Blood Memories [Last of Elves book 1] (NaNoWriMo 2014)

Five: Panthera

Panthera

He found out the next morning. The door opened, and one of the guards gestured to him. He walked out, obeying the pressure of the short sword on his lower back. He was taken deeper into the temple, where the passageways grew darker and darker. Intermittent torches lit the way, but only barely. The sheer size of the temple was astonishing him. It had never looked this big on the outside, and he supposed that much of it went underground.

The downward sloping passage suddenly opened up into a large room, well lit. A man was standing in the middle of it, a drawn sword in his hand. A hooded cloak covered most of his body, and threw his face into dark shadows.

He stopped, not knowing what to do. The warrior who had guided him cut his bonds, and handed him a sword before returning to the entrance. There was no way he could escape for now.

He looked at the swordsman standing waiting for him, and lifted the sword he’d been given. He thought he knew what he was supposed to do. The swordsman nodded slightly, and beckoned him forward.

By the end of the session, as he was being taken back to his room, he knew that he was right. His arm was aching, and he felt like he was covered in bruises. He was being trained, but what he couldn’t understand was why. He didn’t get an answer. Not that day, not the next, nor the next. It was nearly two weeks before he was given some sort of explanation.

He had become used to the routine. Going down to the large room, having the swordsman try to cut him to ribbons, managing somehow to keep himself alive. However, when he entered the room on this particular day, the swordsman wasn’t there.

His mouth was dry as he looked around, instinctively alert. He had been hunted from his hometown. Consequently, his senses had sharpened, but even he wasn’t ready for the knife that swiped for his head.

He ducked just in time, reeling backwards in shock. The knife flashed again, catching the flickering light of the torches, and once more, he managed to avoid it. Shaking his head slightly, he lifted the sword, lunging forward.

He missed.

Whoever it was danced out of reach, sticking to the shadows. He growled under his breath, and settled into a slight crouch, watching for movement.

He didn’t see the blade coming for his ribs, but he heard the rush of air, and moved the split second before it would have skewered him.

He was breathing quickly, all his muscles tense. This was not what he was used to from the swordsman.

This time, he saw the glint of the blade as it came for him, and brought the sword up in time to block it. There was a clash of metal, but his attacker just spun away, disappearing back into the shadows before he could get a good look at them.

He growled to himself again, and leapt forward, hoping to catch them by surprise. Astonishing him, the blades met with another clash.

The clash continued for a while, until he was soaked with sweat, and his arms trembled every time he lifted them. Still, though, he kept his own against the unseen fighter, until they slipped past his frail defences.

He froze, lowering his own blade, as the blade touched his neck, icy cold. He was standing in torchlight, and the wielder of the dagger stepped forward into the light, pushing back the hood of the cloak.

He felt his eyes widen.

It was the priestess, her dark eyes steady as she studied him. After a few moments, she stepped back, lowering the dagger. Now that it wasn’t flashing around his body, he could see that it was the jewelled dagger she had used before, the hilt wrapped in golden wire.