said to Maron, “Also Maron, I realized that when you told your story, you said that Villian decided to “fatally” wound you instead of killing you. Of course, you knew that the medics here could heal anyone with a wound twice of your wound’s intensity. So if Villian here decided to kill you, why wouldn’t he just kill you and then lie to me that he was killed by a beast, just like you lied to me after killing Sir Marsen?” (He was the warrior whom Villian replaced) Maron looked horrified, for he had had no knowledge that Loylen knew he had lied.

“I release you from the guild,” were Loylen’s final words to Maron as they left the hospital.

Loylen looked happier than a lamb. Stolar looked like he’d been relieved of a great burden, and Villian felt like a lion, who had just overcome its prey.

Things were far different without Maron; for one, Loylen acted much differently, as did Stolar. They seemed much more welcoming to Vill than when Maron had been present. Villian felt like he could enjoy life without Maron, and things began to get better.

Soon it was time for the tournament that would decide the next warrior. Villian felt surprised when Loylen mentioned that they would have to attend, for Villian had never thought of the fact that he would attend as a warrior, (before he became one that is.) Soon they were readying for the tournament, fitting themselves with weapons and armor. (One thing that you must know that is of importance, is the fact that the warriors of Cath-Lenor, as well as the warriors of the other city-states of the time, acted as policemen of sorts. They’re main purpose was to keep the peace, patrolling the streets and making sure that people didn’t hurt each other or act violent. But when a war arose, they were on the front lines of battle.) So Loylen, Stolar, and Villian were soon ready, hoping that no trouble would arise during the event.

They walked to the fairgrounds, and entered the main arena; it was the same: sand covering a small field. He remembered the last time he’d been there, telling guards his, name, and his age. And then, he remembered something he’d forgotten: He was twenty years old. His birthday had slipped through his mind, now a few days past. Normally, he would sleep into midday, and then would eat a lot more food than normal. So Villian would not have to work, or awaken early on his birthday.

But this year, nothing had happened. The day had probably been on the day he was throwing things around the guild. But whenever it was, he had forgotten it.

Soon Villian found himself sitting in one of the Warrior’s chairs. People began to gather, and soon a crowd was roaring. The candidates soon began to fight, each taking a far different amount of time; for instance: one man named Gorlal, and another named Jeffert, took three minutes, with the huge Gorlal knocking Jeffert unconscious. On the other hand, one named Horlan, and another named Sisalt, took at least half an hour. So time varied.

Soon though, the first half was over, and the second half had begun. Horlan soon had a man named Jamier on his back, and Gorlal lost to another named Allimen. Then Horlan, and Allimen fought; the battle went on a good long time, with both men dealing fine strokes. Soon though, a quiet crack was heard, and Allimen was on the ground, wincing and holding his wrist. Horlan was victorious, but never the less, he had a concerned face for Allimen.

Horlan was paraded around by the people, and eventually, ended up at the guild. Loylen welcomed Sir Horlan, and then sent everyone, (including himself,) to bed. Villian looked at the flat boarded roof, thinking of the day, thinking of Horlan, thinking of the roar of the crowd, thinking of tomorrow, thinking of…

Villian had always woken up the latest since he had entered the guild, but now, he saw Horlan lying in bed, snoring louder than anyone Villian knew. Actually, it was Horlan who woke Villian up.

Villian got up, and soon was eating in the downstairs dining room. He then played chess with Stolar, losing horribly. He washed walls, and went to the market, buying bread, milk, meat, and cheese, (the cheese came from his mother.) The guard who was protecting her, (with his Majesty’s permission,) told Villian that his mother was doing fine, and sold plenty of cheese, (mostly thanks to the fact that Villian was a warrior.) After that, he returned to the guild, where he found Horlan alone. He learned that Loylen and Stolar had gone to the dock, (a rather small one,) to talk to some merchants. Villian rested, since he’d been working all day.

He hadn’t practiced sword fighting, at least not with real swords, so he decided to teach Horlan, while learning himself. They retrieved two shortly broad swords, and began their practice of skills.

Horlan knew just as much as Villian, so they were evenly matched. Villian had seen Loylen and Stolar practice before, so he did his best to copy them; he also taught Horlan as well. Soon they had dealt many strokes, (none to the flesh of course,) and were both a little tired. Horlan had known more than Villian gave him credit for in his mind.

Suddenly the door opened, and Loylen walked in.

“Pack up gear and food to last us seven days; we are going,” he said.

Villian, both confused and surprised, did as Loylen said, and soon had bread, pork, cheese, and water packed for a week-long trip.

Horlan did the same, and soon they were ready to go, but where? Villian had received no information on their destination, so he was not sure what to prepare for.

Now prepared, Loylen led Villian and Stolar down the cobbled street, and onto a gravel path that led down to the river, where there were two docks. The path twisted back and forth, in a zigzag, until it led upstream; then it met docks. The docks were small, and not very impressive; nothing like the docks of Alillor, or of Largon. But it was a good source of trade, and so they were given a little credit.

Stolar was waiting with a good many, say sixteen sailors, rough and red from the sun.

“This is our home for the next week,” said Loylen. He gestured towards a small ship, with only a storage hold and sailors’ quarters; it had two masts.

“She’s small, but she’ll do for what is needed,” said Loylen. “There’s a strong wind blowing north, and we’ll use it to sail upstream towards Largon.”

Villian wished he’d prepared better; he had had no idea whatsoever that they were sailing on a river. But what was done was done, and it was too late.

They set out upstream, using the wind, and the very slow current to their advantage. The going was slow, but steady, and the current only seemed to slow. The first day passed without activity, and all seemed well. The second and third days went by quicker than the first day, and things seemed to be getting better.

Life aboard a ship, (or in this case a boat,) was not easy; first, the sailors had to work with the riggings, making sure that they were tight, and in the right position. Then there was climbing on the nets; some sailors would have to climb to the crows-nest, and keep a lookout for anything that would slow their journey down.

The fourth day passed slowly. Something Loylen didn’t mention was that there were oars, in case the wind was not favoring them. And on the fourth day, they were used. The wind had turned against them, now blowing south-east. In addition to that, the current’s strength had tripled, and so two things needed to be checked: first, the sailor in the crows-nest had to make sure that they weren’t about to crash on starboard side, and that they weren’t losing to the current. Villian’s turn soon came, and he enjoyed a break from his previous work: breaking your back by rowing.

While things were rather easy in the crows-nest, things were painful under deck. Sailors sweated as they rowed with all their might, trying to beat the current; twenty men could do little. Every man pulled his weight, while at the same time trying to survive. Rowing an oar was difficult with two men on an oar, but on this ship, each man was given his own oar. The pain each man had to endure could not be described. Men’s hands were covered in sores, and their faces and bodies were covered in sweat. Everything seemed hopeless, the sailors’ bodies almost completely numb. Villian could do little thinking, save this thought: milking and grazing cows was far easier.

Chapter 6

Enjoy!

The Patrol

Villian, now well rested, felt refreshed, and was hoping for a peaceful day. Unfortunately, the first eyes he saw were Loylen’s, and he had another job for Villian; patrol duty. To make matters worse, Maron was on the same patrol. Quickly, Vill made his way down from the bedroom, to the armory, and fit on himself a chain mail shirt. Then, he put on a guild shirt, (a gray shirt with the guild crest, (four squares checkered blue and white,)) and an iron helmet. He also took up a shield with the guild crest, and a steel broadsword. After arming himself, Villian made his way to the kitchen, where he packed some mutton, with some cheese, as well as a small pouch of berries. He also packed a pouch of water. At that moment, Maron entered the room; he himself was already wielding his weapon, and already wearing his armor.

“Are you ready to go, my friend?” he said with a smug face. Villian said nothing.

The two exited the guild, and made their way towards the main gate of Cath-Lenor. The sun had already risen above mt. Azelworth, and stalls had been opened within the city gates. The day was now underway. Just as Villian was admiring the day, he saw an empty stall. There were some barrels, smelling of cheese, and a scale and knife. This was in fact, Villian’s old cheese stall. He was gazing at it in sadness, when he heard a distant call from Maron. Villian looked, and saw him leading two horses from a stable.

“These beauties will be our way to the East Fields,” he said with a smirk. Villian again said nothing.

As they rode through the castle gates, Villian remembered selling cheese to all the peasants and merchants that came by that way. He remembered the carpenter, who was well built with a round face and a brown beard; and the baker, who was fatter than a hog, with a mop of yellow hair; and the butcher, who always wore an apron that was covered in blood. But these thoughts were pushed away as Villian and Maron rode through the countryside. On their left they could see the river, and across it, a black forest; but as they continued, the forest fell behind and great bluffs came into view. And on the horizon, he could see what looked like a bunch of tiny square-like stones, piled on top of each other.

“What are those?” Villian inquired Maron.

“The Were-wolf Ruins,” replied Maron, with a grin. “In the day, wild men live there; but every night, they make their transformation, into wolf-like beasts.” All that was being said had to be said in a sort of yell, because of the noise of the horses’ galloping hooves.

Then, they saw on their right, they saw a large plain, stretching all the way up to the Sunrise Mountains. These were the East Fields.

The river now took a turn to the left, but Maron discontinued following the river and instead took a steady right turn; Villian followed.

Soon they had arrived at their destination, which was a stake in the ground. Both Maron and Villian dismounted, and tied up their horses, and then unpacked their daily supplies. Maron, had a section of ham, along with some cheese and wine, and Villian pulled out his own meal, that he had packed beforehand. They ate, and talked about very light subjects, such as the weather; although, most of the talking was done by Maron, because Villian had no desire to interact with him.

The sun was soon at its high point, and it was then that they saw it; lumbering across the plain in the distance, was a Minotaur. Though it was a good mile or two away, Villian could tell that it was large, nearly fifteen feet tall, with giant hooves and horns. The Minotaur seemed to notice the duo that stood far away, but he couldn’t be sure whether or not anyone was actually there, because they were so small. So he moved on. Villian couldn’t tell what to make of this creature, except that it was large, and frightening.

“I’ve killed one of those,” said Maron with a grin. “I had to cut off its legs at the knees, and then after it fell, I stuck my sword in its ugly neck!” Villian thought it an interesting piece of advice, due to the fact that he had normally received advice like, “milk the cows just after sunset instead of before,” or, “let the cheese age for one extra week before you sell it.” “Cut a Minotaur’s legs of first, and then stab it in the neck,” sounded much different. But Villian thought he would remember this piece of advice for a long while.

Hours past, and soon the sun had nearly done its duty as being a light. It was at this time, that Villian and Maron were ready to return to the castle.

“It’s been a long day, has it not?” said Maron. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I have long pondered the lengthiness of  days, such as the day that Marsen was killed, (he was the warrior that you replaced.) Yes, I remember that day for a long time, as I will remember this day. For today, someone will either choose to listen to me, or they will choose to die.” Villian knew what was about to happen, so he quickly readied his shield.

“I think I know your choice Villian,” said Maron, “You have chosen death!” Maron drew his sword, and carelessly attacked Villian, hitting only his shield. Then he stabbed, and Villian parried. Maron continued to attack, and Vill continued to block. Then, Maron, tired of sword-fighting, dove at Villian. Villian had nowhere to move, and he had not yet drawn his sword. Also, Maron was on his shield, so he had no way to block. Maron readied to deal the death blow, when Villian drew a small dagger and stabbed Maron in the leg. Maron stumbled backwards, holding his leg in pain. Vill rose quickly, drew his sword, and drove a deep cut into Maron’s other leg; Maron screamed. Villian, carried him to one of the horses, and strapped him down, and then went to untie the horses. Villian mounted the other horse, and they began to ride, only to dismount again because Villian forgot to bandage up Maron. Once off again, they had no other stops.

Arriving in the city, Villian was greeted with gasps and screeches. He hurried to the guild, where he would have to explain the situation. He thought he would give himself some time to think, but for every second thought, one second Maron would be closer to dying; so Villian hurried on.

He didn’t know who the horses belonged to, so he tied them to a random hook in the wall, to be attended to later. He unstrapped Maron, and carried him into the guild. In the Loylen and Stolar were in the living room, and Villian immediately walked in. Stolar stood up abruptly, and without saying anything, stole Maron from Villian’s hands and made his way out the door. Loylen looked startled, and soon inquired Villian rapidly.

“What happened?” he asked. Villian wasn’t sure whether or not he should answer truthfully, so he decided to try and not mention anything that put him in bad light, (such as dealing his second blow.)

“Maron attacked me, and I defended myself,” answered Villian. Loylen looked puzzled.

“Then why is his leg nearly severed, and you remain unscathed?” Villian knew that the truth would have to come soon, but he decided to prolong it.

“He,” Villian stuttered, “tripped on a sharp rock after I pushed him away.” Villian knew that Loylen saw dishonesty in him, but the truth would surely have to stay unsaid, for his sake.

Silence followed the short discussion, such a long silence that Villian decided to sit down. After a good ten minutes or so, Stolar burst into the room.

“He’ll live,” he said, “but his leg won’t heal for a few months.”

Stolar noticed the silence and sat down on a sofa. Eventually Loylen left the room, and Stolar followed, leaving Villian alone. He thought of the truth, and knew that it would have to be mentioned; but now was not the time he thought. So Villian walked upstairs to the barracks, and fell asleep.

Chapter 5

Sorry for the delay. I had this chapter written, but I forgot to publish it. Enjoy!

Life as a Warrior

The next few days, Vill began to regret all his thoughts of greatness, and all his dreams of becoming a warrior. But now he had no choice, and his actions were no longer undoable.

He arrived at meals either before or after any of the warriors had eaten, and left before they could find him. Actually, he hardly even ate. He grew skinner than he had ever been before, and became more and more tired. He felt he had no reason to live.

After a while though, he decided to try and see his fellow warriors. This happened quickly, since all he needed to do was to arrive at a meal on time. When he arrived, he saw all four warriors eating, barely saying anything.

“I am sorry for my absence over last few days,” said Vill.

“Separation is normal for a warrior in his early stage,” replied Sir Loylen. “But you have only experienced the first part of it.” These words were all that were said at the meal, confusing Vill. But Vill thought little of it, since he knew that warriors were quiet people.

But soon, (after many more meals,) it seemed to Vill like the only his made Vill feel even worse than he had felt before; not only had he lost his mother, but now he had lost the only people he was allowed to be friends with. For, according to the rules, he could not have relationships of any kinds with anyone but his fellow warriors; and the relationship seemed to not even be there. When Vill said something, he would receive no reply, and the others would continue to eat in silence.

Soon, Vill could no longer tolerate anything; he said a simple hello when he arrived at supper, but again, received no reply. Vill did not even sit down. Off he tramped to the sofa room, where he began throwing things around; picking up a chess table, he hurled it against the stone wall. He picked up chairs and threw them as wall, and he destroyed small tables. He with burned with rage that he had never felt before. Soon, he was turning over sofas and cutting them with a sword that hung on the mantel piece.

Vill was too busy destroying things that he didn’t notice Loylen who had come in the room and sat down on an almost destroyed chair. When Vill noticed him, he just continued to trash the room.

“You’re a little angry I suppose?” said Loylen. Since he received no reply, he continued. “I did the same when I was at your stage in the guild. Only I tried to destroy the bedroom.”

“Why were…you…angry?!” replied Vill while destroying things.

“For similar reasons as you are right now. But there was another reason.” Suddenly Vill realized that he was having a conversation with a fellow warrior, something he had not experienced. He stopped destroying things and made eye contact with Loylen.

“What was the other reason?” he asked. Loylen thought for a moment, and then said, “When I was a boy, I had dreams of becoming a warrior. My father was the head warrior at the guild in the cold city of Orel, and my mother and I lived in the same city. My father had a bright red beard, and he was slightly slim. His sword was a beauty, with a red ruby in its handle, and is the one that you are holding right now.” Vill immediately began to return it.

“It’s quite all right that you hold it,” said Loylen, “for the only one who has not handled it is Maron, who would keep it if he ever saw it.” Vill returned, holding the sword.

“That is indeed a famous sword,” continued Loylen. “It has slain yetis and were-wolves of innumerable amounts, and has killed many other beasts. The ruby was mined from a mountain in the North Mountains, and the sword is called ‘The Ruby of the North’.

I now use this sword, but only to kill the pests of the street.

“Now, when I was young, (maybe only eleven or twelve years old,) the yetis attacked Orel, crushing its walls and houses, while the were-wolves ran into the city and slaughtered thousands. My father was fighting the beasts, while my mother and I fled from the city on horseback. But soon the were-wolves had caught up with us and were galloping beside us. Then, from nowhere known, my father attacked from horseback. He killed all the beasts that were close to us, and then said simply, ‘You are brave my son, and you shall use this sword as I have.’ He then gave me his sword and rode away. I would never see him again.

“Soon though, my mother and I were hunted down; a were-wolf had caught up to us, and was gnashing its fangs. Then, unexpectedly, my mother jumped of the horse, landing on the wolf. I stopped the horse and watched my mother being torn apart by the beast. I soon killed the beast with my sword, and listened to my mother’s final command: ‘Warn the villages.’ I did so quickly, and not a single village was touched.

“I was praised, but I felt like a wretch who had let both my father and mother die.

“Never the less, they made me a warrior, instead of having a tournament, which made me feel even worse, since I felt that I had not earned a position. I am the only warrior to have been made warrior and have not won a tournament.” Both were silent for a few moments, and then Vill said, “I have acted rashly, but have never experienced anything like you have described. But it must be explained to me why you do not normally speak to me.”

“A code has been created,” replied Loylen, “that favors those who are wise and modest. You have just shown me that you are modest, but as I look at this room I can tell you are not wise.” The two chuckle before Loylen continues, “The privilege to speak to those who are of higher rank is only given to those who honor them. You need not worry of this now, for I have seen your modesty in what you have said of your life. Wisdom will come with common sense. You’ve destroyed things that are difficult to replace, so now you must do the task of finding and moving in new ones. And you also will fix the paint that was destroyed from the things that you threw against the walls. Does any of this make sense to you?”

“Yes, but where will I find furniture and paint?”

“You are to make the furniture yourself, and you will find the paint in the city. Also, you must find the supplies you will need tonight, and you will do nothing else during you days until you are finished. And also, because of your understanding, you will be the third in command, and Maron will be fourth in command, because of his disrespect for the code. Begin your task.” Then Loylen went off.

Vill soon went out into the city, looking for paint and wood. He found the paint around midnight, and the wood, cushions, and cloth a few minutes before the sun rose. The only problem was that the shops were not open, so he had to wait until mid-morning to actually buy them.

He had nearly fallen asleep by the time the shop keeper had arrived, and he had a hard time telling the keeper what he wanted, and asking the price. It was then that he realized he had no gold, so he trudged back to the guild to retrieve some. He thought of asking Loylen, but Loylen did not appear to be there; nor did anyone else. So he decided to search for some, and make sure it was okay that he used it. He finally found some in a pouch with his name on it on his bed, and figured it was his. He then returned to the shop, but then thought it best to buy the paint first, since it would be easier to carry.

So he stumbled to the paint shop, (since he remembered where he had found it. He bought a bucket of red paint, which he hurried to the guild where he placed it against the wall where the paint was non-existent.

Vill finally bought the wood, cushions, and cloth, but could not think of a way to transport them. The only thing that he could think of was to push. So he started with the three large wooden pieces, (which would support the cushions, and push/carried them to the guild, where he collapsed in exhaustion. But he couldn’t rest until the day’s end. So he slowly returned to the shop and eventually brought every single piece of wood back.

Vill decided that the best way to transport the cushions was to make a kind of sled that he could drag along with him. So he found some string and tied it to one of the large boards. He now could transport everything else.

Soon everything was before his feet, (in the guild.) He could start building the furniture, and do the easy part of painting last. So he started nailing the boards together, and placing the silky cloth over the cushions.

He had finished one couch. Vill could not guess the time, but he figured it was late in the day. Then a source walked in; it was Maron.

“You’re having a tough time eh’?” he said.

“Just tell me the time please?” replied Vill tiredly. Maron looked out a nearby window and said, “The sun is nearly in the sky.” Vill was both surprised and relieved.

“You know,” said Maron, “you don’t have to do all that work. If you don’t do it, then Loylen will do it for you. He’ll see you doing other things, and will think you are too busy and doing things of more importa nce.” Vill thought for a moment how nice it would be to sleep and make up for all that he had lost the previous night; but then he thought of how disappointed Loylen would be, and it was then that he realized that it was most important that he finish his task, and that he not give into Maron’s temptation. So he just quietly worked on, and Maron finally left the room.

Vill was so relieved when night came, for he had finished everything he had been assigned; and that night, he slept well, and into the morning.

Chapter 4


Enjoy! 

The Victor

Vill woke because he was being violently shaken. He jumped up and noticed right away that it was the guard who had been shaking him.

“Up with you!” the guard said. Vill obeyed, but nearly fell down in tiredness. The guard ran to the dresser and grabbed a flask. He forced the liquid down Vill’s throat; Vill suddenly felt vigor in him that he had never felt before. He remembered everything he needed to do. He walked out of the potion room into the training room. Everyone was on the ledge watching a match. It was the last match before the third round; Vill joined the others and watched it.

It seemed to be nearing an end: one of the opponents was striking with great skill and aim. Vill recognized this man to be Simion Rondin, a top choice to win the tournament. Vill did not know the name of the other; that though would not seem to be very important, since Simion was about to win.

Soon Simoin’s opponent breathlessly said “respite”. The crowd cheered loudly and stood up from their seats. The door opened and the equipment was thrown into the room.

“All in round two follow me,” said the guard. “Those in round three, stay here.”

Vill noticed something: there were four men missing. He supposed they were those who lost their matches.

The guard re-entered the room, and said, “Harold Marcus and Elarkin Stroner!” The two addressed hopped down from the bench and put on the equipment.

Soon they were on the field and the match had begun. This was the match that decided who one of the last four contenders would be. Harold was fighting much better than Elarkin in this match; he had successfully defended many of Elarkin’s attacks, and had dealt even more good blows himself. Now, he was finishing up the job by tackling and pinning Elarkin to the ground. Elarkin soon uttered the familiar word “respite” that had been heard many times throughout the day.

Morning had turned to evening as the sun was beginning to descend; it would soon be dark and the tournament would have to end. Fortunately, the third round was beginning, and the tournament would end before completely dark.

It was now time for the second match in the third round; the guard had said, “Vill Rosen and Horace Strow!” Vill and Horace stepped down from the stone bench and put on the very sweaty equipment piece by piece. They followed the guard out to the middle of the field. Again he announced the names, and ordered the match to begin. Vill had the upper hand this match, because he was well fit, while Horace Strow was short and fat. Stamina was the key to some matches; this match was the same.

It went on for at least thirty minutes, Vill trying different moves. There was one time where Vill pounced on the fallen blubbery man; this though proved unwise, because once he was on the vast fat belly he just slid off, giving Horace a chance to stand up.

Vill’s strategy was to fight long enough so that Horace would forget his move that had won him his first match. It appeared to be working; Horace looked like he could hardly stand, much less remember something that happened a few hours ago. Vill found his chance; he charged the large man, swinging his sword at Horace’s helm. Again, Horace took the bait. Vill charged him with his shield, and landed squarely on him.

“Respite!” said Horace immediately in a hoarse voice. “You win! You win! I’m exhausted!” Vill stood up and helped Horace up.

“Thanks,” Horace said. “I don’t think that you had in mind when you helped me up, that I was a two hundred and fifty pound man!” Vill laughed and shook hands with him; they then returned to the room.

 Everyone was laughing when they entered; “You just slid off!” said Harold Marcus who had been watching. “You almost had him!”

“Well, I prefer to give chances to people that have none,” said Vill humorously. They all laughed happily for a while, until Vill stopped.

“It is strange that though we are all competing for the same thing, eliminating whoever is in our way, we still consider each other friends,” said Vill. Everyone nodded in agreement, looking at Vill.

“It is true,” started Harold, “that though we want something great, our friendship is still greater.” Just then the guard came in; “Those in the previous round please take a flask each,” he said. (He was referring to the sac he had full of energy tonic.) Everyone did as addressed, and soon there was a new vigor in the air. Vill felt like he was to do the deeds of the world, one by one until finished. This vigor could be seen in the eyes of everyone, (save the guard.)

“Nicolas Strond and Simion Rondin!” yelled the guard. The two addressed took up the equipment and retreated to the field, for an exciting round.

“Here’s somthin’ I just noticed,” whispered Harold into Vill’s ear, “Nicolas is an arrogant man; the one who didn’t introduce himself to you. I’ve got a feeling that he’ll get his mind changed once Simion whips ‘im inta’ shape!” This kind of talk had lingered since the start of the match; Simion was a sort of hero to all that knew him, all save Vill. Vill had no intentions to favor a hero over his newly made friends, for Simion had never truly appealed to Vill. He seemed like the proud man who would act like a hero for those who adored him. \Vill did not keep company with these sorts of people, because they would not act like a true friend to him; they would only speak about themselves, trying to earn new “friends”.

“There they go!” shouted Horace, clearing Vill’s mind. “They’ve got some talent don’t they! Man, look at Simion jab!”

“But look at Nicolas!” said another whose name Vill did not know. “Why, he fights with more skill!”

“Yes,” said the other, “but his heart isn’t in it; he’s got no spirit!”

“Though Nicolas does not have the heart of gold, (soft but cannot be bent to breaking,) his sword will be the one to talk.”

“My friend, Simion’s skills with the sword and the vigor of his heart is ten times Nicolas’!” The other gave up, seeing that it was no use to compete any longer; his energy should be saved for his muscle, not his mouth. Meanwhile Simion indeed had the upper hand. He had Nicolas on his back, and was waiting for the word that everyone knew. Horace smirked at the other, knowing he had won.

The next few hours passed quickly; and before knowing it was his turn, Vill was out in the arena, ready to face off his new opponent.

Harold was strong, tough, a little short, and a very difficult opponent. The match went on, and little by little, Vill was given the upper hand. Soon he had Harold on his back, and was given the victory. More cheering, more praise. Vill’s greeted with congratulations in the training room, as his one of three competitors left.

Vill no longer thinks of his mother, and thinks instead of his own glory. He has decided to become a warrior.

Vill found that Simion would be his opponent. This meant nothing to Vill, for he was willing to do anything for his glory.

And then Vill saw him, his new enemy. Simion. Vill scowls and returns to watching the stars.

“Simion Rondin and Vill Rosen!” yells the guard. “You are the final contestants. Please ready yourself for the match.” Vill confidently steps down from the ledge, knowing that this match will decide the winner. He and Simion put on their gear, and take up their sword and shield.

The arena is unbearable; once they step in, the crowd starts cheering so loudly, that everyone’s ears are buzzing. The real warriors look very irritated, and are lifting their hands to their ears.

“Let the final match begin!” yells the guard. Simion attacks immediately, dealing a blow to Vill’s side. They fight for a while, Simion taking the upper hand. Vill has tried his strategy, but with no success. He cannot take Simion with brute force. Vill has stalled to long; Simion is on him in seconds, trying to bring Vill to the ground. Vill has just moments to think before he falls. Fall. That is the key. Immediately he stops struggling, and falls on his back. Simion falls down on him, but was not ready. Vill rolled over, pinning Simion down. Simion though, was not to give up so easily. Struggling with all his might, he nearly was able to break loose, but Vill only tightened his grip.

Vill felt like a child trying to bring down a fire dragon. Simion was strong, so Vill had much difficulty keeping him down.

After what seemed like hours of back breaking struggling and no surrender, Simion’s hoarse voice made a noise; at the same time, he stopped struggling against Vill. Vill let up, knowing he had won. Vill’s ears were no longer buzzing; they were ringing. The crowd was like a hoard of beasts, screeching and yelling with all their might. Vill’s mind was blurry, not taking in much, except that a crowd of people was carrying him off somewhere, and he was exhausted, and, he managed it into his head that he was a warrior; a brave man, who could fight off beasts of terror, and who could save people from evil beings.

He indeed was the man he had wanted to be all his life.

But then he caught sight of a figure, one with its face in its arms. Once lifting its head, Vill saw the figure was his mother.

This is the map for my book. The snipping tool is amazing!

Chapter 3

Chapter 3 is finally out! Enjoy!

Chapter 3: 

The Tournament

   Vill woke early the next morning, because he wanted to get ready for the tournament. He did not milk the cows today, nor tie them up in the field; for he knew that, if he won the tournament, there would be no cows involved.

   Vill had decided to take to the tournament grounds early, so that he could hear the rules and know what to do, and what ‘not’ to do. Vill’s mother would most likely come, but Vill would need to say goodbye sooner than when (if) he was taken away.

   “Vill?” said his mother. “What are you doin’ up?”

   “For what reason do you suppose?” replied Vill. “I am getting an early start to go to the tournament.”

   “You were planning to attend the tournament?”

   “Yes, I made my decision last night.”

   “But your fever…”

   “…has gone completely. Even if it wasn’t, I would still go.”

   “But, what about the cows Vill, what about the cheese; what about, me?”

   “I’ve arranged for that. You know the soldier who gave us the message? Well, while I was in town yesterday, I saw him. I asked how he was, and all the niceties of the day; then I asked him if he would be willing to guard the cottage that I lived in, as I will no longer live there.

   “He agreed, and I was able to sell him some cheese. Also: he is to be a guard at the tournament; if I am taken to the Warriors’ Guild, then he will find you in the seats, and escort you to here; that is, if you attend the tournament. What say you?” Vill’s mother was speechless; she couldn’t believe that Vill had arranged for all of this in one meeting.

   “Well,” she started, “I do not want you to leave. But all the same, this is your dream, and you must make it come true. Yes, I will come with you, and will handle the outcome however needed.

   This was a large surprise for Vill; not just because she said she would come, but because she was not planning for either of them to attend. Vill embraced his mother, towering a head taller than her. He then said, “I must leave now, and quickly; are you ready?”

   “Well, I suppose it matters not, if we must leave this instant,” she replied.

   Quickly, Vill grabbed his petition, and was out the back door that was the only door between the barn and the cottage. He quickly walked through the barn doors, and hitched up the donkey. Vill carefully and quickly placed and tied the yolk; then he helped his mother onto the bench where the driver sat. Vill took up the reins, gave them a good whip, and held them firm as the donkey trotted off to the next hill.

   The cart could be seen coming over the west horizon; it was coming quicker by the minute, the donkey now trotting as fast as possible. Vill and his mother seemed to be bouncing up and down on the bench as the cart moved down the stone path.

   “We should be there soon!” announced Vill, trying to make his voice louder than the rolling wheels and pounding hooves. They indeed were close; the wagon was climbing the final hill that was part of the Old Hills, and soon, they would see the tournament grounds. Vill had been there a few times, mainly for inter-kingdom events. Most were melee battles, using plaster swords and wooden shields, but some, were archery contests, where the rules were obvious. On rare occasions though, there were all- around tournaments, where you had to prove your skills on an obstacle course with diverse challenges. This was something Vill hoped he didn’t have to compete in.

    They were now coming over the tip of the hill, and could see two things: the stone towers and walls of Cath-Lenor, and the open stands and flags of the Cath-Lenor tournament grounds. They had both been made with great skill, and were now some of the greatest places known in the world.

   The path came to a fork, so Vill turned right, just ever so slightly north-east; this way led to the tournament grounds just north of Cath-Lenor.

   The sun was beginning to sneak out from behind Mt. Azleworth as Vill quickly looked back. He was not sure if they would get there on time, or if they would just have to spectate. Vill tried not to think of any of these things, and erased them from his memory. He then wondered why he had thought these things, because they were now just outside the grounds. A huge square stuck out of the ground like giant bowl. Vill saw hundreds of wagons, carts, horses and donkeys on the field just outside the entrance, and saw people gathered everywhere. They were waiting for permission to enter, since they were only spectators; but Vill needed to get to the front. He tied up the donkey, and was greeted by his old friends and neighbors. He then looked to his mother, who was in tears, and embraced her.

   “I will always be with you mother,” he said over the deafening noise. He then waved goodbye, and left her there, looking so frail and hopeless.

   Vill made his way through the crowd as quickly as he could; it was difficult; one because it was a packed crowd, and two because all his mother’s friends came to him with open arms and a smile with bad breath. Vill though, despite all the difficulties, managed to get to the other side of the crowd. There were still a couple people there, but over half were guards, who only talked when needed and stayed at their post. Vill recognized a certain guard with a yellow beard; of course, Vill didn’t greet him, since he was on duty. He approached him, and gave him his scroll; the man looked at it, and gave it back saying, “You may pass in to the arena, where you will find two guards standing; they will guide you to the training room, where the rules will be explained.” Vill thanked him with a hint of a smile, and entered the open gate; behind was a large field covered in sand. It was around seventy-five yards long, and forty yards wide. On its sides were huge wooden stands, at least thirty rows up, and at the ends, were large wooden walls with large and small targets.

   And in the middle of the field were two guards were standing, just like the yellow bearded guard had said. His heart pumped furiously as he walked up to them.

   “I am here to be escorted to the training room,” said Vill.

   “And what be your name?” questioned the guard on the right.

   “Vill Rosen.”

   “And your age?”

   “Nineteen; twenty in two days.” At this the guard pulled out an old scroll and examined it carefully. He then nodded as he tapped the paper twice.

   “Vill Rosen,” he said, “nearly twenty; invited to the “Warriors’ Tournament. Follow me.”    The guard led him across the field and into a door that was in the wall in front of the stands. He opened it, and let Vill enter alone.

   Inside were many men of his age, and the number of men there around was fifteen. Some he knew, some he’d seen, and some he’d never heard of or seen. The ones’ he knew greeted him vigorously, and the ones’ who didn’t shyly introduced themselves or one another. They were all dressed in peasant’s clothes, save a few, who lived in Cath-Lenor, and whose parents’ were nobles. These young men though, were not arrogant or rude, (like many of the other nobles.) Instead they were kind and warm, and very energetic.

   Many of the men talked and predicted who the winner would be. Some boasted of the moves that they would execute during the matches, while others were so confident that they would win, that they said of the great deeds that they would do while they were a warrior.
   Vill shared no opinion in these conversations, though some of the others urged him to. Vill was shy, and was not interested in conversation; he was readying his mind for the tournament matches. It would be time soon, and he would need to be ready.

   He was beginning to hear some chatter; not from the room, but right above him, in the stands. The chatter slowly turned into a roar, as more people seemed to join by the thousands. The spectators must be finding their seats. Just then, a guard entered; he was holding a large sack. As soon as he entered he said, “I hope you all are faring well, so it may trouble you that I am here to explain the rules and invite the first two contenders.” The chatter ceased as the guard addressed them all. “The rules are simple,” continued the guard. “Each of you will be given this equipment before you enter.” He then pulled out from his bag two pairs of thick leather shirts and leggings, two pairs of leather gloves, and two good helmets. Some of the men snorted at the sight of them, while others stayed silent, with maybe hint of a grin. The guard continued, and pulled out two wooden swords, and from his arm, he pulled off two wooden shields. He then explained the rules: “Two of you will go out to start the first match; you will then wait for my command. Once my command is given, you must fight each other. You will fight until one of you gives up; you may do so by saying the word, “respite”. After that, you are out of the tournament. You may return here until the tournament ends. If you win, then you may return here until your name is called. We will narrow the number of you men down to two, and those two will fight.

   “Joseph Becker and Harold Marcus? Would you two please put on the equipment? When done, follow me.” The two did exactly as addressed, and followed the guard out to the arena.

Everyone in the room was excited. Some started predicting who would win this first match. Some were quiet and did not babble about the whole thing. All hopped up onto the stone bench where they could spectate by looking out the windows. The room they were in was beneath the stands; there was a small wall between two of the seating rows. In this wall were windows, where the tournament contenders could watch the matches while they awaited their own.

   The first match went well: Harold Marcus was down on the ground, and Joseph Becker was about to jump on him. Harold then rolled away at the last minute, and pounced on Joseph. Joseph finally gave up, after a few seconds, making Harold the victor.

   Just then the door opened and two more names were called: “Elarkin Stroner and Irana Maski!” The two men with those titles exchanged glances and hopped down from the bench. They then slowly put on the equipment that was thrown into the room while the guard announced their names. Just then the door opened, and two men came in: Harold Marcus and Joseph Becker. They were good friends, and they came in with their arms around each other’s shoulders. They both had a faint smile on their faces, even though only one of them had emerged victorious.

   The other two, (Elarkin and Irana) had entered the sand arena. Everyone stood on the ledge and watched: Elarkin had the lower hand, since he was slightly taller and his legs were not very strong. Irana though, did have a good chance, because he was short and stout, and could stay upright much easier. Irana’s first move was a roll at Elarkin’s feet. Elarkin jumped and avoided it, and tried to jump on Irana; this failed however, because Irana had jumped up, once he had realized that his own move had failed. The two now standing showed remarkable sword fighting skills, making it hard for the other contenders to see out the window because the spectators were standing in their excitement; it was impossible to figure out who had won the match.

   Just then, the door opened; everyone looked over to see Elarkin and Irana walking in to together. Both of them were breathless, but even so, they were they laughing.

   “Who won?!” was the question that was asked; they all crowded around the two and waited for their answer.

   “Well,” began Elarkin, “I did! But it was an even battle, for Irana had me down on my back twice!” The others cheered so loudly, that they hardly heard the guard throw in the equipment and shout: “Hugo Maine and Vill Rosen!” Vill’s heart stopped in its tracks; everyone’s voices dropped slightly, but to Vill, all noise went away. He and Hugo exchanged glances, and then slowly made their way to the pile of equipment. Vill put it on piece by piece, and took up the sword and shield; he was ready, and so was Hugo. The guard led them out onto the sand arena; straight ahead, sat the three Warriors on large wooden chairs. Their names were: “Sir Loylen”, the lead warrior, “Sir Maron”, the second in command, and “Sir Stolar”, the third in command.

   The guard suddenly stopped near the middle and said: “Here we have two contenders: Hugo Maine, from the Old Hills…” he stopped as the crowd cheered, “And Vill Rosen, also from the Old Hills.” The crowd cheered some more. Just then, while Vill was scanning the crowd, he saw a familiar face: his mother’s. He was reminded of his choice, (which did not make him feel better.) He gave her a faint smile, and then readied himself for the match until the guard said, (addressing Vill and Hugo,) “Let the match, begin!” The guard then moved aside to the outer wall, as to not get in the way.

   Vill and Hugo rounded each other slowly; neither of them made any move. Suddenly, Hugo came at Vill with a swing of his sword; Vill blocked it just on time with his shield. Many well placed swings came at Vill. Vill though, did not take the offensive side. Many more blows came at him, one knocking him to the ground. Hugo swung his sword down, and Vill, deflected it with his shield. Another blow came, and this time Vill rolled to the side at the last minute. He got up while rolling, and stood a few yards away from Hugo; his memory brought him back to the night before the last. He remembered splitting the wood in two, after trying two times before. The mechanics came back to his arms, (though he could only use his right, since his shield was in his left,) and he aimed a precise blow to the Hugo’s helm as Hugo charged him; Hugo blocked with the top of his shield, just barely in time. This stopped Hugo completely, nearly making him fall down. Before he could recover, Vill dealt another blow, this time, to Hugo’s left side; he blocked with his sword, and then dealt a blow dangerously close to Vill’s chest. Vill deflects it with his shield; Vill then had an interesting idea: after blocking two more blows, he swung his sword at Hugo’s helmet; and just like Vill had planned, Hugo used his shield to block. At the moment Hugo put up his shield, Vill charges him with his shield and aimed for Hugo’s exposed chest; his plan worked, and Hugo was on the ground, struggling to stand up. He had dropped his sword and shield during Vill’s move, and had no chance to get them. He tried getting up using brute strength: he tried to push Vill off. That didn’t work, so he tried to roll to one side, and then suddenly change direction; this did not succeed either. Finally, after some more struggling, he uttered the word, “Respite!” Vill immediately rose, and helped Hugo up. Hugo accepted this kind act, and he and Vill returned to the training room.

   Everyone was clapping, and the arm that was clenching Vill’s heart, had now retreated. They took off the equipment and handed it to the guard before entering the room. Vill then opened the door and was greeted by the other men. They said things like “Good match!” and “Great job.” Vill was sweaty and tired, and hoped for a good long rest.

   He then saw two doors side by side in the back of the room that he had not seen before; it said ‘Potion Room’. Vill’s curiosity was raised.

   He then heard the guard yell, “Jeffery Goalen and Horace Strow!” Vill ran over to the guard and quietly asked, “What is behind those doors?”

   “Well,” began the guard, “If anyone is wounded during any kind of tournament, then they’ll be taken into there, where they will be treated to some potions. During this warrior tournament though, we use it as a room to lay down in when one group of contenders is done fighting during the first round. I’m going to send you there after this match; I need to go!” The guard ran out to join the two men in the match. Vill retreated to the stone bench to watch the match; the guard was announcing the names. He then heard: “Let the match begin!”

   Vill thoughts though were not on the match; his mind was wandering through what was going to happen during the third round, when he would have his second match. Who his opponent would be would be unsure until the winner emerged from this current match. The winner would be Vill’s opponent.

   Just then a shout went up from the crowd, and cheering started. The door opened, and the guard said, “Those who’ve haven’t been in a match yet say ‘I’.”

   “I,” said the ones who had been addressed.

   “Then you stay here,” said the guard. “Those who have won their matches, follow me. Those who lost theirs, I’ll be back for you once I settle these ones down.” He then gestured to the ones that were to follow him, and took them through the doors that were labeled ‘Potion Room’. Once entering, they saw about fifteen beds lined up against the wall. The left wall was covered from left to right with dressers, and on the dressers, potions.

   “Take what you need from the potions and clothing, and when done, lie in bed,” ordered the guard. “I’ll be back for you after the second round.”

   Vill chose a dresser that was near the middle of the wall; on it were about twenty flasks of numerous potions. Behind each potion was a label. Vill looked at all of them: some were sleep and energy potions; others were potions that allowed you to see the matches in your head, and some were potions that healed your wounds. Vill took a flask filled with blue liquid that was labeled ‘Sleep Tonic’. He drunk it with one gulp and put the flask away. He suddenly felt drowsy and exhausted. He lay down on his bed that was just across from the dresser. Once he touched the bed, he fell asleep.